Phantom of the Opera She Weeps As She Dances

…**She Weeps As She Dances**

"_Dancer in shadows,  
__ She weeps as she dances…"  
__ -- Mercedes Lackey 'Windrider Unchained'_

She was never worthy of you.

You were here, far below, long before she came.  
I grew up on stories of the 'Opera Ghost',  
fed on tales of your wonder and terror  
along with my mother's milk.

As I grew, so grew your legend,  
until you were the talk of the backstage masses.  
All the ballet rats giggled and twirled and  
shrieked ourselves hoarse over a dropped flat,  
a missing shoe, but I was the only one  
who truly _believed_.

Often I crept into shadowed corners,  
hoping for a glimpse of your skull-like face,  
for the flash of your flaming eyes or  
the thunder of your voice.

I was never afraid, though I screamed louder than the rest –  
for although mother refused to reveal your secret,  
I learned from her to protect you,  
keep you hidden and safe,  
and I tried to do it – I really did.  
But you found her anyway,  
despite our best efforts to keep them all away.  
Your angel, your perfect love.

I was never jealous,  
though many thought I should be –  
_I never was_.  
Not of her.  
A porcelain beauty, golden flowing locks,  
cornflower eyes, petal-pink lips –  
flawless, she was, pristine –  
innocent, artfully childlike and helpless.

I heard your voice in the shadows,  
and though you spoke to her and not me,  
I wept to hear it.  
Even a ghost deserved more  
than the shallow soul of a knife-winged angel  
unable to give her heart.

I was content to remain in her shadow,  
squeezing her hands when her cold fingers clutched mine,  
her pale cheeks shining in the dark,  
thrilling with excitement and carefully-feigned terror.  
I was her one friend, yet even I could see  
that she cared more for the adulation of the crowd,  
for the unending praise of everyone around her,  
then for the wounds she ripped into your heart.  
Into both of your hearts.

You found in her a perfect instrument,  
lacking only the will to play;  
an empty vessel you sought to fill with music,  
with desire,  
with your love.  
There was no way you could have known,  
could have foreseen the disaster that followed.

A shallow-minded doll, your love,  
endlessly blown by the wind, always taking the path  
of least resistance – her mind as empty  
as her guileless eyes, her heart as superficial  
as her promises.

Everywhere she went she inspired love,  
yet her own heart remained untouched,  
though she feigned it well enough to twist 'round both of you  
like a choking ivy, clinging and smothering  
until neither of you could breathe  
anything but her name.

I do not believe she meant to deceive –  
not at first –  
but the taste of power is heady,  
and to have it over _two _men,  
both so powerful in their own way,  
was too strong a wine for one so  
self-absorbed and vain.

Neither of you ever understood her –  
that nothing existed in her world other than  
to play a part in the drama of her life.  
If a thing could serve her, she would use it for a time,  
then discard it, moving on.

When you grew angry,  
or the boy became petulant and threatened to withdraw,  
her little hands would pluck at you,  
her wide eyes wet with tears,  
and neither of you could stand against her terrible sorrow,  
confusion and dismay –  
her trump cards,  
which she played ruthlessly at the first sign of revolt.

When she finally left with _him_, as I knew she would,  
mother and I wept together over her betrayal –  
not that you had lost her,  
but that she had taken what was best of you,  
crushing it beneath her tiny foot  
without a care.

She used you both,  
and though it was you she left behind,  
the two of them are as alone as you.  
Will it make any difference to you now,  
to know that their marriage bed is as cold as yours, below?

From the shadows of a ruined, silent theatre I write this,  
hoping it will find you.  
It has grown very quiet, and mother fears the worst –  
that you have died.  
I know the truth,  
felt it inside me like a knife that night –  
she _has _killed you, as surely as if that kiss  
had been a dagger to your soul.

In her absence, you have consigned yourself  
to a living death, without beauty or light,  
locked in the madness of music and sorrow and  
your own shattered brilliance.

For the sake of her,  
who could never have given you what you needed,  
you die anew each night you reach for her  
and find only polished glass.

For want of an artificial angel's light  
you dwell in eternal midnight,  
tortured forever by dreams that never existed --  
She was never worthy of you.

Sometimes I think I hear you playing,  
bleeding out your pain alone, below,  
and I dance, weeping with the beauty of it –  
a beauty that will never see the light of day,  
buried forever beneath miles of stone  
as thick as the walls around your heart.

I dance in the shadows,  
and I weep for the unfairness of it,  
that your trembling hopes should have come to this –  
after a lifetime, to offer your heart,  
then remain lonely and lost in the dark,  
the sweetness of her memory turned to bitter ash  
upon your lips.

She was never worthy of you.

She was never an angel – merely a reflection of you.  
If I say it enough, perhaps you will begin to believe it,  
just a little,  
just enough to search inside,  
to find the one spark that must remain of the man  
you were born to be,  
and perhaps dare one day to live again.  
There are other tastes to be tried,  
other lights to share your flame.  
I want to believe that as the salt tears flow,  
that the music, however dark, shows that your soul still bleeds –  
_you are still alive_, and with life comes hope.

And so I will leave this,  
one last note,  
on the bank of a still, dark lake,  
in a plain envelope marked in a looping scrawl –  
'To Erik, who was always there' –  
and if someday you find it,  
you will know that not all who live in darkness are lost,  
and for whom I weep as I dance.

AMH  
11 April, 2005


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Phantom of the Opera, Poetry, Romance