Chapter 3- Down Once More

As Raoul stepped onto the curb, a horse-drawn brougham immediately swept over to meet him.

"Where to, Monsieur?" the driver inquired.

"To the Opera," Raoul snapped sharply. "As quick as you can."

The door to the cab closed, and with a flick of the driver's whip, they were off.


It's over now, the music of the night...

In the depths of the Opera, there was a silence that seemed to be supernatural. There had been no music for two days, and there would be no music ever again. In the depths of his black despair, the Phantom of the Opera laid in the confines of his small room, in the cold, rigid coffin that was his bed, waiting for death. It was not an easy visitor to lure, when one was not suffering any visible bodily harm. But Erik knew that the ailment that was killing him was something far more painful then any wound that bled.

He was dying of a broken heart.

He was dying- but death refused to let him go, refused to let him leave this pitiful earth. Erik supposed that this was because he wasn't wanted in Heaven. There was no place for such a monster among the flawless angels. He would have to settle for an eternity in Hell, he thought.

Fine.

He didn't care; Christine wouldn't be there, so it didn't matter. She would go on and live her life with her husband the Vicomte, living lavishly as she traveled around the world, giving no thought to her poor, unhappy Erik who thought of her every waking moment. Poor, damned Erik who heard her voice in his mind, whose lips still burned from the one kiss she had given him in despair and ignorance. She hadn't understood the damage that that kiss had done. It had flung the angel from hell directly to Heaven, giving him- for once in his life- hope. Hope that had sprung up like a young flower from the barren earth, only to be ripped out of the ground when she had left him.

He had been doomed to walk in darkness, from the day he had drawn his first breath. There was no penance large enough, no way to atone for the sin of his scarred, deformed face. How evil it was; the deformity shaped its way so that only one side of his face was flawed, leaving the other perfect and smooth, a painful reminder of what could have been...

Lying miserably in his coffin, the Phantom knew all too well that he would find no peace. Whenever he closed his eyes, Christine was all he saw; when he dreamed, his dreams were full of her. His ears constantly rang with the symphony of her voice- her voice, which had condemned him to this terrible fate of eternal loneliness.

He had no conception of the amount of time that had gone by when a different sound met his ears- a sound not conjured by his mind, but instead the last thing on earth that he wanted to hear.

Footsteps.

Something sloshing carelessly through the shallow underground stream, as if making no attempt to be swift and silent.

This certainly wouldn't do, thought Erik, arousing himself from his coffin and placing in his hand his weapon of choice- a Punjab lasso. The lasso was a wonderful invention, he thought as he stealthily made his way to the main room of his cavernous lair. It could kill instantly, or it could choke life by the inch out of a person, prolonging death and serving for an altogether painful experience. Pity the poor soul who would be on the receiving end of the line today, he thought, but he was not in a particularly compassionate mood. Whoever had dared to disturb his domain would be dealt with; he would leave no time for begging.

Erik had intended to make the murder quick; a hurried toss and a quick yank and it would be done... until he saw who it was wading into his home.

A cold, sneer crept across his lips.

Raoul deChagny.

The insolent bastard, he thought. How dare he come back here now, after all the damage he's done already?

His next thought was that it would be a pleasure to kill the fop. There was no Christine to save the bumbling Viscount now- he would meet his end tonight and find his resting place in a watery grave.

He watched as Raoul scrambled out of the lake, wringing out his shirt, jacket, and hair, taking an extra moment to brush the unruly strands back into their foppishly perfect places.

Raoul didn't notice Erik crouched in the shadows, eyes ever watchful and piercing. He walked uncertainly around, looking in every direction. He made the mistake of turning his back to the Phantom's hiding place, and Erik exploited the chance to jump out and coil the Punjab around his neck.

Raoul gasped in shock as Erik forced him against the wall, tightening the rope around his neck.

"You've intruded in my domain for the last time, boy!" Erik snarled ferally, sounding more animal that man.

Raoul gasped for breath.

"I've waited for this day," the Phantom went on. "Oh yes. I've been waiting for this day for a long time, my dear Vicomte."

"You don't- understand," Raoul choked. "Christine..."

"Don't say her name!" Erik roared. "Don't you say her name in my presence! It wasn't enough for you to rob me of her, was it? You found the need to come gloat of your triumph, no doubt?"

"Christine!" Raoul gasped again, fingers clawing at the rope in a pathetic attempt to free himself.

Erik tightened the rope once more, and Raoul began to see dark spots appear before his eyes. There was no remorse in the Phantom's eyes. It was time to finish this, he thought.

The Viscount, he saw, was making a final attempt to say something.

"Listen!" he rasped. "Christine...She- she's- g-gone!"

There was a dull thudding sound as the rope slipped from Erik's fingers.


A/N: Hoo! Angry Erik! I like writing Angry Erik, it makes me happy for some weird reason! So what do we think? Hmmm? REVIEW!

Next chapter: find out just where Christine is, and why! You'll never guess….