Alone. No human should have to be alone, to dwell on the sins of the past. No human should have to be tortured because of something he had no control over. No human should have to be subjected to the pain and the suffering that every new day brought. No human should be forced to live as a monster in the dark realms of the catacombs. Cursed by ever human and shunned by every face. No human should be attacked because of his birth defect.

But he was no human. Or at least he had lived his life on the assumption that he could not possibly be a human. Why would God curse any of his creations to bear such a hideous disfigurement and then the torment that went along with it? Because he couldn't be a creature of above, he was damned to be alone. God created humans to be part of a pair, to join together into one full person. But he was the Devil's Child, the hell spawn demon who would live forever alone because no one would ever accept him as a human.

Christine, his beautiful angelic soprano, would never be his. She would never accept his ugliness. What crime had he ever done that warranted him being damned to watch from the curtains as his Christine threw her life away with the handsome Raoul de Chagny.

He knew he was living a lie if he was convinced that he was better for Christine than the wealthy Vicomte. He would provide for her a life of happiness, secured in her wealth and status. He could give her beauty.

All he had to offer was ugliness.

Why would Christine want his murderous hands to caress her unmarred, untouched skin? Even if she desired to feel his touch when he was masked, and cloaked with the air of the mysterious masked tutor – that would change when she saw the hideous ruined cheek.

It had already changed when she had removed his mask after Hannibal. Her next lesson had seen her more timid. Even if she denied any fear, her voice betrayed her. Everything about her betrayed her. She was wavering vocal, distant emotionally, and her eyes flickered with a fear that made his heart shatter into emendable pieces.

One touch was all it took. Her finger had only lightly grazed his twisted flesh when she tore the mask away. But that feather light touch was what had sealed her fate. No living being had ever touched his cheek. No one would ever touch Erik. But Christine had out of curiosity and a sick desire to know what lay underneath the porcelain white mask. The perfect mask that covered the hideous disfigurement.

Christine could never love that face. He knew all too well what his head elicited out of people. Hatred, loathing, fear, nausea, violence. Feelings he could not bear for Christine to know. Their lessons would stop if she saw his true face. How would she focus on singing when her mind would always see the ruined flesh.

The thick black hair was no more than a wig to conceal his sandy brown hair that could barely be called hair on the left side of his skeletal head. His skin was nearly translucent over the veins and bones of his skull. It had never formed the thick epidermis like the other half of his head. The pale, pasty flesh was pulled taught over prominent cheek bones. His eye lid was no more than a swollen socket, with flesh that sagged beneath his mismatched eyes. His perfect half of his face bore a piercing green eye, while the horrid face shone pale blue. He had seen eyes like his that were owned by blind men. But his vision in that eye was sharp and crisp. It was almost blinding how perfect he could see out of it, every line, every colour, every flaw. But a twisted excuse for an eye socket was not the only hideous part of his cheek. The sunken in cheek of an emaciated man, was in drastic comparison to his perfect cheek. The skin fluttered like a moth when he breathed, so translucent that his white teeth could be seen through it. His ear was hardly worth being called an ear, it was no more than a stump without the shell and the lobe. With his mask you were falsely lured into believing that he had an average nose. But when the perfection was ripped away you could the half nose that he had. With a near perfect line separating each part of his face, the nose was no more than a hole.

It had been so long since he had seen his own reflection, but he remembered well enough what his image was like. When that memory was drawn up, he could understand why his Christine had chosen Raoul. There was not even a misplaced mark from the sun on the young man's face. Christine wasn't shallow, it was a natural decision to be lured by beauty. She was beautiful and she deserved to live every day with beauty.

But that would not stop the thorn in his heart to be hammered in deeper every time he watched Raoul leave her with a lover's kiss before he parted her dressing room, or every time he saw him protectively wrap his arm around her waist as they left for an evening's dinner. He was no more than a ghost in a mirror watching a life he could have had if God had been kind. If one thing could have been changed, and not even his face, he would have deserved Christine.

Murder.

A life of abuse tarnished who he would become. He had only known the smothering pleasure of a burlap bag over his twisted face, the warm comfort of rib crunching kicks, the gentle touch of a slicing whip, and reassuring cry of a ruthless mob. Why wouldn't he choose wrapping a noose around a man's neck and watching the life squeezed from him opposed to talking it through like a civilized individual? He wasn't a human after all so why should he abide by moral conduct? Why should he care about any other living thing?

Except for Christine.

Even since he had begun tutoring her at the young age of ten, when she was only beginning to blossom into a woman he had longed to give her the world. But his emotions for her, that instinctual fathering compassion had morphed into a longing to have her budding, succulent blossom. She was an addiction before he had ever had the pleasure to taste her. Now he never would.

With the Vicomte enjoying her subtle beauty, her shy propriety, her tender kisses, her warm delicate ivory skin. He had never felt a human hand against his skin that didn't intend to bring pain. The burning slap of a gypsy man was not the same as a caress from a beautiful woman. He had felt only the slightest pleasure from her unintentional brush.

Even those times he had let his hands wander over her clothed form when he had beguiled her with his seductive songs he had not even been able to feel the warmth of her touch. His hands were always gloved in black leather, preventing any gratification from their visits. If he felt her touch, felt her silken skin he would lose his mind.

He would lose any last ounce of humanity he may have ever contained. Like he had with that fleeting caress of her finger as she had pried his greatest protection from him. His final bowstring snapping in that moment of damning bliss.

Life was not worth living without Christine. He had planned his own suicide the night her father had brought her to the Opera Populaire. He was finally through with the tormented life he was leading as a prisoner of his own past. A lethal dose of opium would end his miserable existence.

But then, like the angel that Christine was, she came into his life. She was only a child and he was a grown man of twenty-one, but she filled his life with a passionate love. As much as he seduced her with his melodic tones, she seduced him with life.

Without her, what was he? If she married the Vicomte he would take her away from the Opera Populaire. She would no longer need to live in the dormitories; she would commute to and from rehearsals without any need to wait around. A Comtess would have no need to have an unnamed tutor, luring her to the underbelly after rehearsals. The Vicomte would dole out any number of money to bring the most world renowned tutor for her lessons. That was, if Raoul permitted his trophy to continue entertaining audiences. Perhaps he would be envious of the appreciative glares and wanting eyes, he would want her solely for himself. He would deny Erik of his air if he took her from the theatre.

How could he live without his most cherished aspect of life? Was there any redeeming quality left in his soul? Was there any beauty underneath?