(This is for a Phantom of the Opera retelling I’m putting together. I hope you enjoy it!)

After surrounding him, ripping him apart, and taking him from his home, his mask lays unmarred on the rocky cave ground. His defining feature. I do not know where he is or where he shall be kept. In another cell? To the guillotine? I take this mask in my hands and weep. If only I hadn’t killed Raol. If only Phillipe understood my pain.

But while life stops for me, the river continues to flow.

When I wipe my tears away, I think of

Madame Giry. I imagine her face falling at the sight of me, reminded again that she is the ward of a cursed, loathsome girl. Meg will feign her relief, give me kind of hug that is obligatory, motivated by pity.

Maybe it is best that I do not return there.

So I lay my mask into the river, let it whisk it away into somewhere unknown. Someone will find it, cherish it more than I ever could. It has given me the ability to walk among the people of Paris, but now these catacombs are empty, someone will need to continue to keep it a home. Someone will need to be his mask.

I’ve decided that person will be me.

It is surprisingly easy to fasten it onto my face, not at all different from the one I once wore. It stands out against my face, not aiming to help camouflage me amongst the people. But it is beautiful.

And now I shall be the phantom in his steed, burning the world that hurt us to the ground.

He would be so proud of me.