October 31st 1900

He didn't want to get out. It was raining, he said, he didn't like the rain.

Christian didn't want to go, but Toulouse forced him to. He wanted to read the finished manuscript again and again. Wanted to lose himself in the pages once again, relieve it all over again. His despair gave him security. His story brought her back to life. Wallow in her kiss, even if it was all pretend, all in his mind. She had gotten him too deep inside, too engrained in torture, even after death, he could not let go. Toulouse made him. The bohemians had carried him and shoved him out. Saying that he had to learn to let go sometime. Christian did not have to will to resist anymore. He let the rain wash over him as the led him to the bar. His and Satine's bar.

All of them had been able to let go. They all loved her of course, but it was just normal love. Just that. None of their beings depended on her. None of them had seen the surreal world that they had shared. It was not as if they completed each other, or were meant for each other, Christian didn't buy into that crap anymore. The truth was simple: he had loved her; he refused to love anyone else. He was incapable of loving anyone else. They consumed and adorned each other, it felt sweet, natural. He would never feel the same with anyone else.

Halloween. The dead come back to life. All outside, people in masks and costumes littered the streets of Montmatre. Couples dancing away, friends laughing and drinking. A festival of life, that's what it was. He did not have life, nor death. He had nothing.

It would seem a shame to wallow in self-pity, this young, handsome, talented man, at a bar on Halloween. The bohemians were guiltily glancing at him, wanting to join the festivities, but not wanting to betray and forsake their friend. Christian waved them off and told them to go and enjoy. He wanted to wallow in self-pity, wanted to submit to his despair. He wanted Absinthe.

'What'll it be honey?' The bartender asked him as he sat down heavily if front of her. He placed some bills on the counter.

'As much absinthe as this will buy.' The bartender smiled sadly at him. On of those cases. She had to be careful not to give him too much. He looked disheveled and wrecked. Not a good idea to have him drinking so much. Yet, she wouldn't want to create a scene; those were usually bad for business. She silently retreated and mumbled something about giving him his absinthe as soon as she got those orders done.

Christian sighed and turned in his chair. Facing the door. If it took too long then he would probably just return to his flat. A young couple where entering the bar. They looked happy, rich, in love. The last one went right into Christian's eyes heart and turned his eyes cloudy.

Through his murky vision, he saw him and her. He was blonde, tall, with a dignified air, one fitting aristocracy. Well, the streets of Montmatre are getting more attention I suppose. There was something about his smile that was aloof, almost goofy. He and his lover were very young. She was pale, with hair as black as night, her lips reminded him of Satine's hair. Smiling shyly as their ring wearing hands intertwined and he led her in. Beautiful, that's what she was, pale and innocent, like the song of a distant nightingale, singing for the night. He couldn't see that. Other could. Nothing was beautiful next to Satine. Nothing.

'Christine,' the man said, waving his arm in front of her to lead her in.

'Raoul,' she playfully returned the gesture. They were dressed in expensive garments, like royalty. Probably not even Halloween costumes compared to their closets. She smiled at him. 'I'm so glad we came here for Halloween, it's simply bursting with fun, isn't it? This place? It seems so alive!'

'Glad to have made you happy my darling,' He said, making Christian feel sickly with his 'romance'. Maybe he was simply tired of aristocracy seeking out love. He studied her face once again. She was in love, but not with the man next to her. He could tell. Oh, him, he was falling head over heels, a fool. She, however, didn't look at him in the same way. Affectionate, caring, not loving. He surprised himself by what he could tell now.

She was aware of the pair of eyes watching them. Two big, blue, despondent eyes upon them. He must look wretched to her. Stubble on his face growing haphazardly, ragged clothes only upon his frame, hair tousled, unkempt for many months. She was giving much attention to his face, he noted. He knew how it looked. Haunted by every crease, a line of tears still faintly detectable. His eyes stared at her with heartlessness, stoicism. Yet he knew, he knew she could tell the despondency, the sadness, the rage, the hopelessness which haunted his eyes from the weeks of crying, the pain of his soul. His battered windows to his now vacant soul, if only she had seen him a year ago, so full of life and young. He felt as if he had aged a hundred years since last summer.

'Christine? Come let's leave, there's still so much to do!' He led her out with the drinks, before she could give him anymore attention. She bumped into a cloaked man coming out, and managed an apology before her lover pulled her out.

The cloaked man stared after them for a minute. Longingly. He then turned and walked to sit a seat away from Christian.

'What's the best they serve here?' He asked Christian without looking at him. He sounded absolutely dismal.

Christian didn't look back, 'Just ordered a bottle of it, Absinthe, want to share in misery? I hear it loves company.' The cloaked figure turned to meet him. He had a mask, one covering half of his face, the other half was sneering at him, maliciously. Yet his eyes betrayed his reality, pining for someone from the depths of his soul. Unable to reach them. Christian needed a companion now, someone who shared his pain. Anyone, anything that could understand.

'I don't need charity, or anyone else, I did not ask to share. So please monsieur, leave me in peace.' He snapped at him, Christian turned his face to meet his, he could see a wince behind the man's firm countenance. He had seen his eyes. Seen his soul.

'Please?' The man contemplated the request and edged a seat closer, as the Absinthe arrived, Christian asked for two glasses. He felt the man studying his face. His teary, haunted face. He could sense the curiosity in the man next to him. Strange, he was extremely perceptive when sober now.

'Are you a Bohemian?' He asked the man.

'No,' He replied calmly, 'It's all nonsense. Everything they stand for. Ignorant dogmatic fools, that's all they are. They think the world won't catch up with them if they live in a fairy tale. I envy them.'

Christian laughed bitterly, 'Yes, I used to be one, I used to believe in truth, beauty, freedom and love.' The man gave a shake of his head when Christian mentioned beauty and love. 'Now all I can do is pity myself. One year ago I might've been as lively as that young lady that just walked through the door.' He subtly asked the question, what does this man have to do with her?

He winced. Christian nodded. 'I knew it, well then, let's just drink this,' He held up the absinthe, 'and continue with our stories,'

'Why should I tell you anything?' He said irritated, 'What do I care? Besides what do you know about love?'

'It is the reason behind my state now.' He raised the glass to his lips and drank up. The familiar swirls of green etched through his vision and he felt lightheaded, he had to gulp down a whole glass for this effect these days. His tolerance level had shot to levels probably unheard of. He would probably die of poison in a month or so.

A flicker of ease showed through the masked man's face. He gently sipped his absinthe, immediately Christian could see the drink taking effect.

'You're following her? Used that mask to hide your face so she wouldn't recognize you?' Christian deduced. Trying to get the story out. He needed to see someone who had suffered as much as he did. Just to hear them tell him it would be ok. He needed that.

'My love,' the man said reluctantly, 'was my muse. I am a composer of the opera,' he explained, and she just walked right out of that door.' He said expressionlessly. A moment of silence passed as they both looked at their glasses, Christian's empty and the man's almost full. Then, he started crying.

'I taught her. I taught her how to sing.' He said covering his eyes and shaking, 'I gave her everything. Everything I could. She didn't want it. She wanted freedom, I didn't want her to leave me. I let her go. She wouldn't ever love me. I needed her. She was supposed to save me, she didn't. She took my heart when she left. I can't write anything like I did with her.'

Christian's rage boiled when he heard the freedom part of the story, and as soon as he snapped his head to say something it turned into pity. This man loved her. He could hear it in his words. It was as powerful as his and Satine's love. Only in this situation, it was truly one-sided. He put a hand on the man's shoulder. A gentle touch to show his condolence, and to share the grief.

'Death stole my love away.' He said nostalgically, 'I guess he was just too jealous eh?' He smiled at the man. Who stopped shaking and started giving his attention to the young writer. Christian finally saw his eyes. They were striking, menacing eyes at first, then you could tell their history. They were yellow, an unusual color. Devilish, hardened and stoical. Yet they were streaked with love. How could these eyes love? They were grim, and maybe evil if you saw it. Yet it was there, a gentle glimmer, an adoring shine to them.

'Satine, was the sparkling diamond at the Moulin Rouge.' A look of understanding came across the man's face, 'Don't pre-judge. We fell in love. She had everything I stood for then, but there was another man after her. When he found out about us, he threatened to kill me, and he almost hurt her. A monster. When we finally rid ourselves of him, she died.' Christian's eyes were blurring. Not again, he thought, God this painful.

This time the man comforted him with a slight hand to the shoulder. Christian managed an unconvincing smile, 'She had consumption of the lungs. The doctor said it couldn't be cured. I found this out after she died. I'm, umm, a writer.' He stuttered, 'I .. Just finished… writing our story down. It should be quite…' Christian broke down into a wail. He thought he had come to terms with it. He discovered that he couldn't. Not ever.

The man drank his absinthe in silence while Christian continued his crying. He pushed the bottle away. No more of that. He couldn't be drugged any longer. He had to tell the world their story. He promised Satine he would. He promised her.

'I'm sorry.' The man managed.

'Oh what does anyone have to be sorry for. It was a cruel twist in my life. I hate it now, I hate the fact that we can't be together. She wanted to be an actress. I wanted to take her to England so she could finally be free of that awful place. That place, it killed her. The Duke killed her. We all killed her. I have to tell our story. She told me to go on. I can't do that without her. Why did she leave me?'

A pause. 'The world is simply a hard place to live in.' the man offered, 'I'm surprised that beautiful people like yourself suffer.'

'Why shouldn't we?'

'You look better. The world has been an unkind place for me. All my life I've been shunned or tormented. All my life I've been feared and hated for my face. Never has the world shown me any compassion or love. I never wrote anything truly beautiful. My designs- buildings, music, words, art, they were all tormented in some way. Only with Christine had I done anything beautiful.'

'We were foolish to trust in love weren't we?' Christian asked.

'Foolish indeed. Do you know the origins of Halloween boy?' Christian flinched. The Duke had called him that with his pompous nasal voice. He shook his head, 'It was one of the seasonal celebrations from old Celtic traditions. The Celts believed that Halloween gave a safe portal for souls who wished to move from this world to the next.' A transition, a completely new start. They both needed it. Christian understood what the man was saying, 'Which is why we associate it with ghosts.'

'What about demons and evil?' Two of the main images sticking to Halloween. The Duke.

'The church wished to stamp out the pagan ideas of this holiday. They made it into an evil witch's Sabbath, with black omens all over the place.' They were all false, all the evils we were afraid of, 'What do you say. Are we ready to get on to a new life?'

Christian stared into space, contemplating the question. He could not leave Satine. Yet he could not shun away the rest of his life. 'If I didn't that would make her uneasy.'

A moment of silence passed. The man pushed his chair back and got up to leave. Standing up, he said to Christian, 'Death stole your love away. Her sweetness and joy. My love stole the sweetness of Death away. I can no longer enjoy it. I cannot die anymore, it would not give me peace.

Christian laughed morbidly, 'You are immortal then.'

'That would be a most terrible curse.' The man said solemnly. Christian, too, pushed back and got up to leave. He had to send the manuscript to a publisher as soon as possible. He had to try to live. Just for Satine, 'Then let us walk out then. It was an honor meeting you monsieur.' A peculiar word for a meeting of strangers. Yet here, it worked.

The man smiled for the first time since their meeting. 'The feeling is mutual here, young writer.'

'Christian.'

The man struggled for a minute, then, 'Erik.'

Without another word, they went for the door and left for their separate ways.

The boy assumed he was wearing the mask to avoid detection. He had not heard of the Opera Populaire. He had not heard of the Opera Ghost that still resided in it. The phantom of the Opera stormed through the streets of Montmartre, his cape billowing behind him, avoid the grime and dirt on the floor. All around him the misusedbackgrounds were distorted by the people around him. Christine wouldn't be in this part, the Village of sin. Where the faces of the living were tainted, their very innocence corroded. Exactly what he was doing here, he did not know. That writer, he had suffered as well. Erik didn't know that beautiful people suffered. He came to a stop in front of the Moulin Rouge. Dead as it seemed, he could see the less vibrant shadows of business teeming in its windows. Mere ghosts of the razzle dazzle they were part of before. The world made them all suffer. There was no escape. It made him suffer, it made Christian suffer, it made Satine suffer. He never knew her, already he felt her presence, the restless dead surrounding him. Victims of a cold hard world.

An anguished scream was heard all over Montmatre that hour.

While exiting the village, Christine felt a shiver down her spine, and realized what was so familiar about the man that bumped into her. 'Raoul, I'm tired, let us retire my dear,' Raoul nodded sheepishly and hailed their carriage.

Christian stared into the setting sun at his place. The scream had come from the back of the Moulin Rouge. He stared into it for a while then continued to write an address on the envelope.