A/N: Okay, we have now arrived at the most controversial chapter of this entire story! There was a lot of debate as to whether or not I should include this song, as it was deleted from the film, but the vast majority of reviewers voted for me to put it in, so here it is. I apologize to those of you who did NOT want to see this chapter in here, but I rather like it. I don't see it as OOC because, arguably, we don't see much of Erik's true character in the film, and what we DO see is quite varied; he's a cold-blooded murderer one moment, a passionate seducer the next, fuming the next, and broken down crying the next. I think, therefore, that this song is entirely plausible for his character, given the proper explanation, mood, and timing, which I hope to portray.

That said, a great deal of this chapter is based on Susan Kay's "Phantom." My Erik thus far has been a combination of all the versions, so please understand that this one leans heavily toward Kay. Haven't read it? No worries— it should still make sense. I hope. ;)

Disclaimer: As I said, a lot of Kay references. The song DOES NOT BELONG TO ME! Let me make that unmistakably clear. The lyrics, music, etc. of "No One Would Listen" are not mine. They belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber and… Charles Hart, I think? Correct me if I'm wrong, because I'm not sure on the lyricist. But anyways, to summarize: none of it is mine.

I had arrived at the conclusion that my temper was like a roaring gas fire; when first lit, it flared up with flames so hot and bright that they consumed everything within reach, but in moments the lack of fuel would cause the majestic fire to dwindle and die, exhausted by its brief surge of power. No analogy could have better described the hollow feeling that had settled in my stomach, where moments ago it had churned as if filled with molten lead. It was impossible to remain upset with Christine for very long, because the more I thought about her, the more I tried to make excuses for her. My mind traveled unwittingly to our lessons in that very same chapel and her young, cherubic face… and somehow the memory of my pupil's wide chocolate eyes quenched the fiery rage that pulsed through my core. The Vicomte, on the other hand, was a very different story— I could fume over his intrusion for the rest of my days and the fire would never smolder to seething ashes. I would always hate him for what he'd stolen from me, but I could not blame him for loving her; however, thoughts of Raoul worked in a circle, bringing me back to Christine, and the mere thought of her would turn menacing thoughts to melancholy ones.

The music, too, eventually died away beneath my sore, cramped hands. I studied the keys absently as the last chord faded into silence— they were tinted a faint, diluted red from the blood that had trickled down my fingers. Sighing deeply, I rose to my feet and went to the lake's edge, dipping my hands in the cool water. A sharp pain sliced through my palms as the water seeped into the thin, raw cuts, and I waited for the ache to dull before washing off the dried blood.

I made the mistake of locking eyes with my reflection on the glassy surface. Three decades of pain shone out from the pale green orbs, barefaced and vulnerable with no one to hide it from. Gone was the venomous, horrifying Phantom of the Opera; I stared down at the broken, insecure man behind the mask. For the moment, I was simply Erik.

A haunting melody began to form in my head as I stared down into those eyes. There were no words yet, but they would come.

Memories that I had believed gone and buried surfaced as I studied my reflection. I remembered my mother… delicate and beautiful. She had always reminded me of a lily. I remembered a doctor and a priest, the names of which had been lost to me over time. I remembered Javert and his whip. And a cage. I remembered the little monkey toy I had made from a burlap sack and some straw— my only friend among the jeering faces of the crowd. I remembered the agony at nights, trying in vain to find a position on the cold ground that wouldn't require me to lay on one of my broken ribs. I remembered my names in those seemingly endless years of my late childhood and early adolescence… "The Devil's Child," "The Living Corpse," "Satan's Spawn," "The Face of Death," and the list continued. I remembered the kind young face of Céline Ethelstan, and the warmth of her hand as she led me into the dark, winding Paris streets and into the sanctuary of the opera house. I remembered exploring the underground labyrinth, my excitement mounting with each newfound passage and trap door. I remembered watching my first opera from high up in the rafters. I remembered my brief infatuation with Céline, and the night I broke my hand punching the wall upon hearing of her engagement to Jacques Giry. I remembered delivering little Meg while her father was away on business and the midwife could not come quickly enough.

And I remembered the night I had first heard Christine's plea for her Angel of Music. Something about her agony, her desperation, struck a familiar chord within me.

The pain upon looking back at that evening and comparing it to the scene I'd just witnessed brought me beyond tears— they would have been an insult to the extremity of my soul's torment.

The words came at last, quiet and pensive and terribly sad.

No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears

I skirted my fingertips along the water's surface, watching as the ripples distorted my reflection. When the lake once again smoothed over I rose to my feet, singing softly to myself as I wandered across the room. Years of pent-up self pity were yearning to break free, and it felt so liberating to finally let them go.

Shamed into solitude
Shunned by the multitude
I learned to listen
In my dark, my heart heard music

I longed to teach the world
Rise up and reach the world
No one would listen
I alone could hear the music

It seemed so odd to be openly admitting what I had denied to myself for the past twenty years. Ever since my early childhood I had understood to some extent that I was a prodigy— talented far beyond my years. I sang before I spoke, both of which came at a premature age. By age two I could speak in fluent sentences, play simple tunes on my mother's piano, feed and clothe myself, and flawlessly echo any song I heard. By three and a half I had taught myself to read bits and pieces of the newspaper; by four and a half I could read every book in the house and play any composition set before me. It irritated me beyond belief that others did not pick up on things as quickly as I did; I wanted everyone to advance to my level of understanding in an instant.

As a young adolescent, left alone to think in my cage at night, I often pondered my future once I managed to escape from the gypsy caravan (for it was not a matter of "if," but "when"). I was sure I could teach myself any trade— it was all a matter of what piqued my interest. I wanted to travel the world and see the spectacles described in my mother's musty, yellowed encyclopedia. I wanted to converse with famous scientists and philosophers, archaeologists and architects. Perhaps they, the most elite thinkers in the world, would be able to see the genius beneath my deformity. More than anything, I wanted to be accepted in the world for more than my face suggested. Unlike the priests proclaimed, I knew my deformity was not a reflection of a twisted soul— rather the flaw that kept me bound to the rest of humanity. There needed to be some part of me that wasn't perfect. Arrogant, yes… but I had forced myself to believe it. It had been the one thought that had kept me breathing. The world could not be right; I was not a monster. And if I was… then what was the point in living?


Then at last, a voice in the gloom
Seemed to cry, "I hear you!
I hear your fears,
Your torment and your tears!"

I studied the portraits mounted on the far wall— perfect replicas of Christine, made with charcoal, paints, lead, and ink. They depicted her doing several tasks that others would have found mundane: daydreaming, reading a book, brushing her hair, practicing her ballet steps. There were pictures of her smiling, others of her looking pensive, still others of her as a child, large brown eyes brimming with tears. Each one captured a single, precious moment in time, making her beauty immortal. I reached out and lifted one of the pictures for closer inspection, brushing my fingertips reverently along each carefully-sketched feature.


She saw my loneliness
Shared in my emptiness
No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears

A blood red rose, bound with black satin ribbon, sat on my workbench, awaiting delivery in the morning for the first rehearsal. I stepped over to it and brought it to my nose, inhaling the faint, familiar scent. A fresh wave of pain crashed over me as I remembered every trembling word that had just passed through Christine's sweet lips. The thought that she actually meant them… that she no longer loved and adored her Angel of Music, made my knees threaten to give out beneath me. Moving slowly around the bench, I collapsed into the red velvet throne I had taken from one of the vaults years ago. My voice grew faint, hardly more than a whisper, as I pressed the soft rose petals to my lips, staring wistfully at the miniature stage replica of Don Juan Triumphant.


No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears

Minutes slipped by as I sat in silence, lost in thought and memory. Finally, with a small nod, I placed the rose on the miniature stage and retired to my bedroom. Tomorrow marked the beginning of a full month of stressful rehearsals— I knew I would be incapable of sleep for quite some time. Deciding to take the opportunity to rest while I still had the chance, I changed into a loose shirt and comfortable trousers. I had not realized how exhausted I was, both mentally and physically, until my head came to rest on the bottom of my coffin. Within moments my eyes grew heavy, and I succumbed to a long, dream-filled sleep.

A/N: I think I'll stop here. Sorry, I know it's short, but I don't want those people who didn't read this chapter to miss out on any more than is necessary. I'll try to update next weekend… but I'm getting my wisdom teeth removed, so I might be in too much pain to form a coherent sentence, let alone an entire chapter. We'll just have to see.

I'm so depressed that I no longer get to reply to your fantastic reviews! –sniffles- I love you all so much. :) I've been blessed with the best reviewers ever. You all brighten my day and make me smile. Feedback, as always, is treasured, good or bad. Thanks so much to those of you who continue to bring a smile to my face and urge me to continue with this story.