Though this used to be just a side fanfic, it's now taken my full attention as an author. So don't worry about a lax of dedication on my end. :) I'm going to address a very serious issue. The 1990 version of Phantom of the Opera's ending!
He (Charles Dance) is the best phantom hands-down. Give him Ramin Karimloo's singing voice and it's all over. All comparison fades and Charles Dance outshines as the victorious winner! YAY!
**Ahem,** Well anyway, watch it on YouTube, and you will see what I mean. Best plot, best Phantom, best dynamic between characters, best backstory for all characters, and best phantom ever. Let yourself melt like putty in the hands of that wonderful masterpiece. It's all you can do.

No really, go watch it. You will understand things better, especially this first chapter. Trust me, you won't regret! I'll wait.

Hmm... Oh, you watched it? Good. Now! Everyone I've ever talked to seems to agree that The Phantom MAY have been able to fake his death... With that thought in mind... I give you...

Time To Say Goodbye

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN PHANTOM. However, the OC's and plot are mine. Please don't use them without permission.

Chapter 1

I looked left, police with guns.
I looked right, more men trying to kill me. What was there left to do? I'd given up on my angel, since clearly she longed for someone else, though I would still hate that lecherous vicomte till' my dying day. "Which may not be too far away."
I thought grimly to myself.

If the fates hated anyone, surely they despised me! I lost my wondrous mother, my opera was ripped from my still living fingers, and I was shunned by my dear Christine, the only other woman I had ever loved -or ever would. How could I be further cursed?

"Well, at least in death I will not be hated. For by then all will have forgotten, and how can you hate something you can't remember?"

I looked down to my concerned father. Truly he had been there for me in every dip and rise, and now here he was to see me off in death. The screams for my demise grew louder, and finally I though this was it. But then, as all hope slipped into the dark abyss of despair, out of his pocket, Monsieur Carrier pulled out a small pistol.

To the untrained eye it was just a normal pistol. Standard issue, rotating barrel and eight-bullet capacity. But to my eyes I knew it wasn't an ordinary gun...

"Blast it all!" Erik yelled at the top of his lungs. "I can't concentrate with that banshee wailing like a neutered cat! Carrier! I though I told you that Miss Delilah would NOT be coming back for a second season with us."
He glared at the man standing next to him in the private study of the phantom. The older man look apologetic, clearly he too wished to put said cat out of misery too.

"Well I can't help it, Erik. She's not the best but she's the only one who can do the trouser roles. The others keep fighting over the main roles, because playing a male just isn't going to satisfy a diva for long. I hope you realize that."
Erik looked put out. "I guess you're right, but it won't make it any less painful."

He chuckled darkly as his chin came to rest on his chest. "But I know what might..."
With that he pulled out a gun, and with no further word, The Phantom of the Opera pulled the trigger with the barrel at his head.

"BOOM!" the gun smoked as the gunpowder that had ignited burned off it's contents. Wine-coloured liquid poured from a dark shape at the side of Erik's head as he slumped over on his mahogany desk.

"Erik!" Carrier rushed over to the side of his dead son.
"Oh God what have you done?!"
The man wept over the corpse of Erik, as the corpse began to laugh.
To say he was shocked beyond all recognition was a gross understatement. He could say and do nothing as the 'dead' Erik began howling with laughter.

"Ha! That was a good one! I should try that more often, scaring people out of their wits really takes stress off those nerves." He let an evil grin slide across his features, relishing in the satisfaction of his little prank.
"Erik?! But- but how? I- I thought..."

"What you thought -old man- was that I'd killed myself. Not likely however because I'd never even consider killing myself over some silly harpy like Miss Delilah. But there may come a day when killing myself MAY be necessary."
Erik stared pointedly at Monsieur Carrier as the poor gentleman started to sink to the floor from shock.

Erik rushed forward and caught him before he hit the ground. "Confound-it! Will you stop with that?"
He paused in his efforts to stare once more, "I'm not really dead, though popular opinion either says I am, or wishes I was."
He began to help Monsieur Carrier to a soft chair before a moderate fireplace. "But, Erik. I must know tell me how DID you do it? I know you are capable, Erik. I've seen you do great things but I still don't understand how you managed with this."

The Phantom leaned back on his own chair, balancing it on two legs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Well it's simple really. I'd known of fake guns for a while and decided to make my own. However, the greatest flaw was that in a real situation..."
His arms spread out in a flourished manner, "... No one would believe it!"
He placed his hands behind his head and let his words hang in the air before continuing.

"You see, it's well enough for theatre - though mark my words it will never take off in opera - but sound, smoke and acting wouldn't be good enough if you were really trying to pass yourself off as dead. However, what I showed you was a gun that would add the one thing that really marks a true weapon. Blood." He smirked as he waited for the older man to process what he had heard. "But the best part is that each blood capsule looks like an ordinary bullet! Round and dark. Though the one draw back is that it IS a projectile being fired from a gun, it can leave a pretty nasty bruise. But I have made it so I may adjust the distance so it will break on impact, without truly harming myself."

"So what do you think?" Monsieur Carrier said it was a remarkable invention, and upon hearing it Erik gave it to him, showed him the adjustments, gave him a small pouch of 'ammo', and placed all in a long wood box.

^*End Flashback*^

My father looked to me, silently asking me if I truly wished for this route. If all went well, they would all believe in my death, and I could get out of this alive, at the cost of my residence at the opera populair. What choice did I have? I would not become a science experiment or a living freak of nature. "Not one for THEIR entertainment anyway."
My last thought as I surrendered to the decision to 'die'. My only home or not, nothing was left to tie me here. I shrugged, he got the message, and from there it was clockwork.

I wasn't The Phantom of the Opera for nothing. Falling from that hight was literal child's play. As a boy I still acted like one, though mine was a boyhood set apart. I taught myself to be agile and flexible as a cat, leaping from roofs, sprinting across rafters, slinking through hidden passages. And most importantly learning how to fall. No matter what the landing was to look like. In fact this very spot was one I had lept from often, so landing would be no issue. I felt the bullet hit me as I started to free-fall.

They may have been free by the world's standards, those rich dandies who came with a different lady each time only to show off his own wealth. But I was a bird, and I could fly. Wind ripping at my hair, body cutting through the air. Eternity in a moment. I may have been a mortal monster who was alone, hated, and feared, but I would feel things and think things that would put even great Da Vinci to shame.

All too soon the roof came to meet me. And true to my fashion I allowed the hit to envelope my body, but as it was about to close itself wholly around me, I sent it back into the roof. A trick which I learned in my time here that had proved useful. My mask was battered, for the injury had been spared on my internal organs, not my physical facade. A splay of bruises covered me where there had been the most impact. But really I was no worse for wear, considering that I was just going to lay down and die prior to the evenings events. My father rushed to my side and took me in his arms, crying over my "dying" body. I felt his warm tears running down my own skin, and for a moment I was totally convinced we had pulled it off without a hitch.

But fate is a cruel mistress, and all must be subject to her vicious schemes. Just as I thought it was finally over, my angel, yet my tormenting spirit, came to me. To me! And as she reached for my mask I feel the sheer terror well up inside me, the will it took to not stop her weakening me greatly, fear gripping my heart like an icy fist. "What more can she take?" I thought. "She has ripped my heart in two, and sewn it back only to pierce it with the bitter knife of betrayal. She eased my mind and soothed my loneliness, then turned to run from and mock my pain. Then as I lay dying she sparked my hope by singing me as her saviour, her love. Did she think me deaf? I knew her words, and surely she knew mine. I cannot imagine what is left for me to give, unless she wants to stuff and hang my corpse."

I was bitter, none could deny if they had known my thoughts. But what is bitterness but a poison root that inhabits the earth? I was pathetic, no better than the common mongrel wasting away in the gutter from wasting his time in the bottle. Yet no liquor was mine, no addiction. None but the drunkenness of heart, with an obsession I myself could neither understand nor harness. The obsession to try obtaining that which was not meant for demons: everything I had previously striven for.

But instead of mocking me, hurting me, or fearing me... She kissed me. Simply, lovingly, on my forehead. And suddenly I didn't understand. My world was upside
Down. What had just happened? Could she have changed her mind, and now wished to be with me? But as the thought passed through my conscious I knew it had gone too far. So I allowed myself to sink into darkness, escaping the living torment that ripped through every ounce of my being from her presence.

Yet I still loved her, and as black caressed my bleeding mind, I whispered the epitome of my love to the stilled night; "Christine..."

The last of my senses faded out, but not before they heard one last thing, crying. The mourning song of grief and distress. "Thank you, my lovely Christine." I thought. "Your tears are your greatest gift to me."
And then like a greedy beast, the dark creature stalking, preying upon my mind and body sank it's fangs into me, and I lost the light.

Well... Anyone like it? I intend to update fairly often, and I've got a few friends telling me what they think. But I would like to know if anyone is interested. So... Review, please. :)