I had awoken in probably the most confused state in my entire life. A myriad of emotions swam through me, but I couldn't help but wonder where they came from and why.
I glanced out the window. The first rays of dawn crept across the sky, more beautiful than any artist could have painted on a canvas. For a moment I was awed by the profound beauty of it all… and then I felt, suddenly, that I desperately wanted to share the moment with someone. Almost immediately my heart sank. No one was here at this hour; Raoul had gone on a business trip and wouldn't be back until tonight, no servants had arrived yet, and my dear, sweet Charles was off at that dreadful English boarding school.
At the thought of my son, I decided that I wasn't going to try to go back to sleep, rather, I would write him a letter. For some reason it seemed of the utmost importance. I got up, tearing my gaze from the rising sun and sat down at a table near the other end of the room. I lit a lamp, then took a piece of paper from a pile on the desk, found the pen and was about to dip it in ink when it hit me.
I had a dream.
Every detail came back at me full force and I struggled not to cry. Instead of writing a letter to Charles, I quickly decided to write down my dream first. After all, Charles will still be there later today, but with each passing moment, I feared I would forget some important detail or exchange of words. With a trembling hand and trembling heart, I dipped the pen in ink and began the tale my mind had conjured up during the night.
The clock struck nine. A little boy with golden hair and clear blue eyes was being jostled in a crowd at some sort of fair.
"Philippe?" he called, an edge of panic to his voice, "Philippe, where are you!?"
The poor boy looked frightened to death while he made a futile attempt to search the crowd for his older brother. Eventually the flow of people whisked him into a tent where a large, dirty man with an unkempt beard urged, "Come! Come inside and see the Living Corpse!"
After everyone had entered, the large man walked in himself, closing the flap behind him. Inside, there was a cage with a figure slumped over inside it. He had a bag over his head and his dirty body huddled on the hay-strewn floor as far from the bars as possible. A desperate cry was heard again.
"Philippe!"
"Shut up, you little brat," a voice snapped.
"I bet a look at this kid'll shut 'im up quick, eh?" another sneered.
The little boy from before was pushed against the cage bars, his face nearly squeezed completely through. He was crying now. Then the bearded man entered the cage.
"Get up," he growled to the boy inside. When no response was given, he snarled and kicked the caged boy savagely, earning a hoot of pleasure from the onlookers. He grabbed the bag on the child's head- for he couldn't be more than twelve years old- and yanked his head up by his scraggly hair.
There were gasps of shock and horror, one woman fainted and children started crying when the boy's face was revealed. It was hideously deformed, words cannot describe it, but the look of pain and utter despair in his eyes made my heart lurch. A few bold patrons laughed and threw garbage at him while he desperately tried to cover his face. The man only beat him.
When the audience grew bored, they trickled out, dropping coins into the cage as payment for the entertainment. The greedy tormenter scooped it all up and shot a menacing glance towards the boy on display. He had put the bag back on, but I could have sworn that I saw tears streaming down his malformed cheeks. The man exited the tent, but one other person was left behind- the blue-eyed boy searching for his brother. He looked at the other boy, his eyes filled with pity. At last, the masked boy spoke.
"Are you waiting for a private performance?" he demanded bitterly, however his voice hauntingly sweet.
"What they did you was wrong," the other one said softly.
"Really? I didn't notice," the caged boy spat.
"No one should have to deal with that…." The golden-haired boy's gaze fell to the floor and lingered there for a moment. Suddenly, his head shot up. "What is your name?" he asked.
"The Living Corpse," the caged one sneered.
"No, no, your real name. The one your mother called you."
"Which one? Wicked little beast? Monster? Troublesome burden?" The deformed boy hid under a mask of coldness, although the underlying grief was apparent. The other boy sighed and swallowed hard.
"Please, I just want to know your name," he said. "Mine is Raoul."
The caged boy remained silent for a long while. Then a shout pierced the silence.
"Raoul!"
"Philippe!" Raoul breathed. "Um… I have to leave-."
"Erik."
The sandy-haired boy looked surprised.
"What?"
"My name…," the deformed boy continued, "is Erik."
Raoul gave Erik a small, sad smile. "Well, Erik, it was nice meeting you. I guess this is goodbye then."
"Yes… I suppose it is…"
"I wish you the best of luck. And… I'll try to see if I could do something about… this…"
Erik remained silent as Raoul remorsefully exited the tent and ran to his brother's side.
I felt my eyes tear up after rereading what I had wrote. I'm not an expert storyteller or authoress, but I believed I had captured my dream justly.
I couldn't believe the scenario. I couldn't believe it because I could believe it, if that made sense. I had once found out my Angel of Music's past connection with the gypsies through a slip of the tongue and how everyone including his mother couldn't stand the sight of him. Raoul was also very compassionate and piteous, even to the point where sometimes I worried about him. He couldn't stand the sight of beggars on the street and if he couldn't at least give them a few francs, he'd feel horribly guilty for a long time after.
Scanning it a final time, I couldn't help a tear fall from my eye. Perhaps I will share my dream with my husband, perhaps I would not. And I couldn't help but thinking, if under different circumstances…