A/N: Yay for me, back from my holidays! I definitely took some time off there for a while. Over the break, I found this little tidbit saved on a floppy disc and decided to finish what I started. So…uh…yeah…this be the goods. I have never posted one of my phanfics on ffdotnet before, so I'll tell you beforehand that I am a HUGE E/C fanatic and Raoul hater. And I absolutely adored the 2004 movie, even more than the book and the 1925 version with Lon Cheney. Eh, what am I talking about? I never liked the Lon Cheney version that much anyway. Before I start rattling, let me list, from most favorite to least favorite, the versions that I've seen (and read). That way, you can get to know my preferences. :)

-2004 movie (OMG…Gerry Butler was the best Phantom ever, hands down.)

-1992 (I think that was the year) TV miniseries

-Gaston Leroux's novel

-The Broadway show (I've seen it twice)

-Susan Kay's Phantom

-1925 version

-1940 (Once again, I'm unsure about the year) movie version with Claude Raines. I thought it was rather boring.

-A tie for 1989's movie with Robert Englund (aka Freddy Krueger) as Erik and 1998's Fantasma de l'opera. Both were absolutely horrible; cheesy, disgusting, and just plain BAD. But hey, I'm not a fan of slasher movies.

So, yeah. In most of my phanfics, I'll be basing Erik off of Gerry Butler's portrayal. So don't picture him as the all-over ugly that Lon Cheney was…think of Gerry's sexiness. This might seem a little shallow, but I thought how Gerry's Erik looked like a normal, handsome man with the mask on made him look much more believable. I always found Lon's version to look comical rather than frightening. It's a shame, because he underwent some pretty painful stuff to achieve his look. And I especially loved how the 2004 version pictured Erik as a young man, as opposed to someone who could be Chrissy's grandfather…It just made me think of pedophilia in the latter case. Well, I didn't mean to write a review. So, on with the sadness… (:snorf:)

Rain drummed rhythmically on the windows of the Manor de Chagny, the occasional thunderclap sending rolling tremors down the halls. Christine Daae was seated at a mahogany desk, her eyes not on the thing she had since given up writing but instead staring at the dismal gray sky, then down to the street past the garden. Not a soul was in sight. It seemed as though she was the only person in the world at the moment; on this dreary April afternoon. Beside the sounds of nature, silence echoed numbly around her. But she heard the door swing open across the room, and whipped her head around as she so often did, just to see if it really could be who she thought it was. But instead her plump little maid, all prim and fussy in her starched white apron, came bustling in with the laundry basket. It never was who she expected. Why bother even looking anyway?

She watched, mildly interested, as Madame Camerie gathered the nightgown she had left strewn on the floor this morning. It was so utterly predictable, the way Madame would putter around, tsk-ing and tutting. And yet, she seemed so cheerful and peaceful, Christine was almost envious. "Merci, Claire," she called after Madame Camerie as she left the room, leaving Christine to her solitude. The young woman sighed heavily and again stared down at the paper before her. She had aimlessly, almost subconsciously, had sat down at the desk, pen in hand, and had written for an hour, at least. For all her efforts was a rather weak attempt at a song…

Scarred by emotion, plagued by a memory,

Shall we forget of the things we once knew?

Return to the places so long forgotten,

Revisit the thoughts of myself and of you.

How strange a fleeting sight, smell, or sound

Can bring back such dreams of old.

I wonder if you still think of the past

And let your unforgotten memories unfold.

It was dreadful, Christine knew it. It would never compare to anything as hauntingly beautiful as he might have written. She thought of his music and felt a rising pain in her throat; a quelling feeling that made her eyes glaze with unshed tears. She sang softly to herself.

"You alone can make my song take flight,

Help me make the music of the night."

Her eyes became moist, but not a tear fell. She bowed her head silently and sighed. Angel of Music, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the future. And of the past. I just don't know what to do.

There was the sudden weight of a hand upon her shoulder. Taken by surprise, she jumped and turned her head to see who it was. There was the slightest, most miniscule glimmer of hope deep within her, but it faded as she saw Raoul's smiling face behind her. Smiling that stupid simpering smile. Oh, how strange that the face she had so cherished a mere two months ago now caused her such agony to gaze upon! How she would have given anything to see that terribly handsome one, half-hidden behind the porcelain mask, beaming at her! Hell, she even would have been glad to see him without his mask! It was such a simple yearning, yet so impossible it would take a true God-sent miracle. And God certainly owed her no favors.

Christine gave her best attempt to look pleased. "Oh, Raoul! You surprised me. You're home early." He wrapped his arms around her neck---she shuddered inwardly---and planted a kiss on her forehead. "Bonjour, m' amie. I decided to come home early and surprise you. And what should I hear when I walk in but that lovely song you were singing! What was it, Christine? I've never heard anything like it before."

Her mind froze and she sat staring at Raoul with a blank look. He looked back at her, imploringly, prompting her to whip up an answer. "Oh, it's nothing. Just an old song my…father used to play," she lied. That seemed to satisfy him. He stood straight up. "It was very nice. You know, I've been saying you ought to audition at the new opera house. You used to enjoy singing so much."

Silence was the reply. If Raoul had cared to notice, he would have seen how his fiancé had suddenly seized up with contempt. Contempt and sorrow. Contempt at the man before her who so carelessly tossed such a delicate matter around, and sorrow for the man who had inspired her voice. Since that night, she couldn't find a reason to sing. Each note, while beautiful, lacked emotion and feeling…everything that made it real. She wondered vaguely if she had in fact given up her freedom to him, would she still sing like she once did? She knew the answer. Of course. It was his spirit and her voice, in one combined. Without his spirit, she had no voice. And God, the Phantom of the Opera was still there, inside her mind.

Why don't you leave a little review for Issie-belle? You know you want to!