AN: Hello all! I'm LeFantomeRomance, or as I'm known by my friends, Leffie LeFan. Those who know me would be appaulled at me writing Love Never Dies fanfiction, but this is purley for fun (hehe, Raoul's suicide, fun!), and in no way makes me love LND more than I already do now (which is very little). In fact, I despise the story. It drives me insane. But some of the music is good, the costumes are good, the staging is good, Ramin Karimloo is God. Need I say more?

The story just came to me on a whim. It originally involved Leroux Raoul being handed a gun by Daroga when they went down to Erik's lair... But I just couldn't bring myself to write that, and I don't know why. But I still wanted a fanfiction that had to do with Raoul and a gun. So here it is! ^^ Morbid, it may be, but dull it ain't!

Enjoy! T rating just to be safe, as there really isn't actual violence.


*Toccata and Fugue plays in the background* MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Raoul hesitated. No, hesitated wasn't the word. He was struck down with fear. The man standing before him terrified him. Was this going to be his end? Being murdered by a ghost? That'd sure be something to tell the grandchildren. Christine would live on with this man... Oh, God, what if she never knew? What if no one told her the man she let blind her into a sick relationship was the killer of her drunken husband?

How could this happen? How could he LET this happen? Oh, he was drunk, that's why. He was barely coherent. But he knew that voice. He knew that sneer... That glare that pierced his soul. The way he was stalking toward him with vengence plastered in his eyes was all too familiar.

What's this? A deal? That horrid spectre was bargaining with him?

Ah... This could be profitable. He KNEW he could get Christine to run away with him... Just work that old charm... No... No, she wouldn't care. She had had enough of him. She wanted THIS. This... rotting corpse...

This rotting corpse made him question himself... His... his son... it couldn't be... Could it? Oh, he wouldn't put it past Christine, now... Maybe another time... long ago... he could trust her...

What did she ever see in him... In either of them? Oh, he would take this deal, simply because he needed the money. If... if she chose this devil... then he would walk away... He wanted her to be happy.

But he'd be damned if he didn't fight to bring her happines!

He'd lost.

Raoul had lost everything. Money. Home. Dignity. Child... Wife.

How could he have been so foolish? His wife was BORN to sing. How could she refuse! He had begged her, pleaded with her, poured his heart out to her. But it was not to be. She wanted that monster. That man who... who fathered their child? How could she betray him like this? How could she have lied to him, all these years. Ten. Years.

He left soon after she began singing. He hailed a hansom and drove it back to the hotel to gather what little things he had left. A few clothes... His old Navy sword... There was nothing.

Nothing but this broken heart and a dying body...

Oh yes, he was dying... Slowly but surely... His brandy took years away from this life of his. It would only be a matter of time before the drink consumed the drinker.

Now he had no one to be there for him... No one to help him... He could always go back to France. In fact that's what he'd do... He would be buried next to his murdered brother, Philipe. He would be murdered too. Just by a different killer. A silent killer.

Oh, God... What had he done?

Screaming. Shouting. What was that damned noise? Wasn't it supposed to be cheerful in Coney Island's streets?

He looked out of the carriage. Christine would have finished her performance by now. She would read the note he left her... Along with his heart.

"Little Lotte let her mind wander..." he mused. Tears. These weren't supposed to be there. He was a man... A man who was crying...

The people wouldn't stop screaming.

"GUSTAVE! GUSTAVE! He's not here!"

That certainly got his attention.

Not only was it his wife's voice, but his son's name. His eyes widened. "Driver!" He shouted. "Follow the woman in pink!" He pointed to his wife, running to the pier with that... THING.

"Hey, man, there's about a hundred people here! I can't just break through traffic!"

"Do it! Or I'll have your job!"

The man complied. He was easily led, it seemed.

It was slow though. The drive. Christine and the Ghost clearly got to the pier long before him. He was still yards away...


The driver said nothing.



He wouldn't believe it.

He wouldn't believe the sight. He wouldn't believe that that was his wife, lying in a pool of her own blood.

He wouldn't believe that it wasn't her husband holding her, cradling her dying body. He wouldn't believe that she told THEIR son that the man who had lied to her for years was his father.

He wouldn't believe that her last breath was of her kissing those deformed lips.

That scream... Oh, that horrible scream uttering from his son's mouth. He couldn't take it. He gripped his head in agony. He couldn't speak. He wanted to yell, to curse, to spit fire at that damned Meg. But nothing came. He just dropped to his knees, tears streaming. Sobs came, but they were uncontrollable.

When she was cold... He would not say dead. When she was cold, the monster walked away. He looked to Raoul, nodding curtly. He didn't know what that meant.

Then he jerked his head toward Christine. It was then he knew. The Ghost was allowing him to be with his wife. He all but ran to her body, leaving his son to reconcile with his real father.

Cold hands. Blood on those pink lips. Hair in disarray. He had never seen her this way... His elegant wife... His Angel... She was the real Angel of music.

And it was he that clipped her wings.

The gun stared at him.

It was laughing at him. It mocked him. "Go ahead. End it. You have nothing to live for now. No wife. Child who would rather be with the deformed monster. No money. You're already dying! Just end it now. You have nothing to live for."

Over and over, that damned gun. It was cold in his hands. As cold as her hands. As cold as her lips. Her heart.

He didn't know if he could do it. He didn't know if he could take his own life. Sure, he'd taken other lives, when he was in the Navy. But he was fighting for his country. He would have killed that Opera Ghost, given the chance.

If he did this, he would go to Hell. But he was already in Hell, wasn't he? What would scorching fire be compared to emptyness?

He gripped the damn thing hard. His whole body shook, convulsing. "Stupid Raoul. Idiot. How... How could you..."

Deep breath.


Chair flunged to the side. Splinters flying.

"How could you!" He dropped to his knees, almost dropping the gun. He reached up to the desk, grabbing the discarded brandy glass. He took a slurred drink, almost spitting it out in disgust.

"CURSE YOU VILE POISON!" He screamed. He flung it against her portrait, hanging above the fireplace.

She had been buried in France. He'd made sure of that. Now he was here, in their almost barren house, his son thousands of miles away in America with him.

Her portrait was all that remained of the decorations in their house. He refused to sell it... That had made her... somewhat happy.

But those days were few and far between. The rest were either days of arguing or...

He refused to say it. Not now. Not now that she was gone. Gone without saying he was sorry. Without saying how he never wanted to hurt her.

But he had hurt her. He hurt the woman he loved on a daily basis. It was routine. Get drunk, hit your wife. It was common, he heard. At least the men in his gambling circles did the same.

That's what it all boiled down to. Money. Money money money. It was money that threw their relationship through a loop. She had to work her voice like a dog just to put food on the table, while her useless husband gambled what she earned away on his big ego.

He stood up slowly, unsteady. The gun was heavy in his hand. He stood by her portrait. He stroked the paint of her dress with his other hand. He kissed the rose petals at her feet.

"Little Lotte... She always let her mind wander..." He mumbled, crying silently. His voice was cracked.

"Little Lotte... always thought...Dolls... Goblins or shoes?" He strolled around the room, touching everything and anything, knowing she had touched them all at one point or another. "Riddles...? Frocks..."

Now he was hearing things. As he touched the bookcase, he heard her father's violin, again. He heard her child laughter, echoing through the hall. He strolled through their house, feeling everything as if for the first time.

When he came to their bedroom, he didn't expect to find what he found.

Her red scarf.

It lie on their bed like the pool of blood that had enveloped her on that dreadful pier. It still felt the same when he touched it. He picked it up to hold it close. It still smelled like her perfume... It was like the ocean. Like the ocean he rescued it from when they were small... He still remembered the day. It was the day he fell in love with her.

The scarf shook in his hands. It was stained darker with each of his tears. He kissed it lightly, as if it were her lips there, instead of the rouge cloth.

"Those picnics in the attic..."

He pulled the gun closer to him.

"Or... chocolates?"

"Father playing the violin..."

He pointed the gun to the side of his head.

"Reading... stories... darkness..."

Click. Gun cocked. Finger on the trigger.

"No, what I love BEST! Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head..."

"The Angel of Music sings songs in my head..."


I LOVE reviews! They make me very happy! ^^ I love favorites too, but I love reviews more. If you story alert this, then you're stupid, because this is a one-shot. Raoul doesn't come back to life. There is NO happy ending.

But on the plus side, he died with hono- Oh, wait... He died with brave- No, no... Well... HE JUST DIED! ALRIGHT!

You most obedient Authoress,

Leffie LeFan