This is my first attempt at one shot stories. I hope that you'll enjoy it.

It is sort of a continuation to the ending, after the mob entered Erik's lair.

disclaimer: I do not own the phantom of the opera. (I wish…LOL)

Who am I?

The mob, had entered his lair, and destroyed most everything in it, before leaving. All his hard work was reduced to nothing, and Erik's heart literally ached at the sight. It seemed as though life would never show him any mercy or compassion.

He silently stood there, tall and still, among the ruins of what was once his lair, looking at the destruction around him, feeling the destruction inside of him.

Erik caught his reflection in one of the broken mirrors. He gazed upon his broken self for what seemed like an eternity. He just stared and stared at his deformed face, and tired soul.

He remembered everything…everything; his tormented childhood, his cruel lonely existence, and just when he had dared to hope, Christine had shattered what was left of his heart. Rage crept into his soul again, breathing its burning fire into his dying self.

They may have destroyed his dreams, his soul, and his heart, but there was one thing he would not let them destroy, his will.

Erik's sad gaze, suddenly turned into a fierce look, as he tore his eyes from the mirror, and caught sight of his mask resting on the floor, among the ruins.

He bent down, and carefully, picked it up. For a few moments, his long, thin fingers, delicately traced the mask's white smooth surface. A small menacing smirk appeared on his lips, as his sight shifted from the mask back to his reflection.

With one last piercing look at the mirror, he brought his mask up to his face, and wore it again.

Who am I?

I am a shadow, and yet I am made of flesh and blood.

I am a ghost, and yet I have a heart.

I am a monster, and yet I have a soul.

I am an angel, and yet I've got no wings.

I am the phantom, and yet I am no spirit.

I am a man, and yet I am not.

I am red death, and yet I still breathe life.

I am a mask, and yet I have a face.

I am a voice, and yet I am an echo.

I am hate, and yet I am love.

I am numb, and yet I feel pain.

I am the music of the night, and yet it never really was.

I am mad, and yet I am sane.

I am sane, and yet I am mad.

I am the dark, and yet I ache for the light.

I am torment, and yet I dream of peace.

I am solitude, and yet I'm dying of loneliness.

I am Don Juan triumphant, and yet I am the broken man.

I am the Punjab lasso, and yet I am the red rose.

I am the fire, and yet I am the ice.

I am the person, and yet I am the reflection.

I can be your deepest joy, your most wonderful dream.

And I can be your cruelest pain, and your worst nightmare.

I can show you heaven, and I can show you hell.

I can be your savior, and I can be your tormentor.

I can be your captor, and I can be your liberator.

I can be anything you want me to be, and everything you don't want me to be.

With the Punjab lasso in one black gloved hand, and the red rose in the other, Erik turned around, his cape swirling behind him, as he walked through the same mirror passage way, he had walked through, only a few hours ago. But this time, Erik did not walk through the passage way, as a broken man, but as a strong, cold, revengeful being.

Who am I?

I am the Phantom of the Opera.

You thought you had killed me, you thought you had destroyed me completely, but you forget that phantoms don't die.