VI. Learn to be lonely

"Yes, think of your breakfast", the Phantom muttered angrily. "That might not strain your scant intellect overmuch." With a silent snarl at the bedroom door he had been leaning against, listening, he turned and strode down the stairs, back to the living room, yet careful not to make a noise. Curse the slimy little imbecile! Curse him for stealing Christine's affection!

At least what he had overheard had not sounded like any kind of intimacy fit to truly make him jealous. No, the fool probably wasn't able to do anything of the like. The Phantom snorted disdainfully. Brushing her hair instead of leaping onto her to ravish her greedily! The idiot, the complete idiot!

But on the other hand… he would readily brush Christine's hair if she asked him to, and restrain himself if she wanted him to.

Yet he would get her to asking, no, begging him for more soon after he began to involve himself with her rich dark curls! The time would come when she would crave for his touch as desperately as a drowning man trying to reach a rafter. His time would come.

If he could only believe in this!

Back at the living room, he cast himself down upon the sofa. The small dog lying curled up on the carpet gave a funny little snort, but did not stir. Heavens and Hell be equally damned, he hated the irony of this! Why did Christine have to rescue him from Créon's clutches only to take him to that accursed boy's house? And why did she have to be mooning over the idiot all the time while he was watching? Of course, she had almost fussed over him, very much concerned that he might have suffered some severe damage at Créon's hands, but every loving look she cast her Raoul was one too many. How he yearned to place his fingers around the brainless young fool's neck and strangle him!

Yet every hurt he caused the boy would be a hurt to Christine, as well.

Biting back the sob welling up in his throat, the Phantom rolled over so he lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. This was no time for grief. He needed to think now. And the only feeling he could currently afford to harbour was hatred.

After some time spent lying utterly still and in silence, he sat up and raked his hands through his hair. There were some questions easy enough to answer, and some to which he knew the answer after some thought, but there were also those to which he would yet have to find an answer.

Créon, Satan hang him by his entrails, had still not told him what he really was, and why he needed him, and there was no way of prying out the answer by simply lying there and thinking. He might just have managed to figure a few things out, but this, the most burning question of them all, was not among them.

Hell consume itself! Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone?

There were some other things he was pretty certain of by now, but of which he would need proof first. Yet he would have to wait with it until tomorrow.

At least he was once again a step ahead of the others. Make that two, in the case of the stupid fop boy.

He wanted Christine here, with him on the sofa, very close to him preferably. Her arms around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder… He wanted to hold her until she fell asleep, and then still keep her in his arms, keep her safe from all the world. Why did she have to go with that boy? How could that wretch of a stuffed rooster ever protect her?

How could he himself ever protect her, he thought bitterly. Unless, of course, he learned what he clearly needed to learn.

But this would have to wait until the morning.

He still felt her at the edge of his consciousness, of course, but he was reluctant to reach out to make closer contact. After the encounter with Créon and Niobe, his mind felt dirty, soiled, and he did not want to touch her in this state.

He wondered if he should try to catch some sleep, but did not dare to, although he assumed that his worries were irrational, and that nobody would have followed them here. Still, he had better stay awake.

Getting to his feet, he walked over to where he had left his leather scrip, leaning against the wall, and took out inkbottle and quill and some writing paper. He might as well keep himself busy while he had to wait idly until he could resume his train of thought.

This was a time for wrath, then.

A time for a wrath dark and glorious.

Unscrewing the bottle while sitting down again, he dipped the quill into it, but then paused for a moment with it poised above the paper, ready to write, as he closed his eyes. The music was there, as always, strong and passionate and dark.

A voice spoke in his memory, a cold, deep voice coming from the recesses of his mind like from a yawning abyss. "There is much hate in you. Much pain. The time will come when it will tear you apart, unless you learn how to contain it."

"You are wrong", he whispered, his hand clenching around the quill. "It will be you who will be torn apart."

He opened his eyes again, and the quill began scratching over the paper.

The requiem would not be his own, after all.

Dies irae, dies illa…

A smile of grim satisfaction stole onto his lips at this sweet, sweet thought.

Solvet saeclum in favilla…

Oh, how much he longed for that!

He did not write out the entire score immediately, but sketched the motifs and melodies first, sometimes with a hint of accompaniment, and in the order they came to his mind.

This was the only way of truly controlling his wrath he knew, by channelling it into music and letting it flow in his head. The quill travelled over the paper quickly, in accord with his quiet rage, his silent fury.

Mors stupebit et natura
Cum resurget creatura
Iudicanti responsura…

Hell, this felt so perfectly good! He could not have stopped now anymore, even if he had wanted to. Occasionally he paused to brush his hair out of his eyes, but never for longer than a moment's time. His music was his strength, his comfort.

His only comfort, when even Christine had deserted him.

Christine… He felt so alone, so hollow, more alone than he had ever felt before. He had lost her, and still he clung on desperately, hoping where every hope was lost.

Ne me perdas illa die…

May you be confounded forever, Créon, but you might just have been right.

All my own fault, he told himself, digging the fingernails of his left hand into the whitened knuckles of his clenched right. All my own fault. I lied to her. I betrayed her. I gave her pain.

Ingemisco tamquam reus
Culpa rubet vultus meus…

He froze, the quill slipping from his suddenly limp fingers.

Culpa rubet vultus meus…

Slowly, very slowly, his hand wandered up to his face, and slowly, very slowly, he removed his mask and set it down upon the table. Hesitatingly, he reached up again, running his fingers over the uneven scars on the right side of his face, feeling his burned flesh.

Culpa rubet vultus meus…

No, it had been nothing but a lie! A filthy lie!

A fallen angel, and far from Heaven…

A damn filthy lie!

Culpa rubet vultus meus…

No. He did not believe it, not one bit of it! He was no angel. There was no God, and there were no angels. And Créon was mad. He was no angel. He had never been one, and he never would. All he was… was a monster, a creature of darkness, a plague from Hell, a curse set loose upon this world, a furious, hateful demon…

But was a demon not the same as a fallen angel?

Culpa rubet vultus meus…

No, this was not the guilt he had laden upon himself. There was plenty of guilt after all those years, but not that. Not that. He had not been cast out into this cold, careless world because he had rebelled against God.

Why else, then? Why else?

It was then that he realized that he was no longer alone with the sleeping dog. There was somebody behind him, watching him.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling again slowly, he put his mask back on, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and emotionless once more. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

There were soft footsteps behind him, and then a small, slender hand shyly touched his shoulder. "You should not be alone", a voice whispered from behind him.

The Phantom had to restrain himself not to laugh out loud with bitterness. "Do not be a fool. Alone is what I always am. I have learned to, a long time ago."