Christine broke down when she discovered Box Five to be empty. The shattering of her last hope knocked her from her feet. The thread keeping her rooted snapped. She collapsed, listening as her sobs invaded the silence.

"What do you want me to do?" she cried, her words barely understandable. "Oh, God, tell me what to do." She buried her face in the nearest curtain, "I love him so much. Don't take him away from me."

What was it, this intense...thing...inside of her? Oh, it burned! Pain like nothing she had ever known surged in full glory. Dear God, is this what he felt? Did Erik feel this? It was so vivid that it made her body writhe in pain. She let herself fall completely against the floor, her fingers digging viscously into the carpet.

"Papa," Christine moaned, "Papa, please bring him back. Please. Send me my Angel of Music again. I know who he is now, I do. Please..."

Suddenly Christine shot up. She stared wildly at a chair in the box. He'd sat in that chair. Perhaps it is magic...perhaps it leads to him...

She realized she was losing her grip on reality. Mind reeling, she slumped back onto the floor. No, the only magic had been in the kiss, in him. There was no magic in Box Five. Box... Oh, God it was a box. A horrible, tiny, shrinking box. Christine couldn't breath. Everything was spinning. She needed to get out, but her legs were useless. The taste of tears nauseated her. Frantically, she pulled herself to her feet and stumbled out the door.

Christine began to walk, seeing nothing but a blurr. She turned a corner and found herself staring at a wild-eyed woman wearing a beautiful cloak over a rumpled wedding gown. She blinked and saw clearly the mirror's frame. So that was what the famous Christine DaaÈ looked like in the ocean of desperation. Her reflection frightened her. She stared at it intently, wandering closer to the shimmering glass. Transfixed, she ran her fingers over the image of her cheek. She didn't recognize the crescents under her eyes or the harsh blotches on her face.

But she was really concerned with what was behind the glass.

Are you behind this mirror, too? Angel? "Angel?"

A whispered echo of "Angel" mocked her. It was the final breaking point. Christine felt something new push her pain aside. Rage and frustration vibrating through her, she screamed and began to pummel the glass version of herself. She hated the horrible, ugly mirror; she hated the sound of her meek voice in her ears; and most of all she hated herself. The crack of the glass resounded like music. The throbbing in her hands only urged her on – it almost rivaled the pain in her soul. Horrid, horrid pane of glass! What good have mirrors ever done?

One led you to him...

Trembling and panting, she pulled back. Now she saw one hundred versions of herself instead of just one. She stared in disbelief at her bloody hands. What had she just done? What was happening to her?

She jumped at a sudden noise. Distant voices were quickly becoming less distant. Christine realized that her outburst must have been a noisy one. Terrified, she turned and ran. It occurred to her that if they only saw the cloak, they may shoot on the spot. The thought pleased her in a way. Dying didn't seem so horrible at the moment. What could be worse than knowing the man you love was right in front of you and you let him vanish? She felt like Juliet. Didn't she kill herself in the end because she had been separated from her one true love? Christine understood what she once thought had been rash and insane. Perhaps it was still that. Perhaps she didn't care.

Christine's movements became deliberate. She was headed towards the roof, just as she had with Raoul so long ago. Had it been six – seven months? It felt like decades. Now the roof held a promise again. The night air could help her regain her head, help her breathe. Or if not, it was the opportune place to play Juliet.

Geez, they're all suicidal, aren't they? Well, it's phiction - gimme a break!