Phantom of the Opera Broken Hallelujah

Broken Hallelujah

Death hunts us all. It lurks in the back of our minds, that ever present yet unfathomable knowledge that one day, there will come a winter with no spring.

It visits us occasionally; every time we lose someone we are reminded that it comes for us all. And then we push this thought back into the far recesses of our mind and lock it there and think; not today.

Perhaps that was why Erik was so hard for anyone to understand. He did not think this way. Instead of death being a frightening thought creeping in the back of his mind, it was his only hope.

Death was the only light he saw at the end of the dark, twisted tunnel which had been his life.

Erik walked back toward the opera house. The previous night's events were replaying themselves in his head. The Persian and the boy, saved from his torture chamber by Christine's pleading, by her agreeing to stay with him.

That had been a truly brave act, Erik thought; to have the strength of soul to sacrifice your life for another. That was love, and Erik still didn't understand it. Erik had thought that nothing could ever have compelled Christine to stay with him.

He had thought about how awful it would be when she refused him and he would blow the opera house above into the heavens he had always so vainly reached for. However, this was worse, much worse. At least in the explosion it would all have ended quickly and he would have been buried far beneath the ground with his beloved Christine for the rest of time.

Now he was still headed to his grave; alone in death as he had been alone in life. He had made Christine promise to come back and bury him, but he did not really expect her to.

What made that part of his chest where he guessed his heart was located ache even more was that in the end of the incident in his dungeons, he had been confronted with the deep love between Christine and the boy, and he still could not comprehend it. What made another person care about someone else so much that they would accept a fate as terrible as living with him?

This was what real people; good people did for each other Erik thought. This must have been that humanity he had heard others possessed. Never before had he seen anything like it. That sort of kindness; Christine would not allow the boy and the Persian to die for her sake. She had condemned herself to misery and a life without her love to save someone else. Through he had never experienced such an act directed toward him, watching it had been enough for Erik.

Erik had been astounded. Just because he did not understand did not mean he did not realize what a beautiful thing it was. And beautiful things did not belong with him. He was the master of darkness, of shadows and death. And so he had sent Christine with her pure heart and pure love away from him.

Erik snorted mirthlessly; he was not the master of darkness or death! It was the master of him! And finally, after every futile effort to escape his master, he had to submit.

He had gone to the Persian to tell him this. To say he had let his prisoners go, and that he was dying. Truly, Erik had expected the Persian to stop him, to tell him he could not take his own life, but he had not argued Erik's decision.

Erik had realized at that moment that even the one man who had been the closest thing he had ever had to a friend thought it was better if he left this world.

No one would miss him.

It was night again. Erik hardly noticed this however; to him everything was darkness. Above him the clouds were heavy in the black sky. Needing to let down their burden the tired clouds sent a furious rain to the streets of Paris.

This Erik did notice. To him, it was as though the heavens were punishing him for daring to walk in a world that he did not belong in.

It was a longer walk back to the opera house than he remembered and Erik sat down on an old bench in front of a well lit bar. All around him people were hustling by, eager to get to where ever they were going and escape the lashing rain.

They all seemed to have somewhere to go; home to their families or to their friends or some such place. No one paid any mind to the man who had no where to go but to his grave.

Erik did not look at them either. He watched the dreary rain fall before his eyes. He noted how each drop looked as it smashed into the puddle collecting on the street. It looked like shattering glass.

It was how he felt inside. As though every part of him had been beaten and was now breaking into a thousand sharp, painful pieces. Water and tears mixed as they worked their way down his face; both masked and unmasked.

"Monsieur?"

Erik didn't even know what the voice was at first. He had been so far off into his own darkness he hardly recognized the distant cry from the world he was trying to leave.

Slowly he looked up. Staring down at him from above was a woman holding an umbrella. She had it tipped so the handle rested on her shoulder. Their was something about the way the black umbrella circled her head while silhouetted against the bright window behind her that made it look almost like a halo to Erik.

"Monsieur are you alright?" She asked.

No one had ever asked him such a question. Erik's mouth opened but it took him a moment to speak,

"No," He said, and he hated that in his voice he could hear that he had been crying…he hated that he could hear his own weakness.

And then she smiled; the smallest upward curve of her lips. Without another word she took the umbrella and extended it toward Erik, handing it to him.

His disfigured lips parted in further shock as his hand, more out of subconscious reaction to being handed something than anything else, reached out to take the thing from the girl. He had to draw breath in amazement as he felt his fingers close around the handle.

He felt it. Just when he thought all feeling was gone, he felt the cold, damp metal against his hand as he held it over his head. Like an angel's hand it protected him from the rain, from the punishment he had believed was sent down on him.

Erik's eyes lifted to meet the girl's. They seemed to shine in the darkness, through the rain that was soaking her.

Her smile grew wider, "Cheer up Monsieur," She said with a nod as she turned and began to walk away, "The rain will stop,"

Erik stood and watched her go, blending with all the others trying to get out of the rain. Still holding the umbrella he began to walk again.

It seemed to Erik that in his life death and disappointment visited him more than hope ever did. It was hard for him to find light in his world of deep shadow, for what rays would venture down below the opera? Or into the dangerous courts of Persia?

But if there was good in this life, as there certainly was evil, than Erik believe that the woman with the umbrella had to mean something. He would wait until the rain stopped.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama