Disclaimer: We don't need to tell you this, but you know, it's just here. We don't own 'Phantom of the Opera', though we would like to. That belongs to Gaston Leroux and the rest of the wonderful (or not so wonderful… coughcoughFORSYTHEcoughcough…) geniuses who have brought this story to life. Don't bother suing us; we don't make a penny off this.
Summary: There's a point when obsession can go a bit too far...
His Biggest Fan: by Lady Death & L'Ange de Folie
This was originally submitted in the Siren of Averne's Second Morbidity Writing Contest.
She watched him every night.
That man in the mask -- her angel of music…
Every night, he crept out of an out-of-the-way door hidden unassumingly in an alley beside the theatre and took a long walk through the essentially empty streets. He slipped quietly and politely through the small crowds, always sticking to the darker side of the street as he navigated the city. She would watch him leave, marveling at how he could manage to brave society in such a state.
Always so inconspicuous and always so unnoticed… unnoticed by all, except for her.
Every night she followed him - unseen - feeling as if her heart would burst from the strength of her unimaginable feelings for him and also for the miserable knowledge of the pain that she knew he was forced to endure at night – every night.
She never saw where he went, nor did she particularly want to. He deserved that much from her. Still, she liked to imagine what he did when he left. Her favorite fantasy was that he was simply drawn from the stuffy theatre to the night and the fresh air, moving about with no particular destination in mind -- that no one could see his face and he was truly like everyone else, just as he always wanted to be. She hoped these walks were at least some sole source of comfort in this unending cold and lonely existence that never seemed to end for him.
She thought about him this way a lot, or at least ever since that winter so many years ago now when her father had gifted the family with tickets to a new musical production.
Her little eyes had opened up with wonder and terrible fear as she had seen him spit curses at his ungrateful – that undeserving – protégé; the gilt, magnificent crystal chandelier crashing to the stage as the will his commanding voice. Everything preceding and following that performance was a distant haze of light, sound, and glorious music, as if erased by an opiate dream.
That night had changed her life forever.
Since that fateful, but welcome event, she had devoted herself to finding out everything she could about Him and his life and the horrible mistreatments and abuses he had suffered all throughout it. She scorned the mother who had neglected him, the gypsies who had used him, and finally - and most especially - she hated and loathed that woman - that horrible, evil wench! - who had scorned him and finally abandoned him.
She was the one who had left her angel alone to die among an angry mob who would have beaten him to death without any qualm. But her clever angel had lived and lived every night, but now with only the empty streets as his remaining solace in an equally empty existence.
Tonight, hiding in the shadows outside the alley, the girl waited as always.
But, tonight, she wasn't here for her angel.
At last Christine Daaé – or the slut, as he preferred to call her -- finally emerged from the same door. It took her long enough. The little harlot must have been flirting with her accomplice. Daaé had wrapped herself in a blue coat to guard against the cool night air, and the girl followed.
She had planned this night down to the smallest detail. Yes, first, cross the street at a safe distance behind her like that, yes, yes, keeping to the shadows. The sounds of nearby traffic would drown out her footsteps as she got closer, and so she wouldn't have to worry about that. Now, wait until the little whore got to that door – yes, yes, like that! – and then, she would call out to her.
Her father's handgun and her mother's kitchen knife were tucked neatly in her pocket.
The former was to silence her quickly, and the latter to silence her forever.
She would make her pay for what she had done to the angel! Pay for leading him on like that, pretending she loved him, only to forsake him and run off with that idiot pretty-boy. Oh, she would make her pay for the misery and pain she put him through night after night, and in doing this ensanguined deed she would prove to her angel that there was at least one person in this heartless world who loved him; one person who could see him for the beautiful man he truly was.
It was her job after all, as she had told him again and again, in letter after letter...
She was his biggest fan.
- - -
"Phantom" Star Slain
Manhattan, NY - The body of Nicole Scovett, 27, was discovered outside her apartment early this morning. The popular star of Andrew Lloyd Webber's world-famous "Phantom of the Opera" had been shot twice and her throat brutally slashed by an unknown assailant. Scovett, a mother of one, was returning home from a performance when she was presumably attacked according to the coroner's report. Police have no suspects at this time but due to reports of stalking recently lodged by "Phantom" co-star Tom Aden, they are currently investigating the possibility that the crime was committed by a disgruntled fan….
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