A/N: Okay, so I couldn't think of anything new to write but I really wanted to upload something. I wrote this last summer, I think. I rewrote Erik's death, and had this as my epilogue. It just sounded funny, because there's Kay reference in this but not in the original story, so I took it out. I kept it written down, though, for some reason that I don't know, and decided to post it with an incredibly long, irritating and pointless author's note.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own any form of the Phantom of the Opera. Sadly.

From head to toe and back again, he was a tall, mysterious man. Painfully thin, taller than most, and with all his hopes, tears and fears locked in a thin white mask.

Erik was, quite frankly, a murderer.

Having killed since he was thirteen years of age, he was quite experienced in his craft, his faithful Punjab Lasso never leaving its hiding spot in his cloak. His unusually long fingers were quite capable of stealing the breath from a man's lungs and making sure it never returned. But these fingers…These murdering, vile fingers could do more than kill.

Brushing away tears, playing various forms of instruments, composing, reaching for a woman who would never return, and hiding his face when it was bare, these hands served many purposes. At the current moment, they are hiding his now dry tears from the world.

His voice, as amazing and angelic as it was, had earned him many beatings as a child. His mother was, quite frankly, cruel. His beautiful tenor voice was heard by very few, most of whom are now dead. A voice that would never be heard by the world…Never given the appreciation it deserved.

His burning, threatening eyes had shed tears, followed an unsuspecting soubrette, seemingly filled with fire before his dying victim's eyes, and closed in an attempt to hide from the world. At the current moment, they are dry and gazing blankly ahead of him.

He had worn a mask from the day of his birth, and has been terrified of mirrors since his fifth birthday…The day he saw his naked face. This mask had been torn from his face for various reasons, nearly all of them ending with at least one person dead. He had been called a monster since his first breath, shunned and shamed from his first cry. He had learned to live depending on no one but himself.

His heart had been torn into pieces seeing those few he loved die before his eyes, all because of his face. Something he couldn't change. He was always ridiculed, always praying to die before the next time he would have to show his face. He could not stand the sight of women nearly fainting, children screaming and clinging to their mother's skirts, his vile captor chuckling as Erik watched helplessly. At the current moment, his heart had no will to continue beating.

His muscular legs had carried him out of many troublesome situations and into another. He was always kept fit from leaping among the catwalks of the Opera House. They had carried him to the mirror he gazed through at his hopeless love, praying she would be able to see his heart instead of his face as he saw her instead of the back of the mirror. At the current moment, his legs lay stiff and unmoving on the bed in front of him.

Erik, quite frankly, is dead.

A/N: Yeah, I know, it's annoying, pointless, and moronic. But my friend liked it, so I dared to post it here. If you liked it, hated it, or even didn't really care, please review it and tell me how to fix it. I know, I'm a horrible writer and have butchered Leroux's fabulous work, so you don't have to tell me that.