Christine sat in the lair, which was now hers, as was everything else that had once belonged to Erik, one day, not really sure of what to do with herself.

She was tired, but she didn't want to sleep. She was bored, but she didn't have any ideas for what to do to entertain herself. She was sad, but she didn't know how to make herself happy. She was hungry, but didn't feel like eating.

Ever since my father died, I've led a pathetically dull existence. I eat a small morsel of food, sleep for half an hour, poison myself with morphine, cry, and then sit around, pondering what to do next.

If I had the energy, I'd venture above ground and possibly amuse myself by spooking or killing some witless idiot unfortunate enough to cross my path. I'd like to kill or haunt every man in the world right now, but I have no energy to do so.

I need inspiration... or, at least, something to do.

Father, help me!

A few days later, she finally had the energy, as she'd eaten a decent amount of food that day, to venture out into the upper levels of the Opera.

Moving soundlessly, she wandered around her father's old haunts, recalling fond memories she possessed of watching him strike fear into the hearts of everyone in the Opera. How she missed her father...

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep her father out of her thoughts.

You must not think of him! she thought to herself desperately. You'll just want more morphine.

Thinking of morphine made her want to scurry back to her lair and use the needle of short-lived peace and ecstasy on herself, but she was determined not to. She had decided to go past an hour without morphine. It was killing her, not that she minded dying now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a shocked gasp. She whirled around and faced the man who'd witnessed her commit her first murder. Why was he here? Nosy fool, that's what he was!

She glared at him, slowly backing into the shadows. "I thought I told you to stay away, monsieur," she said rudely. "Are you following me now? Have you forgotten my threat? Because," she continued, her voice threateningly soft as she pulled her punjab lasso out of her cloak pocket, "I could easily remind you - by making that threat happen! Is that what you want? Are you some sort of suicidal fool?"

The man gazed at her steadily. "It just so happens that I work here, mademoiselle," he replied, his tone surprisingly kind, "and I caught sight of you. I'm afraid you're not as stealthy as you'd like to think."

She stared at him, not sure of what to say. She almost couldn't believe her ears. He was insulting her! He was insulting her, and she wasn't doing anything about it! Her face twitched in anger, but she didn't say anything to him. She remained stonily silent.

"If you'd like to kill me, mademoiselle," the man said, his tone still as kind as ever, "I pray you'll do it in good time, because standing here, staring at me, just gives me more of a chance to escape."

How dare he! She'd like to kill him, and yet... something in her wanted him to live.

"What is your name, monsieur?" she finally asked him.

"My name is François Jannes. I work here as a scene-shifter. And you are?"

"Christine. Christine Vasille. I... live here."

"I knew that," he replied. "You were, after all, underground in that lair two weeks ago, when The Phantom was muderered."

Upon hearing this man mention Erik, a saddened expression suddenly crossed her face.

"Was he your father?" he asked gently when he noticed how she looked.

"Yes," she whispered, wanting nothing more than to run away, back to her lair and to her morphine. She swallowed back tears. "Yes, he was."

"I am truly sorry," he said compassionately. "How sad you must be! I imagine you two were close?"

"Very. He... he was my only companion." She accidentally let a sob escape from her throat as she stepped back from him. "I'm sorry! Will you - forget you saw me? I - I have to go!"

Then, without another word, she turned and fled, sobbing.

I met someone today - someone who was shockingly rude, insulting, kind, and compassionate. I didn't know there were people like him left in the world.

His name is François Jannes, and he's a scene-shifter here at the Opera. I think he must be somewhere in his early forties, perhaps younger. He witnessed my first murder and did nothing about it, much to my surprise. Then he saw me today and talked to me, as though I were some sort of common Parisian that he met on the street. It was almost as though I was... normal. He treated me in a way that I'd never thought anyone except my father would treat me.

I don't really know what to think of him. Something in me wants to kill him, and I didn't do it today, but then... something in me wants to talk to him again. It was nice to talk to someone again.

A week later, she noticed François snooping around. She hid in the shadows and then appeared beside him.

"Ahhh," he said, smiling at her. "Mademoiselle le fantôme! How good to see you again. What are you doing right now?"

She shrugged. "Wandering around, that's all - that's all I really do any more. What are you doing, Monsieur Jannes? Snooping around some more, I presume?"

He laughed a little. "No, mademoiselle Christine. I was simply looking for you."

"Why?"

"To speak to you."

She was silent for a moment before she inquired, looking rather confused, "Why?"

"I just wanted to see you, that's all," he said in a friendly tone.

"Well, then," she murmured. "I'm not a phantom, by the way. I'm simply his daughter."

"I see." He paused. "Well, Christine, I suggest that you 'disappear' before someone sees you. Shall I see you again soon?"

She considered, knowing full well that she desperately wanted to talk to another human again.

"You know where my lair is, don't you?" she asked him.

"Yes."

"Then come tomorrow night. I shall prepare you some dinner. Until then..." She made a sweeping, theatrical motion, then disappeared into the shadows and went down to her lair.

I'm preparing a dinner for Monsieur Jannes tomorrow night. Why? I don't know.

I'm just too damned lonely, I suppose. Yes, I'm lonely down here in Hell, and I need someone to entertain. I never entertain visitors. This will probably be the only time, the one exception, however.

Oh, I just remembered - I have to hide my morphine! Nobody can know about that - it is my one and only secret that should remain completely secret.

The next night, Christine was preparing dinner for her meal with François, which was a vegetable soufflé, when she heard a noise. She glanced around and saw François, dressed in a nice outfit and a bouquet of roses in his hand.

"Hello," he greeted her with a smile. He held out the roses. "These are yours."

She took them from him and smiled a little as she filled a vase with water and placed the roses in it. "They're lovely, Monsieur Jannes. Thank you. Dinner will be ready soon," she informed him. "Just have a seat at the table."

He sat at the table and sniffed. "Is that a vegetable soufflé that I smell?" he asked.

"Indeed it is. My father's recipe. You'll like it."

Shortly after, the soufflé was ready. She set his down in front of him, and then she set hers down in front of her place and sat. She started to pick up her fork and eat her soufflé.

"Shouldn't we say a blessing before we eat?" he asked, looking at her with surprise.

She stopped short and glanced up at him. "There is no God to say a blessing to," she said quietly. "My father told me that many years ago. There are beautiful churches... there is beautiful music... but there is no God."

He looked at her sadly, then proceeded to eat his dinner in silence.

When the dinner was finished, she cleared the table and washed the dishes. Then she sat at the piano and asked, "Shall I play a song for you?"

"Certainly," he replied, taking a seat. "Go ahead."

She smiled a little, then started to play a song on the piano. When he was done, he clapped.

"That was wonderful," he said, smiling. "Well done."

He then pulled out his pocketwatch. "Well, I must go," he said regretfully. He stood. "I shall see you later, then?"

"I suppose. Will you come back tomorrow, though - please?" she asked, desperate not to lose contact with another person when she'd just gotten it back.

He nodded and smiled. "Certainly. I shall see you tomorrow, then." Then he left.

What in heaven, or hell's, name is wrong with me? I can't bear to not speak to another person! Why is that?

I'm too damned lonely! That's all it is! Dear God, I need to get over my loneliness!

How I wish my father were here...

I'm preparing a dinner for Monsieur Jannes every night this week. I can't get rid of being around people.

Damn!

Two weeks later

Well, François and I are friends of the strangest sort. He watches me like a hawk when he sees me, and I prepare him dinner every so often. It's an odd friendship, but it's nice to talk to another human regularly again.

I just wish that I had someone who I loved, or who loved me...