Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.
THE BEAUTY OF A ROSE
A rose lay on the ground. Not a normal rose, but a rose with a black ribbon tied around it. No one could say how it got there, for no one knew. It was simple, yet glorious. Absolutely pure and wonderful.
It's owner was not so. Nor did he even own it anymore. He gave it away.
The receiver was a woman.
He likened her unto the rose, simple and beautiful. The way her hair cascaded down her shoulders, her slim build, the soft eyes that inhabited the blemish-free face. . . . And yet whenever the eyes looked upon him, they filled with fear, sadness, disgust, rejection – all the emotions that he dreaded so, still it could not be helped.
For who could love a monster like the giver of the rose, one who had never had such beauty as she possessed, one who had never even had a normal complexion. . . .
He was a monster, inside and out. He had taken lives in order to keep his own, but did he even want it anymore? She could – no, would – never love him, not only because of his face, but the crimes he had committed as well.
But for some reason he would not give up hope, trying to make her love him, though he would never succeed, and would wallow in misery forever.
But why wait until the end of forever? He could end it now, end it with the knife in his very hand –
And yet, he couldn't.
He tried, but he could not manage it. The world needed his contribution, someday they would want his music. It would be many years, he might not even be alive by then.
But he would learn to be lonely. He could live without feelings.
After all, he was the Phantom of the Opera.