The moonlight above seemed rather bleak tonight. Nothing-- not the faint, glowing starlight-- could ease his pain. He couldn't even express a note of song, for his sorrow and pain was too great. She, Christine, had stolen from him what had kept him alive for so long: his voice, his music, his passion. She, the one whom had stolen his heart, had killed him the moment she'd expressed her love for Raoul. And all because of what he'd hidden behind his white mask, what he was born with, and what had made him live in the dark, cold cellers beneath the Paris Opera House. It was his only flaw: the mutilation of his face-- the disfiguration that he cursed each day of his life.

"Christine," he moaned sorrowfully. "You stole what little heart this beast-- this ghastly creature I am-- had left. How could you choose him over the voice that you so loved? What damned me to this tortured life that you so longed to destroy? Why?"

He still didn't know why he'd come here. Perhaps it was so he could remember her. It seemed the only memories he posessed-- no longer could he remember anything else other than her-- had distintigrated when he'd lost her.

Had he honestly ever had her?

Footsteps echoed softly outside of the room. He held his breath, and stood quietly, somberly, while he pushed the chair into the center of the room. Walking forward to the long mirror that hung from the wall, he looked over his figure. He raised his thin, bony hands that were pale-- he was certain this, too, had frightened away the love of his life-- the one none could replace-- and ran it over the soft, white mask. Carefully, delicately, he pulled the mask off, and stared at the face that his mother had cursed, Christine had feared, and he had hid for many, many years.

The mask clattered to the floor, but he couldn't hear it; his eyes were wide, tears welled within them, and he sucked in a deep breath. The tears slid down his face like rain upon the windows that he'd faced just moments before to catch a glimpse of the moon. The mask stopped moving, and the room was once again filled with a despairing silence that made him feel as dead as he would be in moments.

Solemnly, he backed away from the mirror, stepping on the mask and shattering it. He climbed onto the chair, grasping the noose as tears slid down his pale, disformed face. He drapped the noose around his neck, tightened with a quick pull, and took in a deep breath.

"For you," he whispered. "I die today." His voice quievered as he continued. "You whom stole my heart, trampled it and maimed it! You, Christine, who took my passion-- my music-- my voice. You whom took--" his voice dropped dangerously low. "--everything." He gulped for air, his voice hoarse, the tears falling fast now-- "I die for your love. It is the only way I may have it."

Before he pushed the chair away, he could faintly smell her. That fragrance of rose, that dash of jasmine... It tore his heart apart, and brought butterflys to his stomach at the time. He could feel his heart start to pound painfully, and before another moment, he moved his feet and---

The chair clattered to the floor, as the mask had. The Phantom-- The Opera Ghost-- Erik-- now hung from the ceiling.

---------------

Later, it was said that throughout the entire Daae household they could hear Christine's screams. It is said that a maid found her, staring with a pale face before she fainted, at the body of a man with a disfigured face who'd hung himself in her room. It is said, also, that whilst in her unconcious state, she muttered repeatedly, "Erik... Erik..."

And, when she awoke, she immediately insisted a note for The Persian to be spent. Later in the week, the newspapers read on the front page:

"Erik-- The Opera Ghost-- is dead."