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TW: Depictions of self-harm
Enjoy!
Erik
Chapter 37
The Gentleman
The summer that I turned ten, we had travelled the country and ended up back in Paris. The outskirts of Paris, rather. But I could see the lights of the city, the scape of it, from the caravan.
The show would begin in one hour, and I was, as usual, tasked with relieving Cerberus. I loved the task. I looked forward to it. I didn't use a leash when I took him outside. I had at first, but now Cerberus never left my side. And I refused to put anymore chains on him than were absolutely necessary.
Of course, when Javert watched, the leash stayed on.
As time went by, I noticed that each of Cerberus's heads had a personality. Left was more likely to growl and bark. Right was constantly smiling, his tongue out, panting, or licking my hands. Middle, however, was silent. Middle watched me intently. He was fascinated by me, sometimes never taking his eyes off of me. And, if I wasn't mistaken, Middle was the one of the three heads who actually was capable of hatred. Though Left growled, he never did so with Javert (only with me for not petting him quite long enough). When Javert was near, Left cowered along with Right.
But Middle.
Middle actually seemed to glare at, to hate, Javert.
Sometimes he seemed intelligent. Too intelligent. Too aware of what was going on.
He was rapidly becoming my favorite of the three.
A high-pitched whistle from the direction of the caravan. My jaw tightened and I patted the side of my leg, signaling Cerberus. That whistle was Javert's warning that we had better return soon or he'd assume we were running and stealing his property. Us. We were his property. Taking autonomy over our own lives was stealing from him.
"Come, Cerberus," I whispered. He fell into step beside me, and we made our way back to the caravan.
An hour later, a large group of people waited outside the caravan. Now that the groups were extremely large like this, Javert decided to take the show from inside to outside. He'd purchased a large, sturdy crate for me to stand on, so that every person there could see me. And he collected money from everyone, not allowing them to remain if they refused to pay, threatening to sic Cerberus on them if they didn't pay and didn't leave.
When the patrons set their eyes on the beast, as Javert walked through the crowd with the dog at his side, it was an extremely effective threat.
The moment he finished the pre-show, his tale of Hades's son and dog existing right here in Paris, Javert announced my arrival.
Like the good little performer that I was, I left the caravan and walked out.
This time, however, I had a mask. A black mask to match my black suit. He'd decided to add it to the show (but I was only to wear it for the show).
I stepped out to a silent crowd and climbed onto the crate. I began to sing.
The melody grew more and more uncanny, jarring notes and unnatural inflections in my voice. When the crowd was sufficiently uncomfortable, squirming and murmuring where they stood, I stopped. I eyed Javert off to the side, between the crowd and caravan, as he smiled widely in anticipation, eyes glinting with excitement.
And I took the mask off, flinging it high into the air so that it landed on the grass below, black leather shining in the full moonlight above. I continued singing, now also dancing, upon the crate, in the frightening way I'd taught myself to.
I accepted the screams and sounds of disgust as I always had. I accepted the way people turned away and looked near to vomiting as they did. I accepted the ripple of the crowd as mothers pushed through to lead their children away from the creature before them.
What I had never thought to imagine was the reaction one particular gentleman had.
"Stop!" a man cried out, his accent strange. "Stop this!"
I faltered, stopping my dancing and singing, blinking. I saw him, moving toward the front - a man with blue eyes and blond hair like Javert, but infinitely more handsome. He looked to be in his thirties. His face was kind behind the anger he held in his expression.
I looked to Javert, and he widened his eyes, warning me to continue. I looked to the crowd again, who were now murmuring amongst themselves, and started again.
"I said stop!" The gentleman stepped to the front and made his way to Javert. "This is cruel. This is cruel."
I did stop now, fully. My heart was beating quickly. Who was this person? Why did he care? I couldn't keep my eyes off of him. Why did he care? No one ever cared.
I was so confused. Jarred.
Javert didn't seem to care, now, that I'd stopped a second time. Cerberus's haunches bristled slightly as the gentleman approached.
My master smiled, poisoned honey in his expression. "Monsieur," he said through his teeth. "You are interrupting the experience for my other guests. Are you aware that this performance does not revolve around you?"
"I am aware," he said again. What was that accent? "I am also aware that this child is being shown off like some freak pony in a circus. Do you not see the pain in that boy's eyes? I do. He does not want to be doing this, and you know that."
Javert's smile only widened, despite the fact that the edges of the crowd seemed to be shrinking as people walked away from what was rapidly becoming an uncomfortable scene. A more uncomfortable scene, that is.
"What," purred my master, "is your name, my good Monsieur?"
The gentleman crossed his arms over his chest. "I won't say." He paused. "I dread to hear my name spoken by your vile, false-silver tongue."
"And why, Monsieur..." drawled Javert, speaking with spine-tingling slowness; I knew that the only reason he wasn't currently commanding Cerberus to attack was to save face in front of the rest of his audience - violence against paying customers is quite bad for business, "would you choose to come to my show if your only intention is to complain about it?"
"To see if the rumors were true," he answered back. "To see if there was really such a cruelty in my city. And I see that it is true - to my dismay. You are a shame to the good French people I have grown to admire."
"I thought I detected an accent, Monsieur. Where, precisely, are you from?"
"Sweden."
"I see," he said, slowly, caressing the word. "Wait. I know you. That Scandinavian musician, yes?"
The gentleman stilled.
"I read abut you in the newspaper," Javert mused. "A rising celebrity in Paris. But how unusual you are, in that you refuse to make use of your celebrity status. A hermit." He chuckled. "Not so much of a hermit when it comes to hopping on your high horse, are you?" His eyes twinkled. "I hear you have a little girl at home. Is she pretty?"
The gentleman had had enough. He turned to me, then. "Child," he said in his thick accent, "say the word and I will take you away from here."
Javert laughed. By this point, half the crowd was gone, but he didn't seem to care. He'd already gotten his money. "Go anywhere near that boy," he said, "and I will set my dog on you."
"Oh, yes," said the gentleman, "excellent idea. I will take your abused dog as well." He walked away from him, toward me.
Javert's smile disappeared. "Monsieur, you take another step toward him, and I will-"
"Fight me?" The gentleman whirled on him. "Then fight me! Come, Monsieur, let's see what you can do! Or involve the authorities, perhaps? Yes, because I am sure a judge would look between us and decide to believe your greasy face should we both claim the boy, I'm sure you'd win that fight. Show me your papers for him. Proof that he is yours. An adoption form. Proof of purchase, even."
Javert merely fumed. He spat, "I don't have to show you-"
"So what else is there?" he interrupted. "Because we both know you will not set that poor dog on me - not with all of your customers watching." He glared at Javert. "Do it. Prove me wrong. Set the dog on me right now."
I widened my eyes, terrified, suddenly, for this stranger. This man was playing a dangerous gambling game, and for what? Me?
Javert only turned tomato-red, switching his gaze between the man and the audience, who watched his next move with bated breath. The gentleman turned again to me.
"Boy," he said, "what is your name?"
Silence among the crowd. And then I answered in a hoarse whisper: "Erik."
"Erik," he said, nodding kindly. "I refuse to speak my name in front of this snake of a man, but I assure you that I will tell you once we are away from this place. Would you like to come home with me?"
Come home with me.
I imagined myself walking away from here, walking away with this man. I imagined myself walking into his house, finding a softly lit parlor. A piano that I could play, perhaps. A real bed to sleep in. Never again having to dance for an audience, sing for them. Show my face to them.
But I found Javert's face. The ugly look of his grimacing rage.
And doubts flooded my mind.
What if this man was tricking me? What if he simply had yet another freak-show to show me off in? Javert mentioned that he was a musician, but what if he was more than that? What if he was crueler? What if this kindness was a mirage? Worse yet, what if this was a trick by Javert - a set-up, to test my loyalty to him? My willingness to run? What if I failed that test by accepting the stranger's offer, and ended up in a cage again for the rest of my life?
An icy knife passed through me. I couldn't go back into a cage. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur," I breathed, "but I am content right here. My master is..." I swallowed my disgust at the lie. "My master is kind."
Javert's fist hit my face with such force that I saw stars swirling against the dim light of the caravan. I staggered back, clutching my cheek. A sob of shock and pain escaped my lips. I dared to look at him, at the anger in his face.
"I almost lost my livelihood to that damn Swede, boy!"
Javert took my hair in his hand and threw me into the dining table. The edge of the table slammed into my side. I cried out and fell to the ground, clutching the area beneath my right ribcage.
"I..." I whispered shakily. "I didn't-"
"You did!" He kicked me in my stomach. I grunted in pain. This too shall pass. "You let that man feel pity for you. You let it happen."
"I chose to stay, Master." The words were small. I made myself into a ball, my body throbbing. "I chose to stay here." I breathed unevenly, closing my eyes. "Please don't put me back in a cage. I chose to stay. I won't run away. I chose to stay..."
Javert stilled above me. When I at last looked at him, I saw disgust in his eyes. "Maybe," he said, "the Swede was right to pity you. You're actually pathetic." He whirled on his heels and walked to the entrance of the caravan. "I'm going outside for a cigar. Lord knows I need one."
And as I lay there, aching, tears falling from my eyes, I thought about that man who did show pity.
But I didn't feel gratitude, like one might expect.
I felt furious.
Furious because all he'd done was cause another beating.
Furious because he'd nearly caused me to go back into that cage.
Furious because...
Because...
Because, I realized with a growling cry, it meant not all of humanity was monstrous. It meant that Marie wasn't some anomaly in her capabilities for kindness. It meant that I couldn't direct all of my hatred toward them, because not all of them were cruel.
So some of that hatred had to be directed elsewhere.
But I'd already given Javert his fair share of my loathing; so, really, there was only one place left for it to go.
At myself.
I picked myself up, gasping against the horrible pain that coursed through my side an stomach. But this time, the pain felt good. I deserved this pain. I deserved every bit of it. I was pathetic. I was disgusting. I was a creature of nightmares, and I deserved to be hurt.
I wanted, in fact, to hurt myself.
I went to Javert's sewing kit. I picked up the needle in my still-gloved hand. I went to the oil lamp and held the needle over the flame. I waited for three minutes, anticipating the feeling of more pain on my skin. Well-deserved pain.
And when the needle was hot enough to make my fingers hurt even through the glove, I pressed it against my wrist.
I bit my tongue against the terrible, burning sensation, grunting and groaning at the feeling. Every nerve in my wrist told me to take the needle away, but I just pressed it harder into me. This was, actually, pleasurable - in a way that being hurt by Javert was not. This was controlled. Under my control. Perhaps, even, one of the only things I could control in my life.
I took the needle away, marveling at the brown and white line that it left behind. I'd expected it to be red. Or pink. But no. It looked ugly. Just like me.
It made me hate myself just a little bit less - knowing that I was hurting the thing I hated.
I pushed the needle into another section of my wrist.
The pain eased a little more of the hurt.
