Chapter Three

Life was like a rose. First a blossom, and then a beautiful blooming flower with color and shape. But the bloom does not last long. The outer petals slowly fall off, one by one, and the inner petals shrivel up until they are brown and old. As the years went by, I began to feel exactly like a rose. My long bony fingers had slight wrinkles upon them, as did my forehead and the corners of my eyes. My wig was starting to look out of place; I decided to order a slightly lighter shade. My real hair was turning gray and falling out.

The Rose was starting to look normal. I only went out to see Nadir, for he made me promise to come visit him, for he did not like the forest. We would smoke our cigars and play chess. Nadir would tell me the latest news, only rarely bringing up the Changy's. They had two children then, happily living quietly outside of Paris. I did not give any remark.

Nadir glanced at me every five seconds until I coughed, signaling he could speak. "Erik," he stated. "You do not look well. You are thin. You are pale."

I took his rook with my bishop. "I feel fine, thank you."

"We are both getting older, my friend," Nadir said quietly. "There is nothing we can do to stop it."

I said nothing, merely moved my pawn forward, getting closer to my goal. Our conversation always ended with a dreaded silence, until Nadir would say something more, about something else. But that day he continued.

"Erik, you must stop joking with yourself. You treat yourself as if you will live forever. You will not. You must realize that," he sighed. "Do you intend to live forever?" he asked, almost desperately.

"I will live as long as I am supposed to, my friend," I told him deeply. "As will you. As will everyone. That is the fate of human beings." I moved my pawn forward once more, onto the opposite side of the board, "My knight back, if you please."

Nadir grudgingly switched the pawn with a knight. "Erik," he said, but could not go on. I knew he wouldn't.

The little angel at my mansion was turning into a lovely young lady. I adored her like a daughter. She sang the one song over and over again, with the few words she knew, "Angel of music, my protector, come to me strange angel!" It was hard to resist. Every time I heard her sing, I wanted to teach her more, I wanted to give her the voice of an angel.

But I could not.

"Angel of music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory!"

"Stop that racket, will you? The Master is sleeping!"

"Forgive me, Madam Latre, I could not help it."

"Get along with your dusting, girl! You're a servant, not a Prima Donna!"

The woman angered me so, but I did not stop her. When I played the organ, I heard small footsteps pitter-patter down the hallway to stand in front of my door. But I did not open it. I thought, then, that I would regret it. But every time I played the organ, those little footsteps kept asking me for more. Kept asking me to teach them my music. Kept asking until I could no longer stand it!

"Well? Are you simply going to stand there and gawk like a school-girl or are you going to come in here and learn music?" I opened the door. She stared at me for a moment, and then tiptoed inside awkwardly. I closed the door. "Forgive me," I told her with the smooth voice I was able to retain even in my age. "I am not a patient man. Do you wish to learn?"

She paused a moment, as if she didn't understand the question, and then nodded her head ferociously. "Oh yes! I wish it very much!"

I nodded to a chair beside the organ bench. "I am sorry," I said awkwardly. "I have forgotten your name."

"Angelina," she told me. "When my father was alive, he used to call me Angel though."

I smiled slightly, wondering if she even remembered that day she walked into my room. "Of course. Then I shall call you Angel as well, if you do not mind." She shook her head, and I was pleased. "Very well. Let us begin with scales."

And so, the little angel learned to sing. She had a delicate and sweet voice. She was as innocent as silver. I would hear her practicing her songs as she dusted the mansion, and when she was yelled at, she replied, "So sorry. Master's orders." And I would grin.

"Master?" Angel asked me one night, "Why do you not sing?"

I glanced up at her, "I stopped singing long ago, little Angel."

"Yes, but why?" Oh, her questions! They drove me mad, and yet I answered them.

"Because it reminds me of someone I once knew." The room fell silent, and I knew she was thinking up another question. "If you wish so horribly to hear me sing, I shall sing one song for you, but no more." When she nodded, I took in a deep breath, "Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my, guidance."

She recognized the song and grinned, "Angel of music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory."

"Have you forgotten your angel?" I asked, looking away from her, a choking feeling in my chest.

"Angel oh sing, for me, my angel," she improvised. "Come to me strange angel."

"I am your angel of music," I half whispered, half hissed, the song taking control of me, "Come to me angel of music. . .No!" I stood up sharply and turned away from her. I had seen the look in her eyes. The same look Christine had whenever I sang that song. "No more," I pleaded, almost desperately. "Oh God, no more!"

I knew she watched me, but I could not turn back to her. She had heard my voice, and now she would fall under my spell every time I sang; just like Christine. Just like Christine! Why oh why did I allow myself to give in? Why do I teach this girl? This innocent and pure girl!

"Wandering child," I heard a whisper. "So lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance."

My back was still turned to her, "Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze."

"I am your angel of music. Come to me angel of music," a small figure stood behind me. "Master," she whispered. "Why do you turn away? Do you think your voice is not beautiful? Is it . . ." she fidgeted. "Is it your face?"

I turned swiftly to her, to look into those large green eyes, "My face?" She had never asked about the mask before. None of my servants asked about the mask; Nadir had told them strictly not to. But this innocent girl with innocent green eyes did not know, did not understand. I shook my head, "No, little angel. It is not my face. It's just that. . ." Her eyes pouted when I paused, "It's just that, that song reminds me of someone."

Angel turned and sat down in her chair, looking at her hands. I knew she was thinking of a question; she always looked at her hands when she was thinking of a question. "You loved her?" she asked.

My eyes widened, "Yes."

She looked up at me, "But, she didn't love you back? That's mean." Oh, the thoughts of a thirteen year old girl on love. "Was it because of your face?"

I sighed and sat down on the bench. She asked me questions I would kill a man for asking, and yet I answered her anyway. As if she knew I couldn't keep anything from her. "Partly. But she also loved another man."

"Oh," she sighed as well, copying me. "Did she break your heart?" A simple question, but she was the only one to ever ask it.

I stared at the vase of red roses on the table across the room, "Yes."

The room was silent for a moment. I thought that maybe she was going to leave. If she left, I would be able to sit alone in my sorrow. To be truly alone though, is to be in a box, and the mansion was a fairly big box, and there were other people in it, so I was never truly alone. Suddenly, she was standing in front of me, and then she wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her little face into my chest.

I couldn't move. I froze. She was hugging a monster without knowing it. A killer, a Devil's Child. I looked down at her, "What are you doing?"

She smiled, "I'm hugging you, to make you feel better."

And then I held onto her tightly and cried into her shoulder. I had never been able to fully cry in front of any other person, including children. But this little angel made me feel ready to tell her anything she ever wanted to know. I held onto her as though she were the only other person on Earth and if I let go, I would never see her again. I held onto her and I wept.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.

Author's Notes: Ahem. I am not the kind of person who begs for reviews. . . Ahem. But uh, hello? Are you people out there? If you don't like my story, TELL ME WHY! Don't just say, "Aw, that's a bad story, I'm gonna find another one." and not review! Please, even if you don't like it, review and tell me why! That way, I can change it, or do it differently next time or something. Please review. Thanks.