The
Phantom sat on the set’s throne within the bowels of the opera house and
wrapped his cloak around himself while the company roared threats in the wings.
A venomous fog rolled from the stage lip as eerie blue-green light bathed the
stage. I burst through the door of the chamber. Behind me the other members of
the cast followed. Mary Murray, playing Christine, stood mesmerized, staring
into the full-length mirror.
“Christine!” I said, stopping at my
mark holding a sword before me. Mary turned from the glass—a single pin spot
shown upon her face from the batten above her.
“Raoul!” said Mary.
“Is he…?”
“He’s gone,” she said, pointing to
the throne. I looked and the cloak hung limp on the seat—the illusion of the
phantom’s disappearance complete.
“The Opera Ghost?” asked Steve. Playing
Erik, from the crowd.
“Gone,” she said again softly, “vanished
into the bowels of the earth.”
“You loved him?” I said.
“I pitied him,” Mary replied,
looking into my eyes. I stepped toward her and she stepped toward me, raising
her arms. I sheathed my sword and we fell into am embrace and my head bent
toward her face. “I love you, Raoul.”
“I love you, Christine. The phantom…he
will not harm you now. I will protect you forever in my arms.” I continued in
toward what should be a kiss as the lights faded to black and the house curtain
dropped. I could hear the thunderous applause behind the drape as we ran form
the stage to prepare for our bows.
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