His face that earned a mother’s fear and loathing. A mask, his first unfeeling scrap of clothing. Phantom, pity does not come too late! I am here! I am your fate!
It is love at first half-dinner-platter. It’s my first time watching you, and I weep until my eyes are so tender they look like fresh-baked empanadas. You bow and the lights turn bright and everybody claps and cheers and then it fades. They collect their things and go out into NYC, to what? To eat? To booze it up? To try and forget your pain? I cannot. I cannot move. I cannot breathe the same. I’m glued to this seat, fastened by my Broadway-sized lastima, chained to your nightly music. They are audience members, but me - I am your soul mate.
She didn’t pick you, P. Christine Daaé totally screwed up, she lastima-less, she’s shallow enough to choose Raoul, and she sucks. And after you guys had passed the Point Of No Return? I would never!
She left you alone. Another woman you can’t trust, and you, sir, you are deep, you are passionate, you are troubled. But in a sexy way! So you live in a cave? We all have problems. So you like to torture theatergoers, maybe murder one or two? I’m very moody the day after I drink wine. So you tried to hold a girl hostage, force her to marry you? I once wrote an ex-boyfriend a 23-page letter. That’s love. Nobody is perfect.
Phantom, you are misunderstood. You are broken but you are worthy. Sure, you’re a tad controlling and a little possessive, but I forgive you. I’d decorate your dungeon and swallow back my barf whenever you wanted to take your mask off. I’d spook the world next to you!
Suddenly my dreams are interrupted by an usher with a broom who tells me I must go, the theatre is closing. He doesn’t understand us! But a management-looking fella seems concerned so I limp up the aisle, drained, and make my promise: I will think of you fondly. Sometimes I will tape a folded paper plate to my own face and pretend I’m your other half. Your Angel Of Music. Because everybody deserves to have someone they can hold onto, regardless of their darkness. It’s where the light comes in.
p.s. Raoul calls her Little Lotte? C'mon, Christine, Phantom would have come up with a WAY better nickname.
p.p.s. I may be too into this.