As usual, I don't own a goddamn thing nor will I ever. The Phantom of the Opera is in my closet with a tub of chocolate sauce and a can of whipped cream, that's it. Well, here it is. This is rather similar to 'All the World's a Stage' but told from Erik's point of view and in present tense. Enjoy the crap!

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And she looks at me with those eyes as she's whisked away, those liquid chocolate pools bore deeply into my own light green ones, making me feel undeserving.

I am undeserving.

She rests that small, slender hand softly upon his back as she looks in front of her. The two of them disappear from my sight.

I feel everything bubbling over in a fit of rage and depression. I grab one of my candleholders, ready for what I am about to do. My fingertips meet with the red velvet of the curtain that covers a mirror. I softly draw back the curtain and, without me even moving, the candleholder smashes into the mirror.

Tiny shards fly in miniscule fragments in the air, piercing my skin and slicing tiny cuts into my arms, hands, face and chest.

I look to the floor, seeing my own deformed image further distorted in the small slivers of glass.

'Is this what I look like? This hideous demon…..'

I snap my vision back to another mirror. Another smash, more tiny scratches, more dully aching throbs in my chest.

I look to my hands, noticing that I've split open the flesh of my knuckles and the scarlet flows down my fingers in a delicate stream.

Bleed

Another smash and I watch the crimson pool in a puddle beneath me from my scratched up hands.

Nothing numbs the empty ache in my chest. It feels as if, beneath my breast, lies an empty, black hole.

A fourth crash and all the red's leaking down my shirt, now, mingling with the flesh of my chest and the white fabric of my shirt.

I look down to an angle where I can see the dark red splayed out across my chest and yet still rolling down. I stretch my arm out in front of me, staring at my tainted fists.

Bleed

I step tiredly behind the mirror, letting the red curtain fall behind me. I hear it swish closed and quiver to a stop after swinging this way and that for a moment.

I hear the uneven pitter patter of footsteps, the footsteps of someone exceptionally light on their feet and who holds some degree of skill in ballet. That can only be Meg.

Madame Giry would never venture this far down, even she fears me. Little Meg is curious and inquisitive. Curiosity killed the cat…

I hear a sharp intake of breath, better described as a gasp, but my hearing is soon turned to a quiet drip to the floor. The thick, sticky red liquid is beginning to consume the cold, stone floor.

Bleed

The ache in my chest has not lessened a bit, only heightened to points where it feels as if I had had my heart ripped from my breast by some terrible, malevolent force.

Those eyes are forever burned in my mind. I see them everywhere, now, even as I flee the only true home I've ever known. When I blink, for that brief moment my eyelids meet my cheeks, the image of dark chocolate flashes its' way across my vision.

I let the flat pain in my scratched hands serve as punishment enough for my sins.

Bleed

Indeed I will.

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It was 1:00 in the A.M. when I wrote this. I was exhausted, morbid, angsty and annoyed. Here's the result. Review, please, and I hope you enjoyed this piece o' crap.