Chapter 3: Pitiful
21 December 1863
"Come see the Living Corpse!"
Erik shuddered. The cold air didn't bother him as much as it did before, but it would be lying to say that he was not cold. The metal chains around his arms and legs did not help. These chains prevented him from approaching the very bars of the cage. For that, Erik was grateful that the crowd could not touch him physically. But then, the chains rubbed his wrists and ankles raw. Tightening the sack around his head, he wished… no, hoped… that Barsali would not make him take it off. But then again, this was Barsali. He never allowed him comfort.
He had no idea how he ended up with the gypsies in the first place. All he knew was that he was only in this state because he attempted to steal some bread from the traveling gypsies. No matter how hard he tried to remember, any detail of his childhood, he simply could not. The only thing he remembered was abuse, how glass and mirrors and verbal insults were used. And his face. For as long as he could remember his face was what ruined every prospect of normality. Maybe I should just die, he thought. The world wouldn't miss me. But why won't my body agree with that notion?
Unfortunately, Barsali chose this exact time to grab Erik by his neck. His yelp of surprise was largely overshadowed by the crowd's roar of laughter. His grip tightening, Barsali continued to strangle Erik while whipping him with the other hand. But this time, Erik did not cry. No, in fact, he had fallen limp. Each lash, despite drawing out huge amounts of blood, did not release any screams as it did in the past. Confused, Barsali let go of his neck and ripped the sack off his head. The crowd's laughter turned to shrieks, but Erik did not falter. His eyes had locked into eye contact with a man amongst the crowd. His subtle beard and grey eyes gazed at Erik's body, taking every detail of his damaged skin. That man alone, out of the entire crowd, did not scream or laugh. His eyes showed… pity? Disgust? Compassion? Erik mentally shook his head. No one pities a corpse like me, he thought. Who could grow to love a corpse? But then again, had he had his mask and hair, he would've looked decent. Erik grimaced, remembering how his mask was shattered by the gypsies, and his hair was forcefully waxed off. These were, as far as he could tell, one of his oldest memories. Certainly they weren't pleasant. For now, the filthy bag served as his mask, and his hair, although it had regrown, did not regain its former thickness—now, his hair appeared thinner, and hung more sparsely from his head. Three years of unkempt care didn't help.
"Sing, mic cadavru!"
Erik automatically began to sing a slow, depressing tune. One that the crowd, had they visited before, never heard of before. Its unearthly beauty once again stunned them all.
"I dreamed a dream… in times gone by
When hope was high, and life worth living.
I dreamed that love would never die,
I dreamed someone would be forgiving.
But there are dreams that cannot be,
And there are storms I cannot weather…
I had a dream, my life would be
So much different from this hell I'm living.
So different now from what it seemed…
Now life has killed…the dream I dreamed."
Erik finished his tune to silence. He had intentionally sung in French, and fortunately, none of the gypsies could understand French. At least he was pretty sure of that. They knew no more than the few words needed to showcase the fair, specifically Le Mort Vivant. He had poured his heart, his suffering, into that piece, hoping to gain sympathy from that man.
With a scowl upon his face, Barsali retreated from the cage, announcing to the crowd that the fair was now closing for the day. Erik quickly replaced the sack on his head, yet continued to look at the crowd longingly. Most in the crowd seemed to have forgotten Erik's song, and, now that Barsali had left the cage, began throwing moldy vegetables, rocks, paper balls, anything they could lay their hands on that was in one way or another insulting. Erik once again cowered into the corner in fright. Again. But this time, he did not weep immediately. He instead chose to look at that man, who was now looking at him with sadness in his eyes. This must be my lucky day, he thought. Two people who did not act like everyone else at my presence.
But then the man turned around and left with the rest of the crowd, shaking his head in silence. The last of the crowd gave their last... offerings... and dispersed into the night.
It was only then did the full brunt of what happened affect him. Erik broke down to hysterical sobbing, every inch of his body aching from the whip, which he had ignored up to this point because of that man. His previous scars had reopened, and Erik lay there curled up in his corner, bleeding and crying for the man to come back.
He must be an angel, Erik thought in between his tears. An angel who could make he temporarily forget my pain and suffering. An angel who has found that even Erik, Le Mort Vivant, was undeserving of any further attention. Come back! Come back! Save me!
Drying his worthless tears, Erik contemplated his life here. No one, not in three years, had entered his cage, with the exception of Barsali and his henchman Danior. As far as Erik could tell, the rest of the gypsies considered him dangerous, calling him 'monstrul'. Was it due to Erik's ability to learn so much about them within a short time? Their customs, their medicines, their language, their arts of ventriloquism and magic? Or was it for his face? Either way, the small cage had not been cleansed in a month. A floor that was covered with dirt and grime, only cleansed by Danior whenever the fair traveled, in an attempt to make Erik seem somewhat presentable initially. Barsali abuses him, at every possible moment. No one talks to the lonely 'person' in the cage.
A dreadful life indeed. Come back… save me from this solitude!
And then, Barsali returned, unlocking and relocking the cage door silently behind him. "You have some explaining to do," he barked out in Romanian.
Erik's little tune came from Les Misérables, "I Dreamed a Dream", sung by Fantine.
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