A/N: So, Erik is dead, and Christine is going to become a morphine addict. Such a happy story, huh?

With the help of morphine, Christine began to design Erik's grave. She painstakingly worked on it day and night, stopping only to eat a tiny morsel of food and give herself a new morphine injection.

She one day stared critically at her pages of designs, doubting that these designs were good enough for her father.

Sighing heavily, she rubbed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, feeling the sleep that she'd been depriving herself of for the past week starting to take over her. However, she was determined to have her father's grave designed as quickly as possible, so she rubbed her eyes again, harder this time, and stared down at her designs once more.

Seeing something that could be improved, she grabbed her pen and added something to one of her designs. She looked at it momentarily, then nodded in silent approval. She believed it was good enough for him now, but she wanted to see him and ask him first to make sure that he thought so, too.

She stood up with great effort and walked over to her bedroom, where Erik's body was still lying on her bed. She knelt next to the bed.

"Is it good enough?" she whispered to him. "Please, tell me... is it good enough?"

Is it good enough?

That's what I've been asking my father's body every day for the past week about his grave. I want it to be perfect, but I don't know if I'll ever make a grave perfect enough for a man such as my father. Does everyone feel that way about their fathers' graves?

Oh, God, why did you take him from me? He was all I had in the whole world. He was the only one who cared for me. You never cared for me. My mother never cared for me. Only he did. Curse you, God!

I must be insane! I think I can build a grave suitable for my father, and when I'm in doubt, I go and ask his body, as though he'll respond. He's still there, and it makes me think that he's still alive. The morphine is making my brain rot, that's what it is. Yes, the morphine is the problem... and yet I continue to inject it into my arm every hour. I can't live with it, and I can't live without it.

Just like I can't live without my father...

Curse you, God!

Christine sat at the organ dully one day, staring at her designs for the tenth day in a row, as though staring would make something change. Her eyes felt heavy, but she fought against the sleep she'd been depriving herself of for the past ten days. She wouldn't sleep until she was finished!

She suddenly saw something that would make everything perfect, or, at least, perfect enough that it would satisfy her. She scribbled the changes down in pen, then scanned the pages to see if it was done.

After a moment, she let out a soft cry of joy. It was done! it was done, and it was perfect, and it was beautiful. She knew that her father would be pleased.

It is finished!

God's son allegedly said that when he died, and I say it now, as I finally complete my father's grave. Perhaps I shall die soon.

It's strange - only a year ago, I was rather quite terrified of death, even though my father gave it to people quite often. But now... now I just wait for death's release, for only in death and dreams shall I ever see my father again. And I'm tired of dreaming. Dreams are useless, for they only show you what could never happen in reality - what could never be while you're still alive.

I would help along death's release with the morphine, but I'm already taking it at a rather dangerous level. If only that level were dangerous enough...

But no, it's not, and no, I won't take any more than I already use. I suppose that's a good thing. No need to commit suicide. It is enough that I live in the deepest depth of Hell, as I have for the past fourteen years.

Living in Hell is simliar to death, and that is enough for me.

A few days later, Christine went above ground to go in search of stone to use to build her father's grave. She soon came upon a stone shop that sold the best stone in Paris. She opened the door and went inside.

"Good day, mademoiselle," the master mason greeted her. "How may I -" He stopped short when his eyes met her mask. "Oh."

She pulled a wad of francs out of her cloak pocket and held them in front of his face. "I shall pay you if you give me the vast majority of your stone over there." She pulled out a smaller wad of francs and added it to the first wad. "I shall pay you even more if you build a design that I have come up with. What do you say?"

He looked at the money hungrily. "What is it that you wanted built, mademoiselle?" he then asked.

"A grave."

"You designed a grave?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows in evident shock.

"Indeed I did. My father's grave, actually. I would like it built in a specific spot that I have chosen in the graveyard on the other side of the woods. How many men do you have?"

He considered. "Ten."

"That means eleven, including you. That is enough. I have made my offer. Take it or leave it."

He stared at the money another moment, then took it from her hand. Counting the bills, he asked, "When would you like us to start, mademoiselle?"

"Tomorrow, if you're slack at the moment. I would also like to stay at the site and act as overseer, so that I may make sure that it is built the way I want it."

He nodded. "Very well. I shall see you tomorrow, then, at the cemetery?"

"Yes." Then she turned on her heel and left the stone shop.

The next day, she arrived at the cemetery. The stonemasons were already there and had started building. She sat and watched, pleased that they were building the way she'd wanted it.

Then, after several hours of observation, she noticed that they were starting to do something wrong.

"Imbecile!" she shouted furiously at the unfortunate stonemason who had committed the wrongdoing. "What do you think you are doing? It's all wrong!"

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," the stonemason stammered, looking alarmed at this girl's anger. "I didn't understand the design -"

She slapped him as hard as she could. "If you don't understand," she snapped harshly, "ask, damn it! Ask!"

"Yes, mademoiselle," stammered the stonemason, cowering. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She sighed rather resignedly. "Do you believe that you can correct your error and do it the right way?" she asked.

"I do."

"Good. Then get back to work before I do you great harm."

The constuction of the grave continued in this manner every day, and she became quite notorious among the stonemasons. They always huddled in corners during their breaks and whispered about the crazy masked girl who was quite genius to be able to design a grave such as this herself.

After three days, the grave was finished, and she let out a sigh of relief that she wouldn't have to be so disagreeably close to above-grounders any longer. Now she could bury her father and forget the mess that had been constructing the grave.

The ceremony was simple and sad. She put Erik's body in a coffin that she'd designed herself and put his violin inside with him, along with all of his music and everything else that had been valuable to him. When she closed the coffin, she began to sing Mozart's Requiem, tears streaming down her face.

Requiem aeternam dona eis,

Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis,

Te decet hymnus, Deus in Sion,

Et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem,

Exaudi orationem meam,

Ad te omnis caro veniet,

Requiem aeternam dona eis,

Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis,

Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison,

Kyrie eleison...

He's been buried now. He's at rest. I can finally put this ordeal behind me.

Curse you, God! I'll get my revenge someday, I promise you that! You'll regret the day that you chose to have my father killed!