Phantom of the Opera The Alternative

In the end, he was everything. He was the nightmare that left me screaming into the night. He was the song bird outside my window. He was terrifying, wonderful, demonic, angelic. He was love itself. He was the embodiment of hate. He was all of those things, and more. I hated myself because I loved him, and I hated him because his love for me. His love was not one of sunshine and promises; it was a love made of obsession, darkness, and threats. It was terribly frightening, and terribly passionate. It was all I could do not to lose myself in his love completely, and I almost did, on more than one occasion.

* * *

Not long into my captivity, after the last of my hope of being saved had been diminished into nothingness, I began to have a streak of self-destruction. HE had to child proof my room; removing anything I could hurt myself with, because if I could find something to do the deed, I would. I remember vividly one evening when he walked in on one of my episodes. I was sitting on my bed with my back to the door, with only a table lamp for light. He knocked on my door (trying to prove that he was a gentleman, I suppose) and entered without waiting for an answer. By this point I was passed the hate. I know longer tried to kill him whenever he entered my quarters, he had succeeded in breaking my spirit. I guess he should have taken note to the depression that plagued both sides of my family. Both my mother and father suffered from the illness, and both lost their lives early in my life because of it. My mother took an overdose of prescription meds when I was a toddler, one of my earliest memories is walking into the bathroom and finding her slumped over in the tub, the water running down her cold body, her dull blue eyes lifeless. I lost my father in my teens, he dropped me off at school on a Monday morning, drove thirty minutes to the nearest bridge and jumped. I was sixteen years old.  
As I was saying, HE should have taken note to the reoccurring events in my family, and he should have known it would not take long for me to follow in my parent's footsteps. The particular night I speak of I had found razors in the bathroom cupboard, I assume for shaving or something as inconsequential. I began to make art on my forearms, drawing the blade across the pale skin of my wrists. Somewhere in my mind I was thinking that the crimson liquid running down my arm made the design all the more beautiful, but HE did not share that thought. When he found me sitting on my bed, just as I was about to start on my other arm, he snapped. He ripped the almost dull blade out of my hand (it was quite slick) and used his powerful voice to lull me into slumber.  
I awoke with gauze on my arms and no sharp objects in my room. He did not give me any pain medication; I assume he thought it a punishment to me. In reality, I relished the pain. It was a way for me to know I had almost succeeded in what I wanted most. If I could not escape Him in life, I would by death.  
The next few weeks were similar occurrences one after the other. He took the sheets off of my bed when he found the noose I was fashioning out of them. I was checked on every thirty minutes by a member of the household staff, who had to do a thorough inspection of my body and the entire room. None of these staff were men, of course, because he could not bare the thought of another man seeing me in a state of undress. The women he sent were silent, and stripped me down to the world, inspecting every little inch looking for any sign of self mutilation. The only time I was left alone was to bath, and even then someone (usually him) knocked on the door waiting for my response. One such evening, I decided to give ending my pathetic existence another shot. I carefully locked the door, making no noise while I was doing so. I told my usual jailer (I know her now to be named Maria) that I was taking a relaxing bath, to relieve tension, and that the bath would take longer than usual because I wanted to enjoy it. Thinking I had finally slipping through his guard, I stripped off my clothes, and lowered myself into the scaling water. I sat upright for a few minutes, praying that I would meet my parents soon. I leaned against the back of the tub, and slid down until my head was engulfed. I opened my eyes when I was fully submerged, and stared into nothing, waiting for the moment. I'm not sure how long I was underwater, But I remember seeing black dots in my vision before I was ripped out of the tub by my hair. He crushed me to him, keeping my head to his chest. I remember wondering why his heart was beating so fast before I lost consciousness.

Apparently, Erik had told Maria to always inform him if I did something out of the ordinary, even if it was the slightest thing. Maria of course, thought nothing of it when I expressed my wish for peace during my "relaxing" bath, but after several minutes she decided to tell him anyways. He had been very angry with me when I woke, and spent a good ten minutes screaming in my face, while clenching my shoulders and arms, acting as though he was afraid I would disappear right in front of him; which I'm sure now, that he was. He demanded answers; why couldn't I be content with the life he had given me? I had everything I could ever want, I only needed to ask. He would give me anything, so long as I would not try to end what he held dear. At this point in our relationship, I was refusing to speak to him. As he ranted and raved, pulling at his thick black hair and ripping his mask off, throwing it across the room, I watched. I did not respond to his questions, made no sound as he shook me. More than once, he crushed me to his chest, and burst into tears, running his hands through my short choppy hair (I had cut it off very early in my captivity, I had noticed he liked it, and I refused to do or have anything that would bring him pleasure. His expression at seeing my handiwork with the scissors had been a plus.) I had naively thought that he was obsessed with my beauty, and I tried to do anything to discourage it. Chopping off my hair had only been the beginning; I did many things to make him like me less. But alas, this was during my hopeful days that he would release me; and now I believed I had to release myself, one way or another.

The turning point of my suicidal tendencies was a complete accident, coincidentally. It was a complete accident that Maria forgot to lock my door. It was also an accident that I found the door up to the roof. (His house was a penthouse on the top two floors of a high rise in the city.) on the roof was a beautiful garden with a gazebo and an amazing view. It did not take me long to imagine what I could do with this amazing height, and I readied myself for a running head start; once again praying for forgiveness for my sin. I took off from one corner, ran the distance to the ledge, and –

* * *

Christine was never able to make the jump. At the moment of her last step, She was tackled to the ground with a force so strong she was sure that something was broken. She was not on the ground long thought, because seconds after feeling the impact of her fall; whatever that was on her got up, and she was ripped up by her arm with it. She looked up into the eyes of Him, Erik, and knew his anger.

"Does love mean so little to you? I LOVE you, Christine, whether you like it or not. You will live with this, or I WILL bath the world in the blood of innocents. I do not feel easily, and this emotion I feel for you would not end with your death. It would morph into a monster so deadly, that wherever you were in the afterlife, you would feel it so deep it would be as though a thousand knives were stabbing every inch of your skin, and you would never know the peace you crave. You can deny me your love, you can deny my our happiness, but you will NOT deny me your life."

Christine could hear the fear in his voice, along with the anger. He was scared of her, she knew, and she held all the cards in her hand. She could crush him, but for some reason, his declaration had done the opposite affect that she thought it would. It did not make her hate him all the more, it made her feel for him in a way she had never before. It wasn't love, she was sure, but it was an understanding for him, and the emotions he was dealing with. She saw the unshed tears in his eyes, and felt the tears rolling down her own cheeks. Falling to her knees, she was defeated. She held her head in her hands and he sunk down on his knees to hold her.

They stayed in the rooftop garden for hours, finally releasing hold of each other just to intertwine their fingers, lay down on their backs side by side and stare up at the starless sky. Little was said, nothing needed to be. Christine finally felt at peace, and no longer felt a desire to end all things here and now. Erik had saved her, just as he claimed she had saved him every day with her presence. The two were at peace, as the city life continued below them.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera