Stranger
The curtain had fallen in the moment of his catharsis.
The Phantom was condemned to remain a phantasm.
A man was alive.
In all the ghastliness, in all bestiality, just a man.
Alive and in pain. Some things just go together. Birth, death, love - pain will follow.
In his heart, in his soul, in his mind... Something has altered within, and how it hurt! Not even physical. But not any less real.
Having forgotten what it was like to be just a man, he hid in the shadows - the old habit carved into his bones. For weeks of torment, many agonizing nights have passed sleepless. He couldn't find the reason... Not one single cause to stand on his own two feet and move on. All he knew was that he had to go and leave the ghost behind.
Holding the ring, watching the silhouette of the Opera palace from afar, the great cupola keeping the extent of destruction hidden from his eyes, he couldn't look at it without envisioning that grand chandelier being shattered into pieces. Just like his world.
Motionless, like an apparition in the night, he said his goodbye. I will carry you within me till my very end. But I must leave or I will die of sorrow.
The one he loved couldn't love him back. And yet she found courage for an act of mercy. Or at least she thought it to be mercy. Such a cruel thing.
He had to let go. It's over now. He had to say it himself, to shout it out, only that way could they believe it.
They were set free. He was left behind, unable to walk away from himself. And the curtain had fallen.
For him, the story wouldn't end there.
Where does one go when he has lost everything?
The instinct won over the tormented mind and the bleeding heart. Run - it was an instinct screaming. And run he did. Southern shores perhaps, all the way down to the Mediterranean, or the eastern borders, he still hasn't chosen. Just leave, it wouldn't be his first time to disappear for good. Or hide - somewhere along the way, never mind where as long as it wasn't near her.
He followed the Seine. Or went against it. The first boat and all the cargo, his own burden with him, it all went in the opposite direction. Against the flow.
Astray he was, all his life.
It wouldn't leave his mind. After the thick blindfold of deception weaved around her eyes had fallen, all the masks fallen to the ground...
Ripped of pretense and illusion, he had been revealed as just a man - a sad and lonely creature, condemned to his own dark misery. Yet, if she could have brought herself to kiss him that night, tell him that he is not alone, make him believe it for one precious moment... And then leave him so alone, yet so very alive!
Countless times had he wondered why they'd let him escape.
If she could have given him one moment to treasure... A broken man, sinful, the one who betrayed her in a way so unimaginable... Then why?!
Why had they condemned him to remain unlovable?
Why the very person who had created that gap within? He recalled little of his mother. He remembered a desperate and depending love, begging for crumbs of affection. It had been in vain. No arms to hold him. As if he'd come out of a snake's nest. Cold, alone, damned to loathing. But he had loved her once.
When a child is in pain, it cries. When no one answers, it keeps crying within. Is there a pain to match one of a hurting child?
What sin could he have committed towards his own mother? Blaming himself, unable to understand; he may not be worthy of her forgiveness, but damn it all if he does not deserve an answer!
Why didn't you love me? Look what I've become now!
Days after, the boat stopped. It could only go as far as the depths allow. To go all the way, he'd have to stand on his owm two. And he did. He just kept going. All but frenzied once on the solid ground. To the source. He made a hideaway, a lonesome spot waiting for a recluse. The lonely child of wilderness, there he settled. He could cry his heart out into the river, he thought. But the heart still remained within him. Perhaps hoping that his mind would find some peace away from the world.
This river was no Lethe. No promise of oblivion.
Then again, it was not the wrong waters after all. Years before, he had seen the ending. The place where the Seine flows into the sea. Now, he was looking at the other end. A river flows from a source, no matter how far and how wild. And then it ends, one way or another. Everything does.
Death would be the end, and why, there is much more pain in life itself. No, he didn't feel like dying. How strange, since he had already survived, he may just as well live. If she had let him get out of his dungeon alive, then he had no right to alter that. Almost as if they've obliged him to survival.
Convicted him to a life with himself, that is.
The idea came to his mind as he woke up under the bridge. A tramp he was, perhaps. Not seeking for shelter but for reason.
This was not the source he was looking for. He had to go where everything began.
Such a simple decision. It took all the courage. The first step the hardest part. Nothing pleasant waiting for him.
Once there, what? At one instant he felt like rampaging through the house of his birth in front of Mother's accusing eyes. And then, like falling at her feet and begging for whatever crumbs he might get. If only for a little sign of affection or belonging. It was maddening.
She might not even be there anymore. There might be no traces left.
It didn't matter. One can not sleep by the water and rely on hope that the current won't carry him away.
Either the gendarmerie or the leaking wooden boat, something would make him jump. He wouldn't wait for either.
And if this was merely an excuse to run away from his pit of despair, it was good enough.
Perhaps it was a only a desperate move.
With only a few items saved from his shelter, he was free. No souvenirs. Only one.
The ring. And the precious memories deep within.
He was walking the longest roads. Alone. In shades. Some things never change.
One thing had to.
His face was not covered by a mask anymore.
The mask... He had tried to make himself appealing before the eyes of a gullible girl who lived on her fantasy. She wouldn't have wanted too see the truth, he knew. The mask had been an illusion of normalcy. He didn't deserve it any longer.
Though humiliating to walk the world exposed, it was the only way now. He hid from the gazes under the shadow of his hat. My shame. My curse. Leave it open for the world to see. They ask less questions then as if the shame is transferable or the horror contagious.
The dry winds irritated his eye and mottled it with tiny red vessels, the tears leaking incessantly. Just like the heart. Cracked and weeping.
That fateful night, his grand finale as a Phantom... He has been overflown, never having felt so many things in his life... Too much all at once and it crushed him! Touching, grasping, kissing, cowering, sweating, bleeding, crying, tearing, excitement, anxiety, yearning, betrayal, despair, detest, pleading, hoping, devastation... Overloaded!
Christine had tossed the first stone and it all came down on him with full weight like an avalanche.
Something had broken within him.
The soles of his feet hurt but he kept on walking. Pain... it's good.
Physical pain kept him distracted from the bleeding wound within his chest, a scar thrived inside of him and he wondered if anything would be left of his heart once the scars prevail.
With every step he was leaving the Phantom behind.
A broken spirit remained.
His body protested against his self deprivation. His mouth felt dry. His head felt just as heavy as his legs. Rarely he resorted to spending the night close to people.
They lived so simply, so unknown to him, his curiosity would lead him closer still, observing. Simplicity and a home no matter how humble, seemed to be a gift, bringing peace - something he would never have.
He wasn't lost, just carried away. Deliberately changing the direction, perhaps, weeks have turned into months. As long as he was moving, when or where to didn't matter much. Drifting. Aimless.
Maybe it was a path of repentance. It had nothing to do with the God he didn't believe in, nor was there faith that the destiny of a lost soul could be changed.
But he began understanding the power of moving on his own two, led by something unexplainable.
He gave in to the drift, walking on sidetracks, left and right from the Seine, through the woods, across the paths, around the villages, where common life was led - so very simple it seemed, such fascinating simplicity... Yet always returning to the main course. But not near Paris again, he wouldn't come close.
After a lifetime of avoiding people like a timid wolf, he had gotten used to the idea of sleeping in a barn and stretching out on the hay rather then spending his nights out, engaging in physical labor in exchange for a meal on his plate and a night in a dry place. As if he had forgotten and now remembered how it feels to work for his living.
He learned a lot. To earn what one needs. That simply.
Approaching the people, softened by the shatter, he was interested in the easy way they correlate, learning to say as much as a simple «thank you».
Even a starving wolf comes closer to the village.
In his exile, he had never lost that feeling of tension. There was always the risk, he knew and didn't care. Though he knew one thing: he would not be brought to trial, he would not allow them to expose him or execute him.
He'd rather seal his own fate.
There was still something alive in him. Darn that defiant pride! Or the mere remnants of it.
Isolated for years, he was now thrown into the world without mercy, unshielded like a newborn, forced to mingle with people.
People had been cruel to him, the evidence imprinted into his skin and his soul.
He hated to be stared at but the world rather chose to avert their eyes. They either shun or pity. How he hated pity!
Sometimes, though rarely, there would be neither, when he'd get away as any other, normal human. They had no reason to think otherwise, he gave them none.
No angels, no ghosts that would be associated with him.
No longer was he a starving beaten boy, nor a skinny young man on the run and discovering the world.
He was not in a cage and they wouldn't laugh at his misery ever again.
Taking the role of a man, a common worker, he tried to attract as little attention as possible. Out of the city, people bothered with their simple lives instead of affairs in Paris. It was not a part of their world. Here everything had a simple cost.
He'd buy himself a warm and dry place for the night. That's what his life came to... He had nothing.
Yes, everything had it's cost but it was not always estimated in money.
Safety had a price. Christine's kiss had a price, just as her boy's life had it, and it was very high. His pride... He had little left, had he?
Perhaps the act of self-sacrifice and letting go was the only honorable thing to do, but it hurt so much.
It hurt to feel, to think, to try to get her out of his mind.
The latter was futile, he could as well try to rip his own heart out of the chest.
To forget was impossible.
It hurt being a man.
Deeper into the unknown he wandered. Further away. Names of places couldn't mean any less to him. Nothing seemed as desolated as his mental prison in those cold cellars.
«Further away» was good enough for him.
A twist of Fate made him turn from the road and come across another forgotten place.
This time he was headed towards a little wooden house on the edge of the forest. It seemed a better option then walking into a village out in the open land. He preferred to keep distance.
Prying around a bit, he discovered a woman in a garden, no signs of a man or children anywhere around. She already noticed a stranger and as there was no chance for him to get around unseen, he decided to try his luck.
It seemed ridiculous to rely on his damned luck, it hadn't done him much good. Though he was still alive and mostly in one piece.
The woman was the first one to speak out, squinting from afar. "Looking for my help at this hour? It would kill you men to come while the day is still clear and I can have a better look, eh?"
"Bonsoir, Madame." The sound of his words did not fit his appearance. He knew he must have looked like a vagabond on the first sight, dusty and unshaven.
Not that it mattered, without the mask, without a reason to leave an impression of what he aspired to be, he couldn't care less. "No, just passing by and looking for a place to settle for the night."
He felt a chance coming along. There was that awkward moment of silence that preceded the point where he'd get a little advantage.
A foundation for a believable lie.
And he was a damn good liar.
He could wait. People always made presumptions and they'd give themselves away, hearing what they wanted to hear. But maybe he wouldn't have to build a shameless structure of falsehood, after all. Sometimes it would build itself on it's own, though.
"Come closer." She was taking him in as he stepped out of the shadow.
How brave of you, woman, can you already tell?!
"And it has nothing to do with that inflamed eye?"
She said nothing about his face, although he noticed how her eyes widened in unpleasant surprise for a second when she saw what's hidden under the hat, blatantly been examined him for a few moments until deciding that she had seen worse things in life.
It was frustrating, how come that people have «seen worse» all of the sudden?!
The infamous trait of causing horror was his curse and sometimes even a privilege.
How could this be happening now? Or is it possible that people's hypocrisy goes to this extent?
That it is absolutely horrifying to see a face like his on a child, on an angel, under the masque of a «Don Juan»?
But a vagabond, a commoner can simply get away with it?
It angered him to be stared at, he looked away but kept calm.
"May be, it is troubling me more than usual for days." There, on the plain truth a nicer kind of lie would weave itself.
"Come inside and I'll see what I've got for that." She stepped towards the house inviting him in.
He hesitated. "There really is no need..." He all but started walking away, knowing that he can't allow the anger show, not now.
"Look, I can wait but the night won't, come inside while I call out for my girl and boil the water." Trying to maintain conversation, she presumed he must be one of those men who would follow a chance for a job here and there, moving on from time to time. "Looking for work?"
How insane, he was convinced, to have it all going so normally. "You could say so."
As he found himself in a company after such a long time of silence, he realized how much he had missed simply forming a voice, hearing another turn to him. How strange for an isolated introvert.
Before, long before, it had usually been Madame, his loyal accomplice and the closest thing he had to a friend. What must you think of me now, Madame?!
Then there was Christine who naively confided in him all of her troubles, doubts and longings until she finally realized what he really was.
Only a few words... with another person. So little, so much contained in it.
Now he was sitting by a table, next to a fire, under a roof, talking over a cup of chamomile tea.
Simple interior rich with peculiar details, countless plants placed in the jars or hanging from the walls and beams. Some he recognized, but some were equally unfamiliar to him. The soothing smell of herbs overwhelmed and intoxicated him. His hostess, Josephine, had to be a local herbalist.
As he was to take a sip, she stopped him "No, this one is for your eye, take this kerchief, soak it in and hold it over your lids. I'm making another one for us." "So, just passing by, you say?"
He was more comfortable as he held a piece of fabric over his eye and partly over face.
More of himself, when less of him was revealed.
As she kept asking, he was telling a story only close enough to the truth not to be an obvious lie. Something ordinary and easy to believe in.
All along feeling examined, the way she listened to him seemed like she was paying more attention to the way he spoke than the content itself. What a strange sensation.
Suddenly the rain started beating on the windows and he heard someone enter. Caught unprepared, standing there about to take something from his bag, immediately forgetting what, surprised by a presence of someone else and as he looked upon the doorway, he remembered his hostess mentioning «her girl» earlier on. How could he forget?
The first thing Isabelle felt when she entered the house was a strong stream of shivers in her spine as she found herself staring face to... what ever was left of the face that was staring back at her with cold expression.
A Stranger.
Yes, there was something wrong with his face but it was his cold eyes that were unreadable. Suddenly uncomfortable, she felt observed by him.
She didn't like being watched.
It was supposed to be just another ordinary evening and now it was disrupt. She didn't like change.
She didn't like strangers.
Both of them turned to Josephine as she introduced them and briefly explained that "Monsieur" will be staying through the night, in the attic, of course, since there is no free room in this matchbox of a house.
Isabelle gave her a look, the meaning of which was confusing to the man who wasn't even supposed to see it.
She drew back. Alone, in silence, no questions.
Stay invisible, keep away. Leave it be.
What was she to do? Trying to follow her own work, the girl couldn't relax until the newcomer retrieved. It didn't take him long. As if he knew that he must go.
As his hostess led him upstairs he remarked that the girl must be scared of him. She sighed speaking under her voice. "She can get quite timid from time to time. Leave her be."
"You daughter?"
"No. But very dear to me."
A protégé, almost like a daughter. That sounded too familiar. He needed something to keep his thoughts from running back in time.
"Your roof is leaking." He declared it as the most natural situation in the world.
"Indeed it is. There is no man in this house to take care of such things so I improvise."
A few old cans were set in all the critical places.
She looked at him, then at the roof again, already arranging the bargain in her mind.
A man was exactly what she needed. And right before her was a man in need.
Life is quite simple when you bare it to the core, she'd often say.
"So, you're skilled with tools, you say?" Her finger pointed up to the roof. "If you can fix that I promise to feed you and wash your clothing."
He gave an examining look over the top of their heads. It was madness. This was not the life he knew. It hasn't stopped him. "If you mean all of the holes your roof is made of, it will take quite some time."
"Look, I don't usually have strangers stay in my house and I demand that you respect that, but... Food and lodging? I can't pay you in money. Think about it."
It was acceptable. It would keep him occupied.
Just another little turn on his way...
He took in his newly arranged occupation and already noticed the troublesome failure in the structure. It was a wreck. So was he. "I'll think about it."
She went downstairs to warm up some water for him and find some covers. Isabelle quit sorting the linden flowers on the table and gave her an inqusitive look.
"You needen't worry about him, girl."
"He is a stranger." Her haven shook up and there was nothing she could do.
Since she didn't seem to believe, Josephine revealed a little mischief.
"I have put a little extra valeriana in his tea." It would grant him a night of good sleep, and some security to them. She doubted that the trick performed on the guest would do much for the girl, though.
The girl covered her mouth in a shock. "How much does «a little extra» mean?"
"He'll sleep like a baby." Josephine gave her a perfidious smile. "What?! He looked exhausted. Poor devil, it looks like fortune hasn't smiled upon him recently. At least he'll get some proper rest now." Then she quit defending her own insidious act and stated calmly: "You look like you need some yourself."
Isabelle knew that the woman standing in front of her would listen only to her own hunch. Sadly, she couldn't trust it. "How long will he be staying?"
"As long as it takes."
As the rain poured down beating on the window panes, Isabelle was tossing and turning on her cot, trying to sleep, then to read, all in vain, she couldn't relax nor concentrate with her restless thoughts.
Just when she managed to relax and adjust to the routine, trying to get a hold on her life... The steady balance threatened to sway dangerously. It didn't seem fair.
Then she gave up, closing her eyes and waiting for the ennui to do it's aim. Nothing helped. How could it possibly?
She decided to have some of that tea, stalking out of her room without a single sound. There was a stranger in the house and she couldn't get used to the idea. A man.
Everything changed.
Up on the attic a dark lonely creature listened to the sound of raindrops falling into a wooden bucket out of any regular rhythm. He was homeless. It just hit him. Exiled from his lair, he had no place he could call home anymore. He had no friend.
No lover. He winced at the mere thought of Christine's kiss, pressing a clenched fist to his lips and his forehead, shutting his eyes.
No love.
Not even his mother had wanted him near. And that certainly wouldn't change now.
He had survived on his own many times before, he'd do it this time, but... It was so damn hard to find a reason to move on.
Only with regrets and an aching heart.
He was alone.
He took the ring out, as he did many nights before. A sad little ritual.
Keeping that cold item and watching it glint in his darkness, it symbolized his loyalty to the one he would never have. He held the ring in the centre of his palm, right there where she had placed it and folded his fingers around herself to make sure he kept it there once she's gone. He did the same now, condemned to relive the scene every night.
No gentle hand to hold his own.
Tired and miserable, he finally let the sleep overcome him.