Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux and Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. I am a teenage girl with too much time on her hands. See the difference?

A/N: This is how I would have liked "Phantom of the Opera" to end (Not to say the original ending was bad, not at all, I loved it! This is just an alternate ending.). Oh, and there will be no E/C in this. I DESPISE E/C!!!

I wander in my own home. That is, if you can even call this a home. It is a place of residence, however, so is a prison. Yes, that is what this is: a prison. Every piece of furniture suggests death. Why not? I am no longer a man, with emotions and personalities and complexities. I think I am now more like the robed figure of Death, sliding silently through the halls of the Opera, incapable of Life, of Thought, of Feeling. Oh yes, I have become what all the little ballet rats see me as. Does that make it true? Isn't reality simply perception?

She was gone. I had let her go. Was that a twinge of pain in my chest? No, ghosts cannot feel. It must be death starting on me. I smile.

I understand her decision. What Venus would remain true to a Vulcan when an Adonis was there?

Another twinge of pain. Perhaps I am more of a man than I think.

I bring my fingers to my lips, where she had kissed me. How sweet it had been. Was that a tear? Oh dear Heavenly Father, I was crying. Sobbing like a babe, actually. Rather out of character for me. I'm on the floor? How on earth did I get down here? Must have plopped down like a child. People don't tend to notice these things when their entire world is collapsing.

Footsteps awaken me from my reverie, pulling me from the Charybdis of my thoughts. A familiar voice.

"Angel!" Quieter. "Phantom?"

"Neither. Erik."

The owner of the footsteps enters. The Vicomte, his hair and clothes still damp from his little dip in my lake, his clear blue eyes bright. Somehow, I restrained myself from strangling the little bastard with my own two hands, never mind the Punjab. I gesture graciously toward a chair and bow mockingly.

"Oh, Monsieur, how nice of you to visit. Please, do have a seat."

He remains standing.

"No? All right then, how about some tea?"

He shakes his head.

"Anything else I can give you? Crumpets? Jam?"

A slightly bewildered expression on the fool's face. The dam holding my anger breaks and I cross the room and pin him up against the wall.

"How about Christine?" I snarl. "Oh wait a moment, you already have her."

I slam him against the wall and stalk back to a corner.

"Come to gloat, Monsieur?" My voice breaks at this, barely masking the sobs that wracked my chest moments before.

Again, the Vicomte shakes his head.

"Come to put me out of my misery, then? Don't mistake me Monsieur, you'd be doing me a favor!" Once more I cross the room in swift strides to where he is, this time cornering him between one badly organized bookshelf and myself.

"You'd be doing the whole world a favor." I hiss. "I promise you, Monsieur, I can die, I am no greater than you! Go on, rid the world of this monster! For the common good!"

The common good. The comfort of society. I have lived a cursed life alone because society condemns those who are deemed 'unfit to look at'. My life in exchange for another living in blissful ignorance. Something to ponder while I die.

I have stopped shouting at the man, I am breathing hard, while he is trembling like a dead leaf from my attack. He shakes his head once more. That habit of his irritates me. Is he too thick to string two words together? Or is he so terrified of me that I render him speechless?

Is he opening his mouth? Praise the Lord.

"I...I came to thank you, Monsieur."

Well, that makes me pause.

I wasn't expecting that.

"Is this a jest?"

"No jest, Monsieur. You love Christine and yet you gave her to me. For that I owe you everything."

He extends his hand. He couldn't possibly, no, I must have heard wrong.

"All I ask is peace between us."

His voice rings in my ears. I hear a rushing sound. This boy will drive me mad! Or, more mad than I must be already. Now I am the one staring dumbly, for once without a word or witty retort. I stand still as a statue. He slowly withdraws his hand.

"As you wish, Monsieur." He sounds hurt. Why should he be in pain? He got what he wanted! Now he seeks friendship?

The Vicomte turns and begins to make his way out. It is then that I feel it.

I feel as if all the air I had in my lungs has been ripped away. My knees grow weak, my head aches, the room spins. I have the sensation of falling, falling in slow motion. I try to gasp for breath, but the air that comes is thin and not enough to support me. I suddenly feel strong arms catch me.

The Vicomte.

"What is it? What is wrong?" He looks frightened. I must remind myself that though he is my rival, he is still a child.

"I'm dying." His face fills with horror. What is it with the young and fearing death? Lying here in his arms, all pain seems to slip away, and I have enough air. All I feel is an incredible sleepiness. I want to rest. But not yet. There is something I must do.

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

I clasp his hand in both of mine. "God bless you and your wife, Monsieur."

"Thank you, Monsieur!"

"Erik. My name is Erik. We are friends now, you may call me by my Christen name." My eyelids feel heavy. Oh, so heavy.

"Yes Erik. Thank you, Erik."

I am slipping away. I gaze into his clear blue eyes with my own yellow ones. His are the eyes of an angel, mine burn with the fire of Satan himself.

"Take care of her." I say, hot tears struggling against my eyes. "She is an angel."

"I promise, Erik. No harm will ever come to Christine."

I cannot stay awake much longer. I bring his pale, strong, perfectly shaped hands to my scarred lips.

A final word before I pass from this world. "Peace."