Author's Note: Forgive me everyone. I've had a boatload of trouble with this chapter, and my schedule is really weird at the moment. I know there is no excuse, but you have my fondest apologies. I don't have time to do review responses at the moment, but I will respond to them next update, which I promise will be in the next three weeks.

Whoever read the origonal version of this chapter, I'm sorry. FFN ate my chapter, and I had to peoce it back together.

Lotsa love to Amey, who beta-ed this chapter for me! I luff you!

This chapter is dedicated to Hugh Panaro. A phantom never dies!

Disclaimer: I never have, and never will, own Phantom of the Opera.

I had never thought of myself as a cruel person. Thoughtless perhaps, but never cruel. I knew differently once Erik took off his mask. He had taken it off to stem the flow of blood, after giving an animalistic cry that I knew would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I couldn't feel anything but horror for the monstrosity that was his face. I should have felt guilt, or at least concern. But all I could see was his face. His dead, disgusting face. I had never felt such terrible horror in my life.

I hadn't had time to feel such horror, at least not as much as I was feeling now. I had been too busy worrying about how it would affect my life. Once he had taken off the mask I saw that I hadn't hit much, not even an artery. I suppose it takes a great deal more force than I was able to muster to pierce the porcelain mask than I was capable of exerting.

But then I caught his eyes.

What I saw there was an overwhelming grief. And not grief for what I had just done. Grief for the fact that I didn't love him. And if all of our conversations ended up with me locking myself in my room, crying hysterically, or stabbing him, it didn't look like we were very far on the road to marital bliss. Which I'm sure he wants us to be, though he hadn't mentioned it.

And as we stared at each other, I watched as the emotion in his penetrating gaze slowly mutated from grief into anger.

He started to speak, at last. But I couldn't understand what he was saying. He was speaking very fast, and the words were either in another language or incoherent. His words gradually began to make sense, as I watched on in horror. Suddenly he grabbed my face in his hands, his horrible, dead hands, and began to speak clearly to me, in a voice that made my very soul tremble in fear. "Look at me Christine, look at me! Since you seem so eager to see the monstrosity that is my face, feast your eyes! I'm a very good looking man, aren't I?"

This was followed by bitter laughter.

"After a woman sees me, as you have, she belongs to me. You are mine."

He ranted at me for some time, during which I wasn't able to speak, or even think of speaking. I was petrified.

After a while longer, Erik must have noticed the look in my eye, which I imagine must have looked similar to those of a deer in the headlights. For a moment, pity flashed in his eyes. But then it was consumed by the ever growing rage I could see in them.

"I have scared you, haven't I Christine? Well I assure you, this is my true face, the bane of my existence."

His voice softened, and I saw tears, as genuine as the sea is blue, slide down his cheeks. "I would have changed it for you, had I been able to. I would have changed it for my mother, my poor, miserable mother. And for my father, who never saw my face."

His hand caressed a curl that had fallen in front of my face, before brushing it behind my ear. "My mother made a present of my first mask, you know. For my father, so he would never have to see me."

After uttering that astonishing revelation, Erik gave yet another cry, and fell to the floor. He half crawled, half slithered to one of the doors, raised his hand to open it, and then entered.

Erik's leaving seemed to drain every ounce of energy from my body. I fell to the floor in an ungainly heap, almost losing consciousness.

But then, from the other room, I heard music. At first it seemed like a magnificent scream that went on and on. It was the pain of every person that had ever graced the Earth, in every manner possible. No one except Erik could have written it. It was so intensely glorious and terrible that I couldn't bring myself to rise. For amidst the music was my pain. Tears streamed down my face freely. And at the same time my heart ached for Erik. My pain was born of love that was lost. His spawns from never having been loved.

I suddenly rose, unable to help or stop myself. It was almost like I was drunk. I opened the door further, and leaned heavily against the door frame.

"Erik!" I cried out, "Show me your true self without fear! For I swear you are the most heartrending and sublime man to ever grace this planet."

I believed what I said, and apparently, so did Erik. He stopped playing, and turned around slowly. I stared into his eyes, the only part of his face I could bare to look at now that the music had stopped.

"It's my work, Don Juan Triumphant." He simply stated.

"I compose sometimes. There isn't much to entertain oneself with down here, except music."

Poor Erik. His genius would take the operatic world by storm, if he had means to get it there. Instead he had to be content with a tomb.

"Christine, I know I've hurt you. And I'm sorry. I…I love you. I want to share my music with you. But I don't know how, now that you've seen my face."

I took several strides forward, placing my hand on his shoulder. "Erik, if I ever again shudder at you, it will be from the thought of how great your genius is."

"Oh, Christine." Erik moaned, then fell to his knees.

My hand dropped to my side. "I love you so." He said.Then he kissed my feet.

He didn't see that I had closed my eyes. "I will stay with you, Erik."