1859
Behind a run-down stone house in Rouen, a young boy sat in the dirt and filth of a small garden. He wore no shoes, his clothes were sad rags, and his feet and hands were so dirty that they were nearly black. He was thin and pale, his lank black hair covering his face as he hunched over.
He was intent upon the work in his hands. Long fingers worked nimbly to stitch together the little doll he was making, his meticulous skill belying his young age. The cloth figure was to be a monkey playing the cymbals. Its torso and legs were already sewn together, and he worked now to fasten its head in place. The monkey, with its black button eyes, smiled serenely up at its creator.
The boy's mind whirred at a dizzying rate, taking in every detail of the project at hand, seeing and avoiding every area where he might make a mistake. He could not afford mistakes. If his creation pleased her, his mother might look at him with something other than horror in her eyes.
And the one thing that this little boy wanted most in life was for his mother to love him and be proud of him.
Inside the shabby house, a woman stared catatonically at a small advertisement that she had brought home many weeks ago. Her hair, as black as her son's, was tied back in a disheveled bun, the dry, oily strands flying every which way. Dark shadows around her bloodshot eyes starkly contrasted her ghostly skin. She was horribly thin, a wisp of a human being. Her sister standing before her, who was equally as poor and dirty, but marginally healthier, was the one to speak first.
"Are you going to go through with it, then?"
Still staring blankly at something that no one else could ever see, the first woman replied without emotion.
"I am."
The younger one cast a look outside from where they were seated.
"He certainly is a horror, sister," she said. A hint of conscience flickered in her demeanor for a brief moment. "But he is your son. Will you be able to live with yourself, knowing what you've done to your only child?"
Remaining in her placid state of indifference, the woman calmly answered.
"A son like him is no son of mine. Fetch him."
Her sister was taken aback for only an instant. But then, she thought, the whole affair wasn't really her problem. The boy was not her son, and she had no control over the situation. What could she do, anyway? Take him in as her own? The idea was absurd, not to mention unthinkable ― it would sorely damage her reputation among the neighbors.
While the older woman continued to stare at that invisible something across the room, her sister opened the rickety back door and called out to the boy, who was almost finished with his doll's head.
"Erik! Your mother wants to see you! But for pity's sake, put that bag back on your head before you do. You know how your face affects her."
Erik reached quickly for his burlap sack and pulled it over his head. His vision became bordered with black rings from the holes cut out of the makeshift mask. He usually was never parted from it, as he felt extremely uncomfortable without it on, but the outdoor air had been so cool and refreshing today that he just had to feel it on his face.
He sewed the last few stitches between his doll's head and torso before securely placing it inside the worn pocket of his pants and dashing inside.
His mother wanted to see him! He couldn't remember a time when his mother had actually wanted to see him. She usually never even wanted him in her presence. Every morning he was kicked outdoors, to go wherever he pleased and fend for himself on the outskirts of Rouen. He wasn't allowed back into the house until night fell. Then, his aunt would feed him whatever scraps she could find and send him to the attic, where rats squeaked in the walls and the window leaked when it rained.
And it was all because of his face.
Erik's face was hideously deformed. It had been that way since birth. This was not just a curl in his lip or a missing ear ― the entire right side of his face, stretching from above his left eye down to the jawline below his right ear, was consumed by horrifying ugliness. Stark ridges of pale skin contrasted sickeningly with valleys of deep scarlet-brown. His upper lip slanted upward in the right-hand corner, and a piece of his right ear was missing. The skin was very thin on the deformed side of his face, so that it bled if he did not scratch at it gently enough.
However, in the midst of all that, his most striking and beautiful feature shone through. His unique eyes were an intriguing shade of deep gold, constantly sparkling with emotion and thought. Through the eyeholes of his mask, Erik showed his soul to the world ― though the world had not treated it with kindness.
Since birth, Erik's mother had told him that his face was the reason why they lived as they did. It was the reason why his father had left them. It was the reason why she had squandered all the money she had, and why they had to live in their tumbledown stone shack. It was why she was depressed, why she was harsh and quick-tempered, why she drank too much, ate too little, and liked to inhale that powder that made her distant. Erik's face was why she hated life.
It was why she hated him.
And Erik believed her.
And why shouldn't he? Not even his aunt cared for him. He had no other living family, and the other children in the neighborhood stayed as far away from him as they could. If he summoned the courage to try to talk with them or join in their games, the other little boys laughed at him and scampered away. Sometimes they hurt him. Once in a while, a flicker of compassion might burn in the eyes of a young girl, but they, too, always ended up running away.
He had no real knowledge of kindness or mercy. Erik did not even know God's love, because his mother never took the time to teach him. He assumed that God was just another authority, like his mother or even his father, who hated him for his face like everyone else. This ambiguous "God," who was mentioned so frequently in town, took up a back part of his mind that was accessed very little, if at all.
The only thing that did not hurt Erik, or laugh at him, or fault him for his deformity, was music. Every Sunday, he hid in the bushes next to a small stone church near his home to hear the nuns sing in the choir. He did not understand what they sang about, but the music soothed his loneliness. He took to singing during the times that he walked alone through deserted alleyways or when he played by himself on the rolling grassy hills outside of town. At first, he sang the songs he learned from the choir. Before very long, however, his mind danced with notes of its own, with melodies, harmonies, and counterpoints that demanded to be released.
Erik was not allowed to sing at home. His mother complained that it worsened her headaches, and shrieked at him to be silent. He obeyed her readily, willing to do anything to please her. Though his aunt never said anything, she secretly thought that her nephew had the voice of an angel. However, she never encouraged him ― her sister was a fragile thing who was easily stirred into fits of rage by the smallest things.
And so, Erik began quietly creating, building things from what he found in his daily wanderings. It was the only activity that his mother allowed at the house, the only channel for the energy constantly coursing through his mind. She only insisted that it be done outside, in the back garden.
Erik had built many things in that garden. He most enjoyed constructing miniature buildings, most in quite stunning style ― one would never guess that he had such meager supplies with which to work. In fact, he had even figured out the trick of making little trap doors that opened and shut. With this, he was very pleased. Erik loved to think, to challenge his mind and set it to work. When he was creating something, he felt that anything was possible. He could pretend that he was a master architect building a grand palace for himself. He could pretend that he was a dashing gentleman crafting a lovely dress for a pretty girl. He could be anything he wanted to be.
Today was the third day that he had been working on a brand new endeavor. He was making a doll to impress his mother. If she liked it when he showed it to her, he would give it to her as a gift. The arms were not yet attached, but as long as his mother wanted to see him, as he had been told, then he would show her what he had done so far.
Erik burst through the back door into the small sitting room. As he ran to where his mother sat on the ragged loveseat, he began to speak excitedly:
"Maman, I have made something for y―"
"Erik, I have something I want to ask you."
She cut him off quietly as if he had not spoken. Immediately, he was silent, for his mother was easily annoyed if he talked and he wanted her to be happy when he gave her his gift.
After a pause, she spoke again.
"Would you like to go to a circus, Erik?"
Erik feared he had not heard her correctly. His mother, who would not allow him in her sight on most days…she wanted to take him to a circus? He blinked several times, speechless with his ecstasy, though no one could see it because of the shadows cast by the bag over his head. He had never been anywhere exciting before, and he certainly had never visited anywhere with anyone. He was always alone. His mother was the last person that he would ever have expected to want to go somewhere with him.
As Erik nodded, a warm glow filled his heart unlike any he had ever experienced. For the first time in his life, he felt wanted by his mother.
Erik was fascinated, frightened, and shocked by all of the things that he saw at the traveling circus that had just rolled into Rouen. The tumblers, the fortune-telling gypsies, the dancers ― everything about the making of a spectacle intrigued him. He felt a sudden longing to one day see a real professional show, perhaps an opera or a ballet. Then he remembered his face, and knew that such things would forever be the stuff of fairytales for him.
What he loved most about the circus were the animals. Though their cages were laced with gaily colored ribbons and banners, they looked up at him through the bars with eyes that shone in silent sorrow. They found a place in Erik's heart. Mighty kings of nature like the lion or tiger were here brought low by the desire of man, destined to wither away in a cell far too small for legs that longed to roam free with their brothers, a continent away. The wisdom of the chimpanzee and the brute strength of the gorilla had no room to breathe, to move beyond the rotten straw beds they were forced to call home. The injustice of it all touched Erik's young soul. In the way that the animals paced impatiently about their small prisons, Erik saw familiarity. In their wounded eyes, Erik saw himself.
Erik's mother took him by the hand to pull him away from the horses, whose noses he had been patting affectionately. At first he was frustrated with her ― after all, it wasn't every day that he could approach a horse without someone scolding him to go away ― but it lasted only for a moment. Erik realized that his mother was actually holding his hand. His hand had never been held before. He thrilled with the feeling.
His mother towed him to the front of a large marquee, one that sat in the middle of all the others. There, she stopped, and let go of his small hand. Awkwardly, she bent her legs so that she was level with him.
Her eyes were clouded and absent, as Erik had always remembered them, when she said, "I'm going in there for a little while now. Stay out here and be a good boy."
She started to rise, but something seemed to catch her, holding her for just a moment longer. She turned her head back to face Erik's and gazed into her son's beautiful golden eyes, which glowed with real joy for the first time in his young life.
Erik's mother did not know, nor did she care to consider, that what she did now would extinguish the joy from those eyes for many long, long years. She did not know that he would be beaten mercilessly, be forced to learn the art of murder for his own survival, and spend decades of his life alone in a house by an underground lake, pounding out his madness, anger, and soul-wrenching heartbreak on a black pipe organ. Countless men from every race would try to take his life, and only one woman would take his heart. The world would hate him for a face that was not his fault and fear him for the sins that were, and it all began with the choice his mother made on that autumn day in Rouen.
But something made her stop, just for a moment. In that moment, Erik saw his mother's dark eyes become clear for the first time. They focused, completely aware, as if she or God himself was forcing her to see what she did. In that second of clarity, she requested the one thing Erik had always wanted to give.
"Please give your mother a hug, Erik."
A smile spread across his face, a radiant smile that was filled with all of the joy in the world, though she could not see it because of the bag over his head. Erik fell into his mother's arms, feeling that he would cry for joy.
"Oh, Maman, I love you."
Then the moment was over, and she retreated into herself once more. Her eyes faded, and she fell back into her habitual manner as she separated herself from Erik before standing. She stepped into the tent and out of her son's life.
She made her choice, and set fate in motion.
Erik waited patiently for his mother, as minutes turned to hours and afternoon became evening. He sat down outside the tent's door, watching the circus people retire into tents of their own for the night. The sun fell below the horizon, and the people trickled out of the circus grounds. Erik remained ― one solitary child in the midst of a sleeping show.
As stars began to appear in the sky, Erik finally decided to look in on his mother to make sure that she was all right. He turned where he sat and softly lifted the door flap of the marquee.
A shabby fold-up desk, which seemed to be there more for giving the appearance of a professional's office than for actual use, sat on the grass floor a little way in. It was bare save for two empty whiskey bottles. A pot-bellied man in a threadbare jacket sat behind the desk, a third bottle in his hand. His flushed face was obscured by a thick, scraggly mass of beard. He peered at Erik with gleaming black eyes.
"Your mother's not here, boy."
Erik did not understand.
"You're mine now, boy. You're to be an oddity in my circus."
The truth began to slowly seep into the cracks and crevices of Erik's mind like a quiet poison. He refused to believe it, it simply wasn't true. This bad man with his drink was just toying with him, making fun of him like everyone else.
Erik stood up, entering the tent completely.
"You are nothing but a liar ― you just think it's funny, hurting me like everybody does. But no matter what you say, I know my maman loves me. She ―"
"She sold you to me for a bargain!"
The man's voice was loud in his drunken state.
"She wanted to get rid of you! Right ugly, you are, as she tells me."
Erik felt his heart splintering.
"N-no!" he shouted back at the man, his eyes brimming. "She loves me, she h-h-hugged me―"
"She sold you for forty francs! Me, I would have asked at least one hundred, but she didn't seem to be too bothered about how much you're worth."
He shook his head as Erik continued to babble in protest.
"You just don't get it, do you, boy?" the man said, his tone more reasonable this time. "Your mother's gone, she's left you."
A sob ripped from Erik's chest. Tears were trickling down his cheeks as he turned and ran outside as fast as he could, out of the light of the tent. His vision became blurred. He did not know where he ran, or why. He only knew that she, whom he had loved with all his heart, had left him and was never coming back.
In his blind grief, Erik tripped and fell. He did not get up. He sobbed into the ground until he heard footsteps behind him.
He smelled the man before he saw him. He tried to struggle as the pot-bellied man grabbed him, but the grip on his arm was fierce with drink. Before Erik could cry out, the man had torn the burlap bag from Erik's head. He could feel the putrid stench of alcohol on his face as the man cruelly inspected his face.
"You, my boy, are truly the most hideous excuse for a human being I have ever seen."
The man dragged his finger's down Erik's deformity. Little specks of blood formed on the thin skin. Erik whimpered.
"Please don't touch it," he whispered. "Please…"
"Just wanted to be sure it was real," the man said as he began to drag Erik along by the arm. "Yes, it'll be a nice cage for you. Can't have you escaping. Your mother said you were a smart one, and smart ones tend to try escaping…"
He kept musing as he tossed Erik into a tent, one with a sizeable cage inside.
"The Devil's Child…I like the sound of that. Of course, you'll only have to be behind bars during viewing hours. You can wander around your tent the rest of the time."
He threw Erik a thin blanket.
"Nighty-night."
Chuckling, the pot-bellied man left the tent, leaving Erik alone.
Erik wiped his tears with the heels of his hands. He had to be careful; the right side of his face was still bleeding. Lying down in the grass, he wrapped himself in the blanket as his sorrow consumed him.
After a moment, he became aware of an uncomfortable bulge in his pocket.
Drawing the object out, he saw that it was his monkey playing the cymbals. He laid it beside him under the blanket, staring into its black button eyes. A few more tears slid down his cheeks as he remembered that he had forgotten to give it to his mother.
Erik lay there on the ground, staring at his creation, until the birds began to sing, heralding the arrival of the dawn. The sound of their song soothed his aching heart. As always, music had come to comfort him.
As the sky slowly began to lighten, Erik sat up, holding the monkey in his lap. Slowly, the gears of his mind began to turn once more, the wounds in his soul beginning to harden as he gazed into his monkey's black eyes.
When he was creating something, anything was possible…
A new feeling entered Erik's heart as the sun rose. It was cold, invincible, and dangerous. The warm pools of gold in his eyes had turned to steely gems ― they held an unfeeling beauty.
People might leave him, but his creations never would. They would be his family. They would be his love. He would build an empire that would astonish the world, and all of it would belong to him.
But the world would never see him. The world had only ever hurt him when it saw him for what he was. He would walk apart from the rest of humanity. He would be a mere specter to them, a ghost. A phantom.
After all, a phantom had no heart. The heart of a phantom could not be broken.