Today's prompt: garrote/choking/gagged

For today's one shot, I decided to make it based on Susan Kay's novel Phantom; however, this will still make sense to anyone who has not read the book. I hope you guys enjoy!

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I rolled from my right side to my left, my eyes boring holes into the wall beside the bed. I laid there for some time—I couldn't tell precisely how long—before I eventually flopped lazily onto my back and stared for a while at the ceiling. My memory searched to recall when it last was that I had been able to sleep through the night.

It had been a great many years ago—I knew that much. I hadn't slept through the night since I was a young boy; most likely not since infancy. There was always some memory haunting my mind, always a nightmare from my past plaguing me.

Tonight was no different.

I turned back onto my right side after what I guessed was about twenty minutes or so—though it may very well have been longer,—and my eyes immediately fell on the candle resting on my bedside table.

My closest friend, Nadir,—well, my only friend, really—always warned me of the dangers of going to bed with a lit candle beside me. "Erik," he would tell me, "one of these days, you're going to knock that thing over and burn yourself to a crisp in your sleep."

"Well, Daroga," I always replied, "all things considered, there are worse ways to go."

Laughing commenced, naturally, but every time this conversation took place, I couldn't help but detect a hint of concern in Nadir's eyes. To this day, I'm left to wonder why the thought of my death seems to worry him so much. However, despite my friend's concern, I never listened to his warnings.

Having a candle beside my bed was somewhat of a comfort, and I didn't want to give it up. Every night, when I inevitably awoke from a nightmare, I could just lay in bed and watch the wax slowly drip down the side, sometimes dripping off of the candlestick and onto the wood beneath.

There was something oddly calming about staring at it.

I drifted off into a light slumber after around half an hour of observing the dripping wax. This was exactly how it happened most nights. And, as per usual, I woke up with a start a little over an hour later.

The nightmares had been getting worse over the past few months. This night's special feature was one of the many times when the Persian shah had made me execute a servant years ago. I remember it more vividly than any of my other "performances", because I learned only minutes after the servant's death that he'd had a family.

I was told that the man's pregnant wife had been in the back of the room and had watched as I garroted her husband. The shah had threatened her into staying, apparently.

It wasn't until after I'd been told this information that I remembered hearing the distinct sound of sobs cutting through the cheers of the shah's court as the servant's life was taken by my own hands. There were also screams, I realized after some thought, and I'd been told that they came from the servant's young daughter.

I always felt remorse for my actions, but in the past, I'd managed to justify it with the knowledge that I would be punished if I didn't do those awful deeds. That evening, though, I wept as I never had before.

That event haunts me until this day, and it was the present reason why I was incapable of sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was the servant's face as I murdered him in cold blood. The screams and sobs of his wife and daughter were just as clear as they were that day.

Finally giving up on sleep altogether, I got out of bed and wandered into the main room of my underground lair. My gaze focused on my pipe organ and the sheet music for my opera. Instinctually, I strode over to the instrument and sat upon the bench.

This was always the next step in my nightly routine; I would sit at my organ and either compose, or I would stare at a blank sheet of paper for awhile, hoping to cause a melody to miraculously manifest itself on the page.

Tonight, I chose the latter option. However, I became bored of it unusually quickly and instead decided to break my nightly routine. Fancying a turn about the opera house, I changed into a set of more formal clothing, donned my black cloak, and set out on my journey through the catacombs.

I tried to keep my thoughts away from the horrible nightmare I'd had, but despite my best efforts, my mind kept drifting back.

The wails of the servant's family combined with the cheers of the rest of the onlookers were echoing through my head as loud as the Garnier's orchestra on the opening night of an opera.

Tears pricked my eyes, and a lump formed in my throat. Regret sank in my gut like a heavy stone.

I was mere moments away from dissolving into tears when I heard a soft voice float through the walls. It was not a voice I easily recognized, and so I quickly ascertained that it was the newest of the chorus girls—a young, pretty thing by the name of Christine Daaé.

She was singing a song, which I recognized to be a piece from Faust, 'Alerte, Alerte, Ou Vous Êtes Perdus!'

A splendid choice, in my opinion.

I pressed my ear against the wall in order to better hear her voice. As I listened, my tears slowly dried and the smallest of smiles crossed my lips. I had considered joining in with her to fill the periodic lulls in her singing—she was only singing Marguerite's parts in the song,—but I quickly decided against this, as it would probably frighten the girl half to death. I resolved to simply pay attention to her little performance.

By the time she had reached the end of the piece, my opinion had been fully formed. The girl's voice was breathtaking, to be sure. In fact, it was certainly one of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard. However, the girl was in obvious need of training.

It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this might be a task I could handle. It would be the perfect little project that may help to distract me a bit from my nightmares. More than that, I thought it could be a good way to begin bettering myself. It only became a question of how I was to go about offering her lessons.

But that, I decided, was a problem for another day.

I heard Christine's footsteps softly drift away, signaling that she was leaving the chapel. When I was sure she was gone, I activated the mechanism for the hidden door in the wall, and I stepped into the room before I closed the panel behind me.

I could still see Christine's fleeting figure a long way down the passageway as I turned my head toward the main entrance. As she fled, I could only hope that perhaps, by some miracle, helping this girl would allow me to forgive myself for my past sins.