I do not own these characters now any literary or otherwise work pertaining to them. Except, of course, those I create myself.

Erik returned home through the dark passage way. The air around him smelled of must and mold, and his cloak swirled around his shoulders.

He would be returning to her, to she whom he had conquered. He had won her over with his music, his genius his darkness.

He returned now to his Christine, who waited for him faithfully. He imagined how she would look when he arrived, how she would sing to him and ask to hear him play her something, for his skill music was an irresistible force, manipulative and dark! After all, he was the Phantom of the-

"Erik honey, would you take the garbage out?"

Ah yes, he thought. The simple joys of the married life.

"Doesn't anyone but me EVER do this?!" he asked, irritably, eying the vast pile of refuse which had gathered in the corner of his lair, overflowing its bags and containers and spilling out behind the organ. "And I told you not to put it in this room, it's hard to compose anything while the senses are assaulted by this infernal plague of an odor!"

"Yes honey, I know, it's just that I've been so busy today redecorating the other rooms that I had to put it in there-"

"You've been doing what?!"

"Well, Erik, this is hardly an appropriate place to raise young children! It's dark and scary, and there are so many sharp metal objects . . . " As if on cue, the two children came racing into the room. Wearing clothes tattered and dirty from a long day of hide and go seek in the bowels of the opera house, the proceeded to race toward Erik, arms outstretched.

"Daddy!" Erik Jr, the younger of the two at four and a half, screeched. "She took my doggy and won't give it back!"

"Well, he started it! He threw a dead rat at me and got my skirt all grimy! I was so afraid of that rat, daddy . . . " at which point, his five-year-old daughter, Charlotte, latched onto Erik's left leg and buried her face in his cloak, sobbing.

At the sight of this, Erik Jr threw his small body against the floor, wailing. "IT'S NOT FAIR! I WANT MY DOGGY! I WANT IT BACK! DADDY!" And proceeded to pummel his fists against the cold stone floor.

Erik goggled at this spectacle a few moments in wide eyed terror. "Er, um.. Well, that's ok now.." He mumbled, attempting to comfort the two screaming children. His Efforts, however, seemed to drive the two further into hysterics. Charlotte grasped his leg even tighter, crying out in the tones of utmost sorrow, "No one ever listens to me! Why doesn't anyone ever take my side? You only care for Erik!" Her thin little fingers seemed unnaturally strong, in what seemed the only trait she had inherited from her father; a graceful demeanor and thin frame disguising an intense physical force.

She cast a scornful glance at Erik Jr, whose tantrum had escalated severely. He was now thrashing around violently on the floor, flailing his arms and legs and screeching incomprehensively.

Pity that neither of them acquired my intellect, Erik thought at he moved toward his son, limping like a severely wounded animal because Charlotte had still not relinquished her vicelike grasp around his calf.

"Um . . . Come on now . . . Stop . . . you're going to hurt yourself . . . " Erik quietly tried to console his son, to no avail. Sighing in exasperation he bent over and grasped the toddler around the waist with both hands, lifting him from the floor. Erik was careful to hold the child away from himself to avoid catching a blow from one of his still-flailing limbs, all the while quietly trying to talk him out of his irrational rage.

Erik had developed several nervous habits since the advent of his marriage. One was a nervous tic. At this moment his left eye began to twitch spasmodically.

"Hey . . . Er, screaming like that won't help anyth-ARRGHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Erik let out a yell of pain and surprise. His son had bitten him!

"Erik, what's going on?!" Christine rushed into the room, paint brush in hand, looking furious.

Cowering before her furious glance, the only thing he could think of to say was, "They started it!" Erik immediately wanted to smite himself for such a childlike remark.

Christine looked at him darkly, taking Erik Jr in her arms and shoving the paintbrush at him blindly, worrying over her small child.

Erik could not help but shudder as he noticed the color of the wet paint which coated the bristles of the brush. Light pink.

Meanwhile, Christine had heard the tear filled pleas of her children, and had finished scolding both of them. She then took a small, ragged looking stuffed toy in the shape of a white poodle, and returned it to Erik Jr. Artfully, and then embraced both of them, and all returned to normal.

Erik was astounded. In all his life and vast experience, crying children were the only thing with which he felt incapable of dealing. These children seemed to him to be nothing short of a force of nature. Something to be watched and appreciated, and yet avoided in unseemly moments, but nothing to be understood, much less controlled.

Christine, however handled these problems so artfully. She always seemed to know what to do or say, and those two accursed brats listened to her, even obeyed her! It was in looking at her then that he remembered why he loved her so much and so deeply. Rhythm and beat wrapped their tendrils around his mind as he began composing a new song in his head, one he would dedicate to his love for

"Raoul's coming to take tea with us later today," Christine said absently, and wandered into the next room.

Beneath his mask, Erik's eye began to twitch violently.