Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.
Author's Note: I forgot how much I love PotO until I re-read the book recently. This takes place before Christine arrives at the Opera House and is based on Leroux's version of Erik.
An Ordinary Man
"You'll have to remove your cloak, monsieur."
Erik didn't want to remove his cloak. He wanted to blow out the candle and take this impertinent woman, this common hussy with the listless eyes, to her battered mattress so he could quench the fire that had plagued him for nights unceasing. He hovered close to her door, as dark and silent as a shadow, and watched her sit upon the bed in her tight, shabby red dress with a bored expression on her face that irked him slightly.
He despised himself for coming here, for seeking relief from the likes of this woman, but relief he must have at all costs. He couldn't sing, he couldn't play, he couldn't compose as long as the fire burned inside him, haunting his mind like a never-ending itch.
"Your cloak, monsieur," she repeated, looking up at him with those bored, dark eyes. "You should remove it."
"You must promise you will not run away," said Erik, and he could practically hear the gasp she had suppressed at the sound of his voice. He could almost feel his voice seeping inside her soul, a voice so beautiful that it ached, a voice more intoxicating than the gin bottles on her dresser, a voice from a demon who spoke like an angel.
A curious light shone in her eyes, a light that made her listless features look almost pretty, and her voice was nearly a whisper as she said, "I won't run away."
Oh, he had captivated her already with a handful of words! But Erik had captivated women before, women more beautiful than this tired harlot, until they saw his face and all was over. The last woman he had been with tore off his mask and threw herself out a window afterwards, unable to cope with the horror of his face. Another had set fire to her room to drive him away, for even a hell of smoke and flames was better than setting eyes on ugliness such as Erik's!
He flinched when he spied the mirror that stood against one wall, next to the dresser littered with gin bottles. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his reflection in a mirror, nor did he have any desire to remember, but he couldn't avoid the reflection that stared back at him through the holes in his mask. She was reflected in the mirror as well, her eyes fixed on the high-collared cloak and felt hat that concealed his mask, and Erik wondered how long her innocence would last, for the only features she could see were his eyes that burned like embers by the single fading candle.
"I haven't got all night," she reminded him, her face turning listless once more. Another dose of his voice would brighten her up immediately, though even an angel's voice wouldn't save her if she fell into curiosity's trap. Oh no, nothing could possibly save her if she gazed upon the face of Erik!
"You mustn't run away," he repeated, taking an amused sort of pride in the way her eyes lit up once more. He refused to look at the mirror as he removed his hat and cloak, keeping his eyes fixed on the prostitute's face instead, and his amusement turned to bitterness when she gasped at the sight of his mask. "Is something the matter?" he asked, a mocking edge to his voice. "Does my appearance displease you?"
Her gasps quickly turned into nervous laughter. "Monsieur, what is this? Are you so eager to protect your identity that you must hide your whole face?"
Oh, what an innocent this hussy was. Perhaps she thought he was a married man, desperate to keep his nighttime wanderings a secret from his wife. His wife! He would never dream of visiting this brothel if he had a nice, lovely wife to come home to, a wife who lived with him in a house above ground, a wife who would play the piano while he sang. A wife that Erik would never know, thanks to the hideous face he hid from the world.
"You laugh at me!" he cried, glaring at the prostitute. "You laugh at poor Erik, who hides his face because he must!"
She looked at him with wide, curious eyes, no longer bored. "Is Erik your name?" she asked. "You don't seem like an Erik."
"Then what name would you choose for me, mademoiselle? You appear to be such an expert on the matter."
"I'm not here to discuss names. Now if you'll remove your mask—"
"Never ask me that again," Erik snapped, enjoying the sudden fright in her eyes. "You will perform your duty while I wear the mask, or I will simply do business with one of the other harlots in this abominable house."
He could see the greed in her face. The greed that made her willing to tolerate the likes of Erik, as long as it put money in her purse and brought gin to her table, and she held out one of her hands with the palm facing up. "I expect my payment first, then," she said.
Erik wordlessly dropped some money into her palm, impatient to banish the need that ate away inside him, and allowed her to take him to her bed with its sagging mattress and faded sheets. He noticed that her eyes were brown, enhanced by too much makeup, and that the curls pinned to her head were blonde, the only feature that captured his interest. He had always been partial to golden hair. She made no effort to remove his mask, but he felt awkward in spite of his need and couldn't bring himself to touch her, though he had carefully covered his cold, death-like hands with a pair of gloves, and she quickly noticed his discomfort.
"You have never done this before?" she asked cautiously.
"Of course I have, mademoiselle," said Erik, offended. "I have taken many women, but no living woman has ever loved Erik. No human being has ever loved Erik."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Oh, I doubt that, but it doesn't matter to me if you're sorry or not. I want what I have paid for."
"Then be silent and let me do my job, monsieur," she said, pulling him down on top of her.
She smelled of perfume and alcohol, a sickening combination, but Erik soon forgot it as oblivion took over. It wasn't nearly as good as composing a piece of music, but he needed it all the same and let her take over his senses, making him feel like an ordinary man for just a moment. For Erik was a man just like any other, with the same wants and needs and carnal desires, just like any man who walked the streets of Paris, and this pathetic hussy didn't mind him as long as she had her money.
What a privilege it was to be touched! To have intimacy with a human being! Erik would gladly pay every franc he owned for this exquisite feeling of being wanted, of being caressed like he was a normal person. His own mother hated to breathe the same air as him, but this sinful woman, this lowly prostitute, allowed him to put his hands on her. His cold, dead hands that he hid beneath the gloves. Oh, if only he could feel like this always!
He rolled off of her and lay on his side, a wretched monster once more, and wept at the fact that a woman—an actual, living woman—allowed him into her bed and let him have what all men were entitled to have. He wept at all the times his mother had rejected him—his poor, tortured mother who would rather die than kiss him!—and all the harlots who had seen his face and went mad with revulsion. Soon this prostitute, this woman who let him into her bed, would grow curious just like the rest and all her greed would disappear, for the grandest fortune couldn't banish the memory of Erik's face.
A hand tapped him on the shoulder, so softly that he barely felt it, and a voice spoke in his ear.
"Monsieur? Are you... crying?"
What did it matter if he wept in her pathetic bed? He had paid for her services and gotten his money's worth, thus freeing her to mind her own business until he walked out the door. Normal men didn't cry after taking their time with a woman, but Erik wasn't like everyone else, nor would he ever be like everyone else, and this woman had no right to make inquiries about his tears.
"That is no business of yours," said Erik, holding himself stiffly so she wouldn't see how his body shook.
"You're not taking your money back, are you?"
"You have performed your duties adequately. The money is yours."
"It costs extra if you want to spend the night," she said, a note of desperate hope in her voice.
Erik shuddered at the suggestion. To visit a living woman's bed was abominable enough for a man like him, but to stay the night was unthinkable! He belonged in his cellar under the Opera House, in his coffin that served as a bed, where society was protected from his monstrous oddities. He belonged as far from this woman as possible, now that she had satisfied his need, and he rose from the bed so he could fasten his trousers and fetch his cloak.
"You're finished then," she said, watching him from the bed.
Erik put on his cloak and hat, hiding his mask from her dull, jaded eyes. "Yes, mademoiselle. I am finished."
She rummaged around until she produced a cigarette, something that no respectable woman would ever touch, and proceeded to light it with a match. How careless she was after they shared such intimacy! Erik wanted to strike her across the face, or shake her by the shoulders, or strangle her with the lasso he carried at all times, but instead he stood by the door and watched her blow smoke towards the dingy ceiling.
"Is there something else you need?" she asked, glancing at him.
"No," Erik murmured, and he slipped out of her room like a ghost, barely making a sound as he shut the door and walked down the rickety stairs. No, there was nothing else he needed, now that he had quenched the fire that burned inside him, but oh, there were so many things he still wanted. So many things he couldn't have, thanks to his detestable corpse face, and he slipped outside and into the shadows where he hoped to avoid the street lamps. It wasn't until he returned to his cellar and seated himself at his piano, ready to compose a new piece, that he remembered she had never tried to remove his mask, and something like a sad, bitter smile crossed his lips.
For once in his life he was an ordinary man, a man like any other, and the memory made him weep yet again, behind the mask that hid his tears.