A/N: I thought I should clear a few things up before I stumble on to the next chapter. As amazing as it seems, I wrote the entire first chapter without having read Phantom by Susan Kay. However, last night I was up all night reading it (having finally obtained it from the library) and I came across Ayesha, Erik's adopted Siamese cat. I was astounded. I had had no idea that an actual cat existed in any of the stories. And here I thought my idea was a novel one. Alas. Even the fact that I chose to call the cat Christine seems a silent salute to Kay's Christine who at one time secretly wished herself to be Erik's cat. I want to say that this is entirely a coincidence. A really quirky coincidence and I wasn't aware of the cat's existence before last night. I wish I could flatter myself by saying that Kay and I share a brain wave. But that is false. And now, the story.

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Erik had rescued another cat once: a beautiful little princess that had worn the pride of Persia about her elegant neck. She was dead now, he was sure, and to all rights, so was he. But for some strange reason this new little lady had destabilized his state of living death. Conceivably because she reminded him of another princess. Or, perhaps, because it was downright impossible to pursue his chosen profession as an irritable psuedo-corpse when she constantly found her way into predicaments that frightened him out of his mind.

Not quite out of my mind, he thought to himself with the strange sort of helpless complacency that comes with knowing that you are already quite possibly insane. I'm already quite far out of that horrendous place. …I suppose, he continued to himself with a sense of wry satisfaction, it would be a perversity to say she scares the living daylights out of me. The opposite, in fact. Not to mention this illogical tendency of mine to court truly terrible puns as I converse with myself.

Christine found many different ways to get Erik dirty, sweaty, ruffled, and pretty much down right sexy. You know, if you go for that kind of thing. (This actually applying to both Christines but really only referring to the feline one. I really need to stop butting in like this; you're an intelligent person, you can figure the difference without my incessant breaking in like this.) These ways involved, but were not necessarily limited to: a brief but truly uncomfortable rescue mission if you are a very tall man inside of a chimney, a lovely caper among the branches of the iron tree in his torture room, and an impromptu underground dip in some of his best evening clothes.

But the night (And the word night being used flexibly considering Erik had no idea nor inclination to care whether or not it was night.) that the irrepressible creature managed to find its way into one of the pipes of his organ really topped all of the other dubious adventures altogether.

The scene was, for all the wretchedness of a trapped creature, quite a comical one as the masked man stood with clenched hands addressing his instrument. "I suppose," Erik cried in a mixture of rage and concern, "It would have been acceptable if you hadn't conceived to wedge yourself immovably inside."

The organ made a sad mewling sound.

"Oh, I ought to blow the all of you out of there with one triumphant note."

The organ hissed.

Anger spent, Erik clambered nimbly atop his organ stool to assess the situation. While he could take the instrument apart it seemed an unnecessary waste of time and energy considering in which area of the instrument the cat appeared to be trapped. And, taking full advantage of his awesome height, he peered into one of the smaller pipes.

How in the world the creature had managed to squeeze inside was beyond his reckoning. The hole was scarcely large enough for him to pass a hand through. Fortunately he was also gifted with long delicate hands enough to make any girl swoon. Or in this case, to just grasp at a furry neck scruff. The foolish creature must have crawled in but then gotten stuck turning and wedged itself halfway up the pipe going sideways. Erik's slender fingers were award for their transgression with a sharp nip.

Howling his fury, Erik pulled his hand away. Or tried to except that his hand and arm stayed where they were. With a sudden thrill of dread, Erik realized that in order to go anywhere at all he'd have to part company with his entire left arm, which was now hopelessly lodged inside the pipe along with his feline friend. He also had the decided urge to use the loo. Somewhere above him, impervious to plot holes, Carlotta began to sing.

This, thought Erik somewhat ironically, must be Hell. No, not a name, a face, a voice. Hell was this frenzied dance of humiliating entrapment accompanied by the auditory rape of a Spanish abomination

Christine licked his finger in apology.

A considerable period of time later found Erik gasping and massaging his left hand which, after much painful twisting, he had successfully removed from the organ. The poor unfortunate cat was still experiencing what it must be like to live in a tube of toothpaste but Erik couldn't think about her at the moment. He had to make a rush for the lavatory, this rush fueling the desperation that had finally freed his hand at the expense of a great deal of flesh.

Finally relieved, Erik could tackle the problem of the foolish feline, which had grown silent in the past ten minutes. As he considered the way to remove Christine without damaging the organ, a single thought burst uninvited into his mind.

I must remember to never conceive to have mischievous children.

The careless thought sent a shock of sorrow so keen through him that he sat down heavily on the floor. I am going mad! He thought to himself more as a comfort than anything and spent quite a long time brooding over the pros and cons of being completely raving mad.

He reached his 152nd reason to support madness (Being able to play a lovely game of hide and seek with yourself.) but ended up getting stuck at number 160. He pondered this with all the intensity of an obese child determining the best point of attack on a large piece of chocolate cake. He was tossing about the preliminary outline for what would later prove to be the world's first reality television show when something rubbed along his leg.

He flailed in an attempt to sit up, being that his spine had somehow found its way to the floor where the two had seemingly been conversing about trading characteristics for a long time now because his back was now as stiff as the cold stone floor. For a moment his bewildered mind considered perusing the dark depths of aging and reasons not to age but the sudden realization that his cat was still stuck in a rather confined and probably uncomfortable way struck him.

"Dear God!" He cried, and flailed even more until the windmill of his hands somehow defied gravity enough to pull him to his feet. The thing that had rubbed along his leg disturbing his thoughts the first time did so again. He glanced down and then his jaw found its way back to the floor.

There, at his feet, sat the tiny ruffled form of Christine. She gazed at him with all the reproach a tiny mussed up kitten could muster-quite a lot, in fact- and then stalked away into the kitchen. Erik stood quite still, his mind working desperately on the known laws of physics to no avail. Finally, he closed his eyes and sank down to the floor again. The fact that he'd found his 160th reason to be completely insane (Being able to completely ignore the laws of physics and the occasional lack of them) was of little consolation.