Paining- Erik and Christine
Disclaimer- I do not own any rights to the Phantom of the Opera nor to the references based off of Phantom, by Susan Kay.
Summary- Just a reflection from Erik's POV, something randomly written.
By- Li Young
The bottomless rage wasn't there anymore. The fuel to defy the very world that didn't want me was gone with the tide of older age, and I had come to an understanding that being left alone, veiling myself in my solitude, was what really made me happy. Silence didn't have words that were razor sharp and able to cut through my soul, and shadows didn't show me the glamour of what I couldn't ever possess. In this blackness as dark as my life, the only person left to hurt me was myself, and the regret and self-hatred which were my only companions were enough entertainment to keep my restless mind from growing tired.
So this tomb I erected around me, my last and final display of my genius was the end of my existence and trial in the world that spat and walked upon me. This memorial of a ghost was my grave, and that thought and the peace that trailed after it made my life pass in intervals of years I hardly recognized as time. In this madness of inspiration and determination, I was at last content in my life. Lost in my work, I was tranquil with my labor and was pushed to the breaking point by the goal I perceived in my mind.
This castle, this design of my inner turmoil and rage wrapped in a labyrinth as deep as my soul; the Paris Opera House.
By finishing this masterpiece, I would finally be at peace and be happy as I was. The need for such a life was the fuel that replaced the need for sleep and appetite.
After so much work the war in Paris almost blew my dream apart, but the Opera, like my determination, preserved, and after waiting so long and working so hard, it was complete; my home, my solstice, and my grave.
It had been perfect, marred only by the recollection of the reason I hid from the humanity I had so long ago set myself apart from. It didn't hurt to leave pitiful mankind behind, but I felt a sense of loss, a sense of defeat with the triumph that proved to be short-lived, and unfulfilled.
And then Christine Daaé sang my world apart.
Until her voice had entered my life I hadn't realized how weak the threads of my existence were sown together. How perfect and how fragile I had pieced my existence, a path that no life was ever meant to walk, from outline built to structure. No, the Opera had not been my greatest triumph, my surreal dream of a life was. Not that I lived this way by choice, my appearance had created much of how I lived, but I had chosen to live what was given to me, I had chosen to give up. Not because it didn't matter to me, but because I had grown weary and lost the spirit to fight for a change that would not ever be seen by my eyes, or felt by my heart.
My greatest masterpiece was the lie I chose to live and had no choice but to accept.
She made me realize… She made me understand… Without seeing or knowing, she became the piece of my life that had been missing.
Her voice, so young and so dead, like my face, like my body, covering the beautiful mystery and soul underneath. She was like me, and yet she was beautiful, more tragic than any ugliness the world could ever produce. To have such beauty and to find nothing but sadness, to know happiness once and to never be able to find it again; it was a life I could not imagine to live, and it was the only thing I ever wanted.
But I could save her, I lead myself to believe this. Save her, guide her, show her that her tragedy wasn't meant to be! And my voice, her faith made her believe in me, love me, call me an angel, and I was happy, for the first time ever, I was happy. The darkness burned because it was no longer my home. No, her voice was my home, her beauty was my hope.
And now the choice that was at hand, the moment where she stares at me with such trust, such unconditional love from one side of a mirror, one side of a universe so different, yet so close to me.
I can reach out and touch the barrier, the glass with my fingertips, and have heaven right there and yet unable to be taken.
I want her like I have never wanted anything in the world. Before, I would steal and take what I thought the world owed to me, debt paid through the harsh fate I was given. I demanded on the pains and sorrows that scarred my years of living for what I thought I had a right too. Jewels, money, fancy things that caught my eye, beauty that I wanted for myself. I had taken it all without guilt, yet without satisfaction.
But to have her would satisfy me. Her love would complete me.
Or destroy me.
To lead her into my world, my mind, my soul? To give her key to my own destruction? Murder would be blamed on suicide by the angels, and the Devil would shun me from the gates of Hell. I'd die between, like always, lingering just barely able to reach nowhere. Purgatory seemed like a greater kind of hell then ever tasting Satan's fire.
Yet if she didn't destroy me, if I lived until I died by her side…
I wouldn't care if I lingered… I would have had heaven for a moment enough to last a life time.
So taking her hand, flesh to flesh, through a magic mirror that was the last barrier to her defense and my longing. Come to me, my angel, and be my salvation or my damnation. Whichever, I choose to give you what I am, I choose to show you what you have made me in your beautiful hypnotized eyes.
Beautiful, you've made me.
And now I give you the choice; Can this beauty that you've given me in your mind blind enough to overcome the ugly truth?
Will you murder the searching soul that held onto yours for peace?
Or will I bleed the rest of what is left inside of me away so you can have the freedom I never had. Freedom to sparkle the world instead of my darkness with grace and passion I helped you find.