Chapter Three – In the Heart's Empty Chambers

Christine

From the desk of Le Vicomtesse de Chagny

My dearest Raoul,

There are some things better left unsaid in a marriage, and now it is too late to inform you of any of them. I can only hope that you receive this letter from a better place.

I do not deny that I love you with all of my heart, mind, body, and soul. I have loved you since the moment I met you all of those years ago. Little Lotte, you called me, Little Lotte your love. You were my love too, the more mature and capable one of the two of us, the one who'd protect me when we were told off for running amuck.

When we were reunited four years ago, I felt like the whole world was at peace, that I'd finally found someone who would change my life for the better. But you were condemned by my love for music. You were condemned to never have peace in our love.

Oh, Raoul, I love you more than anything on God's earth! But I always felt that there was something missing, something even you could not rectify. Remember that day when I said I was going to spend time with Amanda and Lydia? I never went. I went to Confessional, Raoul, because my mind was filling itself with thoughts of someone other than you, someone you would hate to know was in your wife's mind. I thought of him, Raoul. I thought of the man who made our lives a hell.

I swore to Father Daniel that I would not think of him any longer, that I would rid my thoughts of him permanently. It is the first time I've written anything to do with him in nearly two years, and after I deliver this I suppose I must return to the Confessional, rid myself of this sin I've written to you Raoul, do not think that I love him, for I do not. I love you. I always have. But I am tormented by him, and sometimes during the night I thought that maybe I wanted him there with me, but I woke up and it was you. I was grateful it wasn't a man with blood on his hands, a man who couldn't offer me a good life. It was you, and I was just overjoyed at that notion.

Raoul, please forgive me for thinking of him even though I love you so. I do, Raoul, I love you. But there are some things I knew he could offer me that you could not, if not love. I never felt that my music was supported by you or anyone in your family. When I sang to you before you passed away, it was the first melody to cross my lips since that fateful night in the catacombs. As well, there was no passion in our marriage. We love each other, Raoul, this I know, but where was the fire? Where was the lust? There was none.

I miss you with all of my heart, Raoul, and if I could do these past years over I would. I swear on all that is good that I would retry it. But I cannot. Therefore, my only hope is that you can find it in yourself to forgive these most unnecessary sins on my part. I love you.

Eternally yours,

Little Lotte

Erik

My darling Christine,

Why must you hide from me? Are you afraid that you will disgust your husband in heaven if he knew you were thinking of me? Don't fear that, mon ange, don't fear that. Christine, you and I both know that your vicomte was overprotective of you. He's dead now. Let it go! I wish there was more I could say to you now, but I suppose you'll never receive this anyway.

-E. O.G.

God damn it! She doesn't even know my name! I'll always be to her the Angel of Music, the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost. Never will my beautiful angel call me by my name.

In anguish I throw the letter, the ink still drying, to the floor, along with many sheets of music I've been working on. I bury my face in my hands, and I sense blood on my right one from rough contact with the edge of my mask. Damn thing. Every day I wish I was not born this way. Every day I wish things were different, that I am not the murder I am today. But that can never be. I am the infamous Opera Ghost. I have a reputation to maintain.

"Why did you leave me here?" I shout angrily into the lair. "Why?" He's dead now, that meddlesome vicomte. Why is Christine still hiding like she's ashamed? You fool. You should never have gone to Raoul's grave if you still hold things against him. His soul doesn't need your hypocrisy. For the first time in years, nearly four years, to be exact, I find myself crying.

Gently, I pry the mask from my face, the white of it stained red with the blood of my hand, wet with my tears. Out of my desk, I draw a small mirror, the only one left in my lair. It is cracked, of course, in many places, but that does not bother me. I am as broken as it is. Slowly I raise it to my face, looking into it.

Good Lord, what have I become? My eyes, both of them, not just the normal one, have deep bags under them, much like Christine's. The once-intriguing green orbs have turned dull, making me look ever-more the ghost. And my disfigurement…God, no wonder she left me. What woman could ever really feel for this face? Maybe pity, but not love.

I touch my lips, remembering how she'd kissed me. Her tiny little lips left a burning mark on mine, and it still hurts me. That kiss wasn't love. That kiss was sheer and utter pity and pleading. It was nothing that I should value. But it was Christine, the last memory I have of her. The shattered soul she is now isn't my beautiful little angel, my Prima Donna. She's just like every other widow, afraid of dishonoring their dead husbands.

Not bothering to wipe the blood from my face and discarded mask, I pick the letter and music up from the floor. The ink on the letter is smudgy, but it doesn't matter, not in the slightest. I take it in my hands and, not bothering to seal it, walk over to the chest by my large bed. Drawing the key from under the mattress, I open it and look inside.

Nearly four years worth of letters lie in a pile in the chest, all unsealed but for a few, but all with the same name on them: Christine. I'll never show them to her, though I'd hoped I would for split seconds when I found out her vicomte had passed on. To think that I'd hoped she'd take me back! There is no fool like an old fool, I suppose. I press my lips gently to the piece of parchment in my hands before tossing it on the pile with the rest of them. That's all I am to her, another thing in her past, just another piece of parchment on the pile.