Erik, in Paris, wore three different cloaks.
The Child.
The Angel.
The Phantom.
He shed the Devil's Child. He dropped that shredded, coarse cloak in some forgotten corner of the lair, his first real home, and walked away without looking back. Had done his very best to forget the scrawny, dirty, abused little child who had wept and cowered and killed, the infant with his crude mask and a fascination with one simple, spinning tune. The Phantom buried that fear, deep, deep down, in the dark caverns of his mind, and had replaced the shivering emotion with the cold, inherent knowledge that in the Populaire, in his kingdom, he need never fear.
The Phantom and the Angel, like cloaks trimmed with all the gilded trappings of power and magic, did not know fear.
Erik Destler, however, knew fear.
And Erik Durham knew fear now.
When Erik stared out the window, watching the streets of London course like bleeding veins below, he did not feel like any of those identities belonged to him.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed – his bed, now, he reminded himself – Erik rested his elbows on his knees, his knuckles beneath his chin.
If Kayla were here, she would tell him.
She would tell him who he was. Who he was supposed to be.
It was almost poetic, how quickly he completely fell apart when he thought about her.
Erik clutched at his hair – hair, also, now, apparently, his – and stifled a gasping sob.
He didn't know what to do.
Who was he?
His wild gaze drifted to the desk, and without thinking, he yanked out the chair and dragged a piece of paper towards him, picking up an ink pen that Liam had lent him when Erik had bled all of his dry on compositions and sketches.
Dear Mlle Abbots,
Dearest Kayla,
I have spent my life in shadows. I have lived behind mirrors and in caves for so long, for so many years, that I do not know who I am when I exist outside of them. If you were here, you would tell me. You would tell me exactly who I am, and you would be right. My little magician always saw the man behind the mask, even when the rest of the world heard the Angel, saw the Phantom, scorned the Devil's Child.
You always knew who I was, when the world would not.
I am trying so desperately, Kayla, to settle beneath this cloak that fate has seen fit to drape upon me. Erik Durham. I do not know who this man is, little magician. You would tell me that he is the man I am beneath, beneath the masks and scars and fear. I have been in London for months now; I am a student, and a teacher, at the Royal Conservatory. Summer has passed, the fall faded, and the rain and mist of an English winter looms on the horizon. I, of all people, am used to the dark and the night, but the gloom is weighing on me.
I still do not know how I came to be here. Though, I acknowledge, my past life serves me well in this new world. I am still the Phantom of the Opera, even if my lair is now a flat and not an opera house, and I can vanish into the halls of the Academy as easily as I once did in the Populaire. As the Angel, I can charm; I can pretend, at least, to make small talk, to pretend that no one stares at my scars.
I do not wear a mask here, Kayla. I am terrified of it, but you, I think, would be proud.
I think that, perhaps, Erik Durham is the culmination of all the masks I once wore. The Angel, the Phantom, the Ghost. I still collect information, lurk and tug on threads of class gossip and Academy politics – dare I say I thrive upon it? And the Angel, Kayla, oh the Angel. I told you that I am teaching again, developing the skills of young university students in piano and composition.
But not singing. I do not know if I still can, after – after Christine.
Her name no longer hurts as it once did, Kayla. It aches, as a shattered heart should, but it does not cut.
Your name, Kayla, slices my chest like knives.
I think the children fear me. No one has asked, yet, about my face, but I sense the question sitting on the tip of their tongues. I try to pretend it does not exist. I try to, instead, behave as you would. I memorize their names, their strengths, their flaws, their fears, what instruments they pursue and what they dream of doing with them. Erik Durham can recall each of his students with perfect clarity. The Erik Destler you built me to be knows where they struggle and wants to help them. It is a strange adjustment, after so many years with just one pupil.
I take the same approach with the other scholars in my flat. I live with four other students, Kayla. Soon to be five, once the last returns from the continent. I wonder if he is visiting Paris. It is such a narrow sea that separates me from my old home. I fear that it has changed too much for me. If the Populaire even exists, which, if my old world is but fiction here, it cannot.
I dare not look.
You would adore Liam, Kayla. He would fit in your stage crew very nicely. He is a shy lad, thoughtful and awkward, but bright, and funny, and loyal.
I have not met Patrick, as he will not return until the winter, but Eugene and Jack both specialize in brass, which suits them both perfectly, as they are a very talented and friendly couple, but very, very loud.
And Anika. How do I tell you about Anika, little magician? A red haired violist, witty and sunny and a musical genius. And kind. Almost as kind as you, though no one could be. Her spirit, though… her spirit reminds me of yours.
I try to move through this world as you would hope I would, Kayla. I excel where I can, struggle where I cannot. I distract myself with classes and tutorials, practices and dinners, meetings and studies. But at night I cannot sleep. Memories of the Populaire, and of you, spin endlessly, like a ballerina in a music box, swirling in the corners of my mind. I will try to move in spite of them, Kayla.
I do not think the Phantom will ever be at home in London.
But – I have to believe that Erik Durham might. If only because you would wish it of me.
Yours, always,
E.D.
"Did you sleep at all last night, Erik?" Liam led the way down the pavement towards the river, wind curling around their ankles like a stray cat as the two men walked. "Walked past your door pretty late and your light was still on."
The upturned collar of Erik's greatcoat shifted against his cheeks as he shrugged. "For a time."
"Any reason? You know. For the – well, the insomnia? Do you – uh, do you need to hash it out? Talking helps, sometimes." He cleared his throat. "At least, for me. I have, like, wicked anxiety though, so that might just – hmm. That might just be me."
"It's quite alright, Liam." Erik ran a hand over his dark hair. It was so strange, so alien, to have hair again. Not a wig, not a pretence, just a little gift from this new world, the price of which he did not know and had not thought about. "I – I merely had some fears of my own. I put them to paper, and they seemed smaller."
"That's – god, that's really – poetic, almost. Right? Like a proverb. How do you just – how do you just throw stuff like that out? Like you're not even thinking?"
"I have a complex inner monologue."
Liam's head dropped back and he laughed, the breeze sweeping the noise up into the cloudy sky. "You're really just – you're clever, Erik. God. Do you want chips? I feel like if we're making this a bro-out, we need chips. Jesus, did I just call this a bro-out? Oh my god, I hope that didn't lower your opinion of me –"
Liam's excited, fragmented babble was one of the brightest sounds of Erik's new world.
Erik smiled and shook his head. "I would never have a poor opinion of you, Liam. Though I must confess I have never had chips."
"Oh my god. What? Never? Chips? How? It's fine. It's fine. We can fix this. How? Erik, this might be a fatal flaw. A fatal flaw that we have to solve right bloody now."
"If you insist."
"Oh, believe me, Erik, I do." Liam made a beeline for a nearby shop, and Erik, chuckling, followed.
They walked in silence to the river, the chips billowing steam and salt from the paper cone Liam carried. They paused on the embankment, leaning against the railing and watching ships plow slowly up the wide waterway of the Thames.
"You haven't asked about my face." Erik took the cone of chips from Liam's outstretched hand as they watched the river flow below them.
Liam coughed, burrowing his chin into his bright red and yellow scarf. "Uh. No. Was – uh – was I supposed to?"
Salt stung Erik's tongue, grease coating the tips of his fingers as he held the cone out to Liam, who grabbed another handful. "No. I suppose not." A damp breeze drifted up off the grey water, birds swooping above the swaying current. "People are, most often, not so tolerant."
Liam's jaw clicked as he chewed. "It's just your face," he said, sounding almost indignant. "It's just – I don't know – you." He shook the paper cone and dug through it for another chip. "Well, it's not all of you. But you know what I mean, right? Like, my aunt, she has third degree burn scars on her arms. Like, all over. 'Cos she was in a fire as a kid, yeah? People get freaked out by it all the time. But it's not her, see? It's just, like – I don't know how to say this without sounding like a psychologist. Whatever. It's like a physical manifestation of her experience, but it's not who she is. Right? It's just, like, skin." The boy thrust another handful of chips into his mouth. "Doesn't change the fact that you're a wicked talented musician who's somehow never eaten chips." Liam shook the cone at him aggressively until Erik, chuckling, took another.
A foghorn sounded somewhere in the distance. For a moment, the world narrowed down to a needlepoint of the mist on Erik's bare hands, the water lapping against the wall beneath them, and the rhythmic click of Liam's jaw.
"But seriously, mate," said Liam, crumpling up the empty chip container and tossing it effortlessly into a compost bin. "Any of the undergrads start taking the piss and I'll take care of it. Seriously."
Erik laughed. The bubbling in his chest was an unfamiliar feeling after so long. "I am sure I will be able to handle the children, Liam." He felt light, buoyant, like an anchor had been lifted, even though he had confessed nothing to Liam at all.
Well, maybe not nothing.
"Suit yourself." Liam shrugged, tapping his fingers against the railing until the metal echoed. "But if you change your mind, I am not afraid to throw hands with an eighteen year old."
Erik felt certain that this laughter, this tight feeling in his cheeks, was a sensation he could very easily become accustomed to.
A snippet. This sat in drafts for a hot while. Thought I might as well post it! (Also, again, the fact that I'm still getting reviews on The Dangers of Buying Birthday Presents is so shocking but so lovely. Thank you all. 3)
Tierney