He felt the press of cold metal against his back…iron bars.
Was he in a cage…another cage? Or a prison?
He open his eyes slowly to see the flickering candlelight.
His mask lay on the floor, shattered in pieces as if someone had flung it down in a rage.
He could not move and he realized he was bound. His body spread out against the portcullis and secured with rope like some profane crucifixion tableau.
He twisted against the bindings and heard his the seams of his jacket tear with the effort.
His wig was still in place, but damp strands of it hung limply over his forehead and eyes.
I am the Trap-Door Lover, the Conjurer of Manzanderan…why can't I free myself now?
Something rasped against his neck and he realized that his own noose was coiled around his throat.
The other end of the lasso was held in Christine's delicate hands. She smiled sweetly as she gave the rope a little tug and he gasped as it tightened.
He saw the Vicomte de Chagny seated on his throne. The young man lounged elegantly against the black cushions, a glass of champagne in his hand.
The music box lay on its side by the Vicomte's feet. The little monkey's arms were movie back and forth, the cymbals twinkling in the light, but there was no sound…the mechanism inside was broken.
Christine walked towards him, holding the rope in one hand and never letting it slacken.
When she reached him, she began to gently touch his face. Her tiny fingers traced every terrible flaw over and over.
He tried to jerk his head away, to turn his face from her caresses. She would not let him.
Leaning against him, she kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft.
And they tasted like blood.
He heard the Vicomte laughing and the iron bars of the gate dug deeper into his back.
Dies irae…Kyrie…requiem da…libera me…
He didn't recognize his own voice, the Requiem…his first composition.
Christine gave the noose a sharp yank and the darkness began to fade into a hard, white light.
Christine…libera me…libera me.