Episode

I am worthless.

I have known this since my earliest memories, since the mask was first placed upon my mangled visage. Since Madeline (for I dare not ever call you Mother...not even now) warned me not to make my presence known about her home, but remain unseen.

Father Claude says God makes no mistakes, but he did with you Erik! He did with you! There is no peace with you here! You with that mangled face and magic voice! Oh yes Erik- I hear the trickery you are trying on me! You shall cease it at once! If I have to seal your mouth shut with needle and thread I will not hear any more of that voice! Do you understand me?

I shake my head to clear her voice. To remove the memory is impossible, for it is well kept in my worthless death's head.

It is this face that keeps me from rushing into the rehearsal rooms to shout at the chorus, the dancers, the leads that they are ruining my masterpiece. These fools who call themselves musicians, dancers, and artists obviously can't read the notes on the page, for the number of missed pitches and rhythms are quickly becoming too numerable to count! I tire of hearing mistake after mistake, but these rehearsals are keeping Christine within the walls of the Opera during the day.

Damn it all!

I should throw the score off the roof of the Opera. (And several of the musicians with it.)

But Christine- it must be learned, it must be performed, it must be.

For it will be the only thing to bring you back to me.

I am worthless.

I am death on the outside, but now the wanting of you is eating me alive on the inside.

I am worthless.

I am not your handsome, golden boy, rich in material wealth and human adoration. But Christine- I am your soul, for all that you try to deny it. You may smile and embrace him but I see you looking. Glancing up and around. Wondering if every mirror you pass (and there are so many in the Opera my dear) contains me behind it. I hear you talking to little Giry, so brave and confident. But you don't fool me!

Your poor Erik sees the doubt in your eyes, the fretting tightness of your smile.

Who are you lying to the most Christine? Him? Me? Yourself?

I know your lies well, yet love you still. How you promised your poor Erik that you weren't afraid of his face...that only his anger frightened you...that his genius outweighed any physical ugliness. You promised to come back Christine- you promised!

But you ran to that boy instead! Crying of darkness, hideousness, and hands that smelt of Death! Nothing of our music! Nothing of our...our...music...nothing

It does not matter now. It will not be much longer.

Your angel will return and we will be parted nevermore.