Music is the Sincerest Form of Flattery (A Phantom Phanfiction)

5: Mistake After Mistake

Once upon a time, the mere thought of someone leading Erik somewhere in plain sight was completely laughable.

Not much anymore.

Mary Callier stepped behind him and locked his arms with an unexpectedly iron grip, as the doors slammed shut behind him. Staff and stagehands littered the room, cornering him if he attempted to make any escape. Apart from that, the lobby looked as normal as ever, just slightly more boring, now that there was no fear of the Phantom of the Opera in the air.

Because as hell was he going to let himself be led into a trap.

He heard the excited titters of the managers as they made their way to him. He backed away and glared at the ballerina who looked almost proud in the presence of the monster unleashed.

They were trying to corner him, weren't they? They'd forgotten one thing, though: the phantom knew this place better than any of those stupid mongrels.

What were they going to do to him?

Anything, really, he didn't care. The point was they wouldn't be able to. With a silent roar, as the managers spotted him and him they, he started to unleash the Phantom.

Since Mary was the closest to him, that little smug expression, God, and since he was throwing another tantrum...

The details were unimportant. It was not clean, let that be clear. It was over as the managers reached the bottom of the stairs, shock and terror in every inch of their expression.

And then Erik started to laugh.

In a swish of his cape, he vanished into the night.

Because that was what happened when you messed with the Phantom of the Opera.

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Erik awoke.

Sweat gleamed on his forehead and his heavy breaths were sharp.

When would it ever stop? It had been three month since he... rid the world of Mary Calliar and still every night it haunted him. It didn't happen when he killed Buquet. It didn't happen when he killed Piangi.

In his mind, he ran through the list of every single person he killed since the time in Persia. It was a long list. And he couldn't even remember everyone.

Not helping, he panted. Not helping at all.

So in all these deaths he had caused, why did the one of a mere, infuriating, pesky, extravagant, irritating, traitorous, ugly, and smelly (the list could go on) ballerina whom he did not care about at all bother him so much?

He knew why.

He was trying to redeem himself, so there was even the slightest chance Christine would go find him. But that slip up, that significant slip up ruined all chances of that. He might as well had killed Raoul instead, either way she would not love him.

After he had made his dramatic exit in the opera lobby, Erik had moved into a small underground home he had started building before he went to America. He had forgotten about it until then, and all it needed was some of his genius finishing touches before it was good as before. He stayed there since, never going out and almost starving himself to death with some stale bread once every few days.

Today he decided to go back out.

He wore his usual black clothing but chose a larger hat that, if he tipped it in an ugly angle, almost covered his mask. He told himself he was going to buy some food but of course, he knew the real reason.

It was Christine. Always Christine. And although she wasn't in Paris, perhaps there would be news of the famous soprano, who had turned flighty in her last performance.

Erik stepped out into the day and though it was not too warm, it was bright, and he was soaked in sunlight. He had forgotten what the outside world looked like.

He didn't attract as much attention as last time, thanks to the hat. It was a cold day, too, and many people were hustled in cloaks as he was.

He'd barely had time to enjoy the light when a boy rushed into the crowd of people. He was sobbing and crying so heavily he tripped over his own feet. He was wearing nowhere near enough in this weather. Neglectful parents, no doubt.

But then the boy raised his head and Erik found himself looking into the eyes of his son.