Raoul struggles to climb the back stairs. Despite his youth, he is soft and out of shape, his legs are lead. Hands are scabbed and starting to bruise from his struggles with Christine. His side sore where she kicked him, head throbbing with a dull ache. The wound that Adele stitched up is secure, there is no new bleeding, but stings nonetheless. His stamina exhausted, he collapses, sobbing on the second floor landing.

"My God, what have I done?"

"You went mad," says a voice, a beautiful male voice. His voice. How could such an ugly face produce such a glorious sound?

Is it really his voice? Foolish question. Of course, it is.

"I hear you, Phantom monster of the Opera," Raoul cries out. "Come, kill me" he demands. "As you said – put everyone out of their misery." He pulls himself to a sitting position. "Come, kill me. Please. Come. And. Kill me." His body is wracked with sobs.

"I have no desire to kill you. Nor do I wish you dead anymore," Erik states, appearing just down the stairs from where Raoul sits.

Raoul jumps at the sight of the masked man. "Then help me to the roof, so I can throw myself off," Raoul pleads. "You hate me, so help me to do that at least."

"Actually, I do not hate you." Erik sits down next to him on the stairs. "Hate requires passion. Trust me when I say I could have killed you any number of times less dangerous for me. Taking your life now would have me jailed. Besides, falling from the roof would not guarantee your demise. It is all very romantic, but not terribly practical."

"What am I to do?" Raoul asks. "I love her. I thought she loved me. I thought I was saving her from you. How could she want you?"

"I have asked myself the same thing many times during this most extraordinary day."

"Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?" Raoul asks.

"Even last night when I thought Christine was gone, I wanted to die, but would not kill myself. I would have been content to have the mob beat me to death, but I could not take my own life.

Only one time did I consider that ignoble deed. I was thirteen."

The odd group at the gypsy camp had become a family of sorts. Once he gained a modicum of freedom and respect, if you could call it that, it was not horrible.

Life became a routine like any other. The glaring eyes and screams of the women who saw him in his cage were no longer a concern. He had become inured to the hatred. Even at his young age, he recognized that he was a mirror for the self-hatred most people walk around with.

One night there was a wedding – colorful costumes, particularly that of the bride - her gown rivaled something royalty would wear – loud music and an abundance of inebriants. Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves.

This would never be a part of his life, he realized. The unfettered happiness being exhibited was for others, companionship was for others. These simple normal expressions of human life were not available to him. Even these vulgar, vile gypsies could know the joys his face denied him. Inside he was human just as everyone else. But that dimension was never recognized.

Bearing the emptiness of that future felt impossible.

"I lived with gypsies and stole some poison from the wise woman's tent when everyone else was occupied with their pleasures. As I opened the bottle of the potent liquid and prepared to ingest it, my mind spit forth a memory of a priest who believed my soul was inhabited by devils and would exorcise them. Of course, the only devils damning me were those in the hearts of the people who blamed me for a sin I had not committed. He told me suicide and murder were equal in the eyes of God. I would suffer alone for all eternity if I took my own life. Murder could be confessed and atoned. There was no atonement for self-murder.

"My options were: be alone for a lifetime or for eternity. I chose a lifetime. At least I was not a cripple or, worse, stupid, or both. I could use my cursed face, my music and my other gifts to earn money and provide for myself.

"I had hoped to escape the camp through my death, but as fate would have it, I would actually leave it through the death of another. My keeper was drunk and found me outside of my tent against his orders. My punishment would be his taking pleasure in my body. His punishment was dying by my hand.

"So, you were correct in calling me a murderer."

"That was not murder, you were protecting yourself. Any court of law…"

Erik holds up his hand. "You know nothing of the laws of that world."

"I am sorry," Raoul says.

"For what?"

"For what you suffered. For my being a shallow prig," he admits. "My brother raised me to have scruples and to be compassionate."

"Yet you possess neither quality," Erik responds coolly.

Raoul is taken aback. He wonders if, perhaps, he has too easily accepted Erik's civility, if that is indeed what it this is. "What do you mean?"

"In all the hullabaloo that you created in your desire to show which? Scruples or compassion – for whom, for what? You appear to have forgotten the first time you attempted to take my life."

Raoul sensed someone watching him from the window. That was impossible, it must be a cat, no man could climb to the first floor balcony. The house had been built to prevent just that sort of intrusion.

Having stripped down to his drawers, the possibility of someone observing him was particularly abhorrent. His Lefaucheux revolver sat on his nightstand. Grabbing the gun, he drew back the curtains, coming face to face with Erik.

The masked man quickly jumped down from the balcony – walking casually down the street. Unafraid, despite the presence of the weapon.

"Put that away before you hurt someone," the voice whispered in his ear.

Enraged and without thinking, Raoul pulled the trigger. Erik's back was to him. He did not care. Good sportsmanship and honor did not extend to ghosts. Did the foul beast flinch? He was not certain. One…two more shots. But the dark figure just continued walking, disappearing into the night.

"Thankfully, your aim was bad," Erik says. "You did graze me with the first bullet – damaged my favorite cloak – the other two went wide."

"Dear, God. I had been drinking with friends, disconsolate over Christine. Then you appeared."

"You shot when my back was to you," Erik continues. "I was less than human to you then, am I more a man now? It appears not. You told the police to shoot to kill – an unarmed man who harmed no one."

"What do you want?" Raoul asks nervously. There is nowhere to run, even if he had the strength. Despite the age difference, he knew that he was no match for Erik.

"Nothing," Erik responds. "My intention was to simply remind you. You are one of many who want to do good, but only destroy those whom they believe they are helping – like my friend the priest."

"I do love Christine," he insists. "I do not know what came over me."

"You believed you knew better than she what she wanted."

"You loved her enough to let her go."

"Yes." It was more than that, though – he discovered his soul – but the boy need not know that.

"I did not. I was going to kill both of us," he sighs. "That is not love."

"No."

"What am I to do?"

"I neither know nor care."