This will be a series of vignettes told from Julia's POV starting with how she first met Erik face-to-face. Not sure how many of them I'm going to do or how often but I thought it would be fun to see everything through her eyes. I would love to know what you think!
Perfection
My bruises had not yet fully healed when I first saw him on the quiet streets.
Not once had I ever seen him in daylight, though in my mind I had painted a picture of him, a perfect portrait of a broad-shouldered composer, of a man who said more with a violin than my husband, Louis, ever cared to say to me.
In a way, I was in love with him. Ludicrous, I knew, but my life had long since lost its balance. My days were erratic, my nights spent wondering if Louis would come home in a foul mood or not at all. Yes, I hoped he would never return.
And now that I had my wish I felt no better off than before. I merely hoped I would feel something again.
Strange, I thought to myself, that this silhouette I had watched cautiously through my windows stirred me so, created longings I had otherwise suppressed. Was it foolish to be enamored by a man I knew nothing of—other than he had murdered my husband? That was my only concrete evidence that he existed. Until that moment he was only a voice and a note on the wind. He was a dream on the edge of my perception, never far away but not once close enough.
"You are wicked," I said to my reflection. Lisette was asleep in her bedroom, kissed and tucked in for the night, oblivious to her mother's unusual longings. My eyes pricked with tears I wanted to believe were for Louis, but they weren't. I hadn't mourned him, not as a loving wife should have grieved. But I wasn't his loving wife. I was a body he could take at will, a thing with not as much worth as a dog.
"Wicked, heartless woman," I whispered as I opened the jewelry box and stared at my forgotten ring. Somehow I managed to evade shedding a tear and closed my jewelry box. Rising to my feet, I took a deep breath and glanced at the clock.
He would be out for his walk soon. And so would I.
-o-
Weeks passed before Madame Giry would divulge that there was a man who lived in her house. Eventually she shrugged that her son occupied the top floor but little more was ever said and eventually I stopped asking. It wasn't proper for a married woman to ask such things, I knew, but I felt as though I knew him, this nameless, faceless musician. When Louis was away and I spent my evenings with Lisette and her dolls, I would leave the window open and listen to him play.
"Mama, who is that?" Lisette would inquire.
"Perhaps it is a ghost," I would tease her.
"Father wouldn't like it, would he?"
Her question broke my heart. "Do you like it?"
"Why, yes," she answered. With a smile she would return to her world of yarn-haired dolls, content that it was only the two of us and beautiful music weaving through the open windows.
I thought about those nights as I walked at a painfully slow pace down the street, wondering if my neighbors watched. This was insane, I said to myself. A woman such as myself—a woman forced to wear black and pretend I was anguished over the loss of my husband—chasing after such nonsense. What did I want with him? To thank him for killing Louis? To show my gratitude for the lonely nights when he had filled my bed with the sound of his voice and his violin?
Was it possible that I had gone mad? That seemed most feasible of all, as no self-respecting woman would take to the streets for a man she didn't know. But somehow I had convinced myself that I did know him through the careful glances I stole out the window at night. Though I could never confirm it, I had a feeling he watched me as well. No, I had confirmed it. If Madame Giry's son had not taken notice of me then I would still be a married woman.
With a sigh, I prepared to turn around and return home, as Lisette was still asleep and I would have been mortified if she woke up and thought I had left her. Though I was practically in front of the house, I was a nervous wreck. I was being selfish in attempting to see this man.
And then suddenly he rounded the corner. I knew it was him by his stature, as few people I knew were as tall as he, or as broad-shouldered. He didn't notice me—or hear my heart pounding -- for which I was suddenly grateful and equally appalled. All of this waiting and he didn't know I was there.
Until he glanced up and saw me standing no more than ten paces away. He froze and I froze, both of us startling one another.
My God, I thought when he looked up at me. He wears a mask. I quickly looked away so as not to stare. This was not as I had imagined. I'd thought of him as a man with sharp features, somewhat wolf-like in appearance. God knows why I had agonized over this. God knows why I had imagined a wolf!
"Good evening," I said at last.
"Madame," he said, his voice a deep rumble. Ah, there was that voice, that baritone that lulled me to sleep while Louis was visiting the women he preferred.
I had nothing prepared, no words rehearsed, though I suddenly realized that even if I had scripted our meeting it would have been in vain. I glanced up again. He was staring at me, his eyes light in color, stone-cold and piercing.
He seemed to expect me to walk away now that I realized he was injured or deformed. Incomplete? I wondered briefly. His gaze was striking, really, so filled with torment, daring me to make my excuses and walk away. Oh, I said to myself, Julia, get on with it. You've waited for this moment. Don't stand there like a useless rag doll!
"You are Madame Giry's son?" I asked before he walked away and left me standing there like a fool.
Our eyes met, his expression softening. It was difficult to look him in the eye and not because of the mask but because he appeared…abandoned. As though nothing I could say or do mattered to him, as though he had been protected—or unprotected—for so long that he had no desire to continue.
Perhaps he had lost a wife? I wondered. Is that why he lived with his mother and son in that beautiful house?
I was staring again.
He nodded once and flexed his hands. I could tell that he hadn't expected the conversation to continue, and truthfully, neither had I.
"She's very kind, your mother," I blurted out.
"She's home," he replied before glancing away.
I hadn't expected him to be a man of so few words. Nervously I shifted my weight.
"You are out this evening for a walk, I see."
"I am," he answered, taking a small but noticeable step away from the lunatic he had encountered on the street. It was a quiet neighborhood, one without much fuss. He'd most likely walked this way a thousand times and not once been accosted.
"You take your walks the same time each night," I commented.
He gave me a peculiar look, his eyes slightly narrowed. "When the weather holds, Madame," he answered. It was as much as I expected him to say to me. What a desperate, mad woman I must have appeared in that moment, attempting to converse with an obviously good-hearted Christian man out for his evening walk, not searching for a woman to bed.
"Then I won't keep you," I said, my voice trembling. There was no way in which I could humiliate myself a moment longer. "But perhaps one evening you'd care to come by after your walk."
Oh, hold your tongue! I silently scolded myself.
He appeared unfazed by my invitation. Perhaps he wasn't the good-hearted Christian I assumed.
"Your house?" he questioned, his voice a deep growl that sent prickles down my spine.
"Yes," I said, pointing at my dark residence. "There."
Of course he knew which one. I alarmed myself with my willingness to converse with him, though he didn't feel like a stranger to me, even when we stood face-to-face. I should have expected that this man I had never seen during the day would be so humble, so utterly reserved. And here I was, aggressive as a bear, practically lifting my skirt and knocking him onto the grass.
"When?" he asked.
"Whenever you'd like," I answered, feeling more desperate as the moments passed.
He nodded but said nothing more and suddenly I couldn't bear to hear him deny my request.
"Goodnight," I said awkwardly. "Monsieur Giry."
"Kire," he corrected.
"Pardon me?"
"Monsieur Kire," he answered. "Erik."
Ah, at last a name for this peculiar dream.
"Julia," I said. "Sueratti."
"I know."
With a nod, we parted ways. It would be a week before I saw him again, and then I would know what he truly wanted with a widow.