Only the last sunrays of the days remained, softly illuminating the garden at the other side of the window. The old woman sat on her bed, putting down her beloved Bible to observe her lilacs glow in the dusk, as it was her only entertainment now that her exhausted legs had given up on her. After a whole lifetime of carrying her and the infinite weight of her dark consciousness, her fragile legs could do no more.
And so she observed, seeing life going by while she remained chained to the bed that has been too lonely and too cold for too long. Sometimes, at night, she almost thought that if she stretched her arm far enough, she would feel the sleeping figure of her husband, still as young and handsome as he had been the last time he had smiled to her that heart-warming smile.
Two knocks sounded at the door, waking the tired woman from her beautiful daydream. The smile immediately erased from her severe face, and in an equally dry tone she called for the maid to enter the room.
"Madame," called the servant, standing with her hands neatly folded together, "there is a man at the door who wishes to speak with you."
"Tell him to go away. I wish to see no one," answered the old woman, her head moving back to look at the window.
"But, madame," insisted the maid, "He… He says it is of the utmost importance that he speaks to you, and he is very insistent. And, madame, forgive me for this, but I… I do not want to make him angry. He is… he is kind of scary, with that strange mask and-"
The woman's head jerked as if the words had sent an electric shock through her; the movement so aggressive and unexpected that the maid nearly thought, unconsciously taking a step back and losing her perfect composure for a second, that the woman's neck would break in half.
"Bring him here. Do not speak a single word to him," ordered the woman, with the dryness of her voice almost painful to hear and the slight shake almost imperceptible.
The maid said nothing else. She left and closed the door behind her, just as she had been instructed to do since her first day working for the old, unloved woman five years ago.
Mask.
Mask.
Mask.
The stranger wore a mask. A mask, just like in all her nightmares, in all her dreams. And he was a man. Yes, he would be a man by now, of more than 40 years if her memory had not left her yet. But no, of course not, her memory would never leave her when it was about him. Him, who was supposed to be a blessing and turned a curse. Him, who was to be as good as her and as strong as her husband; as beautiful as the infinite love they shared. But instead he was hideous and weak, always sick in that pathetic excuse he had of a body; always dragging himself through the floor to beg in that angelic voice of his for the crumps of a love she did not have.
The door opened slowly, and as soon as the woman saw the disgusting, skeletal figure with the black mask standing in her threshold, her throat tightened in an overwhelming emotion she could not name.
"Hello, mother."
It was him. Her son.
Her nameless, faceless son. Her living dead son.
"Boy," came the word as venom from a snake's mouth, and she felt sick. It had never been his, the word; it was merely a dirty, shameless excuse to deny the child of the humanity he did not possess.
"No 'boy'. I am a man, and I am Erik," he said, his calm, serene tone unnerving her, "that is my name now. Erik has a name now."
And she did not dare to ask about it. How had he gotten it? Where? When? Why "Erik"? Such a strange, unfamiliar name. His father would have not approved. She did not approve. She wondered if she would have had approved anything at all.
"How have you been, mother?" he said, still standing at the threshold, not daring to enter even now, after decades of having set foot on that house for the last time. The many scars on his body unconsciously held him back from stepping into the room again.
"What do you want of me, after all these years?" came her reply, devoid of all emotion on the surface to try to drown the many that were battling inside of her.
"I wanted to see you, mother," answered Erik, "and prove to you that I am no monster. I am a man and I am a person, too. And I am loved for who I am."
Bitter tears of despair filled her eyes as they closed to let a false, terrible laugh come out.
"You are loved?" the woman bit back, anger suppressing any other emotion in her; the words coming out of her mouth without her permission, "and by who could that be? If I could never love you! I, who carried you inside me, could not love you, who could? You are nothing but a horrible, horrible monster!"
And the woman almost saw the little skeleton boy back again on his knees, grasping the hem of her dress and kissing it desperately once and again, ugly tears running down that dead face thankfully covered by the cloth. But Erik did not fall to his knees. He did not cry. He did not beg.
He only left the room in that silent, repulsive complete silence that used to unnerve her so much when he was a child. A quiet, ghostly child! He did not run, he did not laugh, he did not yell like other kids! Why didn't he break plates and wrote on the walls like all kids did? Why did he want to read such boring books and not play with the ball? Why didn't he cry for toys and pets like all the other kids did? Why did he have to hold the pencil with his left hand? Why did he have to drag himself like a miserable worm? Why didn't he ask for his father? Why could he not have a face? Why, why, why why why why?
And as if the heavens themselves wanted nothing but her suffering, she heard the laugh of a child, nearing every second, with his little leather shoes resonating against the wooden floor with every small, enthusiastic little hop. She was sure that she had finally gone insane.
But the little boy entered the room, never stopping the adorable, angelic humming that she had only ever heard once a whole lifetime ago. And she nearly believed that it was him, her little boy just like she had always dreamed him to be but never was: slightly chubby like all toddlers were, with his glowing white skin tender and devoid of all the imperfections of the world, with wild raven hair that curled around his ears. He was wearing shorts, and his knees shined pink from the bruises that all children had when they came back from a day outside playing under the sun and in the dirt.
And overall, he was beautiful with his enormous, blue eyes and her husband's identical face.
"Grandmother, why are you crying?" asked the innocent boy, with is cherubic face contorted in a worried expression.
"Your Grandmother is just happy to meet you, love."
A beautiful, young, perfectly normal woman came into the room; her chubby cheeks glowing in a healthy pink, her long golden hair falling down her back in perfect curls, and her eyes shining in a clear, transparent emotion: resentment. Pure, solid resentment, all pouring over the woman on the bed.
"I am happy to meet Grandmother, too," replied the little boy, with a big smile on his face.
"Who are you, mademoiselle?" asked the old woman, trying to ignore the young girl's words and the little boy as she quickly cleaned the only two tears that had fallen from her face. She knew well who the young woman and the boy were, but her mind kept denying the possibility with all her force, even as the very same eyes of her husband looked at her from the face of the innocent boy.
"She is my wife."
The nightmarish figure entered the room once again, and stood in all its intimidating height at the beautiful woman's side. She took his hand without ever taking the eyes off the woman. But it was not the disgusting sight of that perfectly capable and beautiful young woman willingly and fearlessly touching the creature that she herself had never been able to even look at what made the room start spinning around her. It was not the ring that shone proudly in the young woman's finger, either. It was not even the notorious curve of the woman's abdomen, nor the way she caressed it absently with her free hand.
It was the boy.
His eyes shone with love as he looked for the monster's other hand and smiled at him.
"Papa, why are you wearing your mask? It is ugly. I don't like it."
"Papa has told you already, son: whenever we are outside, Papa must wear a mask," Erik explained patiently.
"But you said only family could see you, and we are all family, Papa!"
And then the tears had fallen freely from the old woman's eyes. She cried and sobbed in a horrible way, not caring that they saw her: she buried her face in her hands and cried all the pains in her heart out.
She had denied for years the existence of the little boy with the rag on his hideous face. She had treated him as scum, as dirt. And when he had been gone from her life, she had felt nothing but relief. She had never thought of how was him; where he had went, if he had a roof over his sad, ugly head or a warm dinner each night. She had denied and abused a poor boy that had once shared the same innocence that the boy now looking at her in worry did.
Under the mask, Erik's own tears were falling too. His arms ached to take the poor woman in his arms, weak as any other son was for his crying mother even if he had only known pain and reject from her, but he did not move. He did not approach her. He would never touch her. He could never touch her.
But his little boy, his little, perfect boy could. He ran to her and jumped on the bed, embracing the old woman with all the comfort a boy as young as him could offer.
"Erik… Erik is no monster," said the man in the mask; his angelic voice cracking and quivering under the pressure of his weeps, with only the strong and supportive hand of his wife keeping him together still, "Erik made him. Erik made something perfect… A family… Erik… Erik is no monster… I love and I am loved, too. And I do not hate you, mother; I never have."
"Please…" begged the old woman, her tears still pooling over the hand covering her mouth to suppress her sobs as the little boy gently caressed her snowy hair with his little, inexperienced hands. "Please take off your mask, Erik."
And then his wife's hand had not been enough to give him strength. He had to recline against the threshold; his weak knees threatening to give in, to let him fall to the ground and drag himself across the floor as he looked for his mother's skirts once again. But he did not. His shaky hand raised to his face, with every instinct screaming for him not to do it, reminding him of all the whips, all the suffering and all the pain that had left a visible mark forever tattooed in his body and soul, many of them made from the first person who should have loved him and didn't.
He took the mask off, and it fell to the ground soaked in tears.
The woman shut her eyes tightly against the ghastly vision, but behind her closed eyelids she only saw the image of the poor, unhappy boy that the hideous man once was.
She embraced her grandchild, and opened her eyes. "I am sorry, Erik, for everything I did. I am so sorry."
Erik sobbed harder, and hid his terrible, dead face in his hands. His wife's arms surrounded him, and he bent to bury his face in her shoulder as she gently rubbed his back; his whole body trembling with his merciless sobs.
"Come here… Son," pleaded the old woman, and the little boy let go of her.
Erik raised his face, and his mother thought that never before had he looked so innocent and pitiful like the moment she extended her wrinkled hands to him, offering her arms for him for the first time in their lives.
The skeletal man moved to her, as clumsy as a baby lamb giving its first steps. He fell on his knees beside the bed and buried his horrible head in her lap, clenching the bedsheets in his fists. The mother rested a gentle hand over his shoulder, while the other took off his hat and softly caressed the few strands of hair on his head, and let her child's weeps merge with hers.
And for the first time, they were mother and son.
That night, Erik had his first dinner with his whole family, and not a single mask was seen ever again inside that house.