The crowd of gypsies sped in pursuit as I led the boy away from the carnival. His cold, thin hand trembled in mine. To his bruised chest he clutched his shabby toy, pressing it close as small babes so when in fear. He seemed confused and I had to use all my force to drag him along the streets. I racked my mind on where I would hide him. Most anyone who saw his twisted face would throw him back into the gutter.
I dashed down the Rue Scribe. Standing like a great, dark titan was the opera. In desperation I flung open a sewer grate and helped the boy into the cellars. He looked at me from behind the sack he wore as a mask. His eyes were puzzled and frightened.
"Stay here." I whispered.
He nodded and I closed the grate. Swiftly I sped up the steps to the opera house. The gypsies shouted outside, wondering where we had escaped. It didn't matter now; we had escaped.
The next morning I awoke early from my room in the opera dormitories. I dressed and searched about for some supplies for the boy. I took a blanket, my extra bed pillow, and I took a shirt and a pair of boots from a crate of unneeded costumes. The clothes would be too large, but they would keep him warm. I felt a twinge of guilt as I wondered how the boy had slept in the cold cellars as I had lain comfortably above.
I removed a few coins from my wages and hurriedly visited a near-by cafe to buy a few rolls and some chocolate for the boy's breakfast. Then I opened the grate and entered the darkness of the opera catacombs.
"Boy!" I called, "Come out! It's me, the one who help you last night! I've brought some food and clothes for you." There was no answer, and I began to fear that he might have frozen to death, or fallen in the underground lake and drowned, or even left the cellars and ran away.
"Can you hear me?" I called, "Are you alright?"
A hand tapped my shoulder and I squealed in surprise. The boy was standing behind me. He looked startled by my cry, and flinched as I raised my hand to greet him.
"Oh, there you are!" I sighed in relief, "Are you alright? Were you too cold?"
He made no response, and simply stared at me from behind his mask.
"I brought you some things." I said gently, holding out my gifts.
The boy continued to gaze at me in a mistrusting way and made no move to take the presents.
"I'm not going to hurt you." I said slowly, wondering if he was an idiot and unable to comprehend his situation. "Look, I have some nice food for you. And I have some clothes so you won't be so cold. I have some things for you to sleep in too." I held the gifts closer to him. He shuddered and pulled away.
The boy was beginning to irritate me! He didn't seem to understand that I was trying to help him. I reached out my hand and tried to pull him towards the gifts. He flinched again, but allowed me to place the offerings in his arms.
We sat down, and I helped him sort through the things I had brought. I told him to put on the shirt and boots, which he did. He looked comical in them, for they were terribly large and were meant for an opera set in the fifteenth century. After he finished dressing I helped him find a suitable spot for him to make a bed. Once the bed was made I told him to eat. He did nothing that he was not instructed to do.
He turned his back to me while he ate, so that he could uncover his face. I looked closely at him. His hair was long and dark, matted with dirt, sweat, and possibly blood. His neck was caked in dirt, and every part of him that was revealed by the oversized shirt was marked with bruises and scars. His body was as emaciated as it was injured, and he proved that he was half starved by devouring the food I brought within seconds after I gave it to him. When he was through eating he reached again for his mask.
"You don't have to wear that, if you don't want to." I said gently. He paused for a moment, but pulled the mask on anyway. Then he turned to me, not daring to look me in the eyes.
"I won't hurt you, you know." I reassured. I spoke slowly, and with clear syllables, because I was sure that he was mentally incompetent. "My name is Lauret Giry, what's yours?"
He stared at me.
"Can you speak?" I asked.
He nodded slowly.
"Then, do you have a name?" I asked.
He nodded his head again.
"Will you tell me?" I spoke in my most coaxing voice that I might use for a small child.
The boy said nothing.
"Did you like your food?" I asked, hoping that I could get him to talk.
He nodded vigorously. Poor fellow. I thought. He probably hadn't eaten in days.
"Do you have a family?" as questioned.
He nodded, and his body tensed at the subject.
"Where are they?" I demanded, hoping that I could confront the people who had abandoned their child to such foul individuals as the freak show owners.
He looked at the ground and still refused to speak.
"Won't you speak to me?" I pleaded, taking his hand, "I want to help you."
A long, sorrowful sight emanated from behind his mask and he shook his head no.
So I've shocked everyone by writing something serious? Anyway, that's the first chapter. Should I continue or delete it off the face of the earth?
The word Idiot was used to mean a person who had mental disabilities. It's not politically correct, but it's historically accurate.
Dear everyone, I am VERY busy and do not have much time to write fics because I am trying to get a novel published. I will write some though. Ta-ta. M.