I sometimes think over what I did wrong. All the things which could have made Christine love me had I not done them. And then a strange anger will pass over me, anger at the fact that, no matter what I did, what it all came down to in the end was my face. Why was I cursed in this way? Why can't people ever see beyond the physical flaws of another human?

All I needed was one person. All I needed was Christine to show me some compassion and affection, the things I had never had as a child. I came to her as her angel and expected to seduce her in that manner. Until Raoul came. Her childhood love. Her husband. I suppose I must accept that now. But I don't want to.

What do I regret doing most? This one incident:

When she interrupted my organ-playing and pulled my mask off. Part of me dies over my reaction every day. You had her, I think. She could have loved you, if you didn't lash out at her curiosity like you did. You scared her away.

I also sometimes regret killing Joseph Buquet. That made her think I was a complete menace.

But then I think of the things he said about me! Telling those little ballet rats all of those horrible things. I am not a demon, I am not the devil's child. I refuse to be. I suppose I could have had my revenge in other ways-- such as the small things I did to Carlotta… all those many, many times. I think to those instances sometimes and laugh.

Still… the murder certainly accounted for her not coming to me for lessons anymore. And for running to Raoul for his 'comfort'. His comfort. Ha. I never used her as a pawn to capture a supposed murdering menace. Menace… when all had been trying to do from the very beginning was advance her career.

Her career. Ha! What career? Two performances as Prima Donna, and then she leaves to marry Raoul. It was not what I had planned. She had a voice like an angel. An angel I thought was mine so many times. When I took her to my lair and we slept in the same bed. When I followed her to the graveyard. During Don Juan… my opera. Past the Point of No Return. When she kissed me… but after that I realized that she really loved Raoul. And nothing a monster like I could do could ever change that. I had done things unforgivable to her, and Raoul had not.

Was it wrong of me to threaten Raoul? Christine had said she hated me. Yet she still kissed me. Now I know what that feels like. Like torture, to have that sort of intimacy with someone who will never be mine. Who could never love me.

So I had to let them go.

After she went away with Raoul, I left the opera house, with all the money I had saved from my salaries. I moved to a small Paris flat. It was hard to go, to leave everything behind… the organ, the wedding dress. But I had no choice. I did buy a second-hand organ about a month ago-- but I have not yet played it. I do not have the heart. Christine was my muse. She was the one who helped me play my music as I did. So the organ has gone unused, and I do not know if I shall ever play it.

The section of Paris in which I have made my home is not a quiet one. My building is at the intersection of two major roads, and consequently it attracts poor street performers hoping to earn a few francs for usually mediocre performances. I can hear them if the wind is right, which it usually is. There is one who is especially good. She is a young flutist, fairly pretty. I have walked by her on the streets sometimes. I do not know if she has every noticed me. She usually seems absorbed in her playing. If she looked up, it would be hard not to notice me. I no longer wear my mask, so my deformities would be easy to spot. I am tired of masks. If people wish to judge me by my face, I let them. Now everyone will know who I am: one of the walking wounded. The deformed. Those who have never been shown love.

Those who want it more than anything.