In the end, as she always did, Christine came back to him. She
managed to stay away for three months this time, at least there was that,
but in the end, driven by loneliness, fear, and her sheer inability to fend
for herself, she went back to him. But this time, she swore there would be
changes. For once, she intended to stick up for the children; if he laid so
much as laid a hand on either of them, she would leave him. She didn't know
where she would go, but she would go. If she ever got pregnant (and with
the realization that she didn't love him, she lost all interest in that
area), and he touched her with pain, she would go.
He had been apologetic, loving, sincerely sorry... like all the other times, but for once, he didn't go back to his abusive ways immediately. For a while, he stayed away from his late-night bars, stayed away from the bottles of alcohol, from the cheap games of cards and the whores that went with them. And for those few blissful months, Christine thought that maybe he had changed for good, maybe he did love her and the children that they had made together. Maybe there was a chance for them after all...
It took only the first few months for her to learn how to care-and to teach Richard how to help-with her now completely blind daughter. Thankfully, besides the loss of vision, that was the only lasting damage to Journey, and Journey was soon up and playing, happy, regardless of her lack of sight.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A tiny figure wandered the streets of Paris, hidden by a cloak that was two sizes too large, and quick to fall back into shadows. Not discouraged by the deluge that sent most of the locals scurrying home for cover, he took absolute delight in the multitude of novel things that dazzled his eyes, as well as that he had successfully escaped the building that had always been his beloved home, but lately had also been a prison to his eager, six-year-old mind. He took a last, quick glance behind him, although he had already rounded too many corners to be able to see it; the Opera Populaire... home... father...
Quickly, he put further distance between himself and the large, stone building. Father was going to be absolutely furious with him! If he was harshly scolded for simply going to the normal floors of the Populaire, and doubly scolded and scowled at for going all the way up to the roof, what severe punishment would be his for leaving the Opera House all together?
With a simple shrug of his shoulders, little Erik dismissed the dangers of his father's wrath. One did, after all, have to take some risks in life. Besides, he was six-years-old, certainly old enough to be looking after himself. And, when all was through and done, when he returned home finally and accepted his father's anger, well, at least he would have the memories of this great city that he had often yearned to know from his vintage view on top of the Paris Opera House.
Some people, scuttling for shelter as the rain began to pour down in a new onslaught of torrential downpour, nearly bumped into him and he jumped quickly back into the safety of a dark alleyway, fingering the leather satchel he now held. He glanced only briefly at the ID found inside before tossing it over his shoulder, and greedily searching for money. He fingered a large ruby ring, trying to discern the value of it, and then grinned as he caught sight of the wad of francs he found hidden a little deeper. Counting it with a casual scrutiny, he was pleased with his little trickery of the moment. Perhaps he had doubted his abilities once, but he had been taught by his father, the master of illusion, after all, and the one time he had managed to steal something of his father without the older man's knowledge, was the moment little Erik had no more doubts. If his father, who knew every trick of deception as well as had the senses of a large cat, couldn't catch him, then what could the poor fools in the upper world think to do? And now, to feast on the spoils...
Pulling the hood, which had slipped off as another gift from the horrible weather, around his face again, he traversed the narrow Parisian streets, hoping that a chocolate shop might still be open. He was disappointed again and again up the first few rows of shops he came across, but at last he saw one that was not yet, quite, closed. He could see the owner, an aged man with graying hair and a friendly face, just getting ready to close up shop, and he slipped into the door, careful not to be seen. Making sure to stay in the shadows that the gracious night had extended him, he made his way to the fudge counter... It was open. His eyes on the prize, and not on the man who had gone into the backroom, he began to reach out to snatch a piece of chocolate chocolate fudge. Then he felt a hand, withered with age but strong, clamp down on his shoulder, and muffled a startled cry as he was whirled painfully around. The man looked much scarier close up, dull hazel eyes, the right half clouded by cataracts, were now brilliant with anger, and he was at least as tall as Erik's father, or so it seemed to the boy at the time, and he had a gun in the other hand.
"A little thief, eh?" As Erik cringed away from the man, hiding his half-mask as best he could because his hood had fallen away, he was shocked to hear gentleness in the man's tone. Very slowly, his arms came away from where they protected his head and face, and his eyes, wide with fear and surprise, slowly raised to meet the man's.
"Please, monsieur." He mumbled softly, head dipping with the manners his father had insisted he learn. "Please, I was not stealing.. I was going to pay for them, je promets..."
"Were you then, lad?" Now there was amusement in the elder's face and voice, and Erik was relieved to see him put the gun down on the countertop. "And with what were you intending to pay?"
"Money, of course..." As though he really needed to prove it, Erik pulled out the wad of francs he had stolen off the scurrying couple earlier, and shoved it towards the man.
The man glanced briefly down at the tiny, sweaty palm, and smiled, and Erik felt very much less afraid, only now his fear was quickly being replaced with a feeling of foolishness. And what would his father think when he learned that Erik had been found out, seen, caught? God.... Papa... Papa would be furious! He felt tears sting the corners of those bright blue orbs, and he hurriedly looked down in shame. A real man didn't cry... Perhaps he was only a boy after all...
He was startled again by the older man, whose gruff voice brought little Erik's eyes back up to meet his. "There now, lad, don't cry. It was only a piece of fudge, and you had money after all..." Little Erik felt himself being lifted gently off the floor and set down on the countertop. He was unable to keep the half of his face that wore the mask away from the light as he was taken away from the shadows, and he heard the soft gasp as the man saw it.
"What's this then?"
Erik checked to see if the small dagger he'd stolen off his father was free from it's sheath, and held it carefully in a hand he hid behind his cloak. If the man touched the mask, if he tried to remove it.... Erik would make sure he did not. He had heard what the bad people above had done to his father when his father was hardly older than Erik, himself, was now. He had heard about the rocks being thrown, the jeers and taunts... the cage. Such a thing would not happen to him, he swore it in his mind. He would send the man to hell first.
Instead of reaching to pull it off, the man pulled up a chair and sat down, making him and little Erik at eye level now. He did not touch the mask, but Erik could plainly read the curiosity in the man's eyes.
"It is a mask, sir." Erik's voice trembled with faint anger and fear. He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice, but he was not entirely successful.
"I can see that, laddie. It's why you're wearing it that I want to know."
The man was going to reach for the mask; he was going to hurt Erik! Erik pulled out the knife, and in a flash had it poised and ready.
The shopkeeper looked down at it for a long moment, and then regarded the child holding it for a few moments more. He smiled, and held out his hands, showing he meant no harm. "There, there, now. A man's a right to his own secrets, I will not be forcing you of yours."
Erik did not put away the knife.
"C'mon now. You might hurt something with that, and the prisons are no place for a man as small as you. Now, you came for fudge, oui?"
Slowly, Erik let the knife drop, but kept it in plain view. The thought of fudge was making him less cautious, and at last he nodded, eagerly.
"Well, fudge is what you shall have then. What flavor were you wanting?"
He let his eyes slip to the case next to the counter, which contained a dozen types of different flavors and varieties. He'd had a piece of chocolate chocolate chunk fudge once, and he'd adored it. Why waste a chance like this to get a different flavor he would be unsure about? Almost immediately, the small hand, finely covered with a glove miniature to the ones his father wore, pointed to the plate that held the chocolate chunk fudge.
"And a good buy it is then." The man was careful to select a large piece from the platter, wrap it up carefully, and put it in a bag. "That'll be two francs, lad."
Erik's eyes went wide; the sign in front of the platter said ten francs, not two. However, the man's eyes told him not to question his good fortune, and he hurriedly slipped two francs into the man's waiting hand. Deftly, he hopped off the countertop onto the floor and slipped back on the hood of his cloak. He moved to the doorway, and, on impulse, turned back. Slowly, leisurely, he made his way back to the man and held out one of his tiny, gloved palms.
"My name is Erik, sir." He put on his deepest, manliest tones and attitudes.
The man chuckled softly. "Angus, lad. Angus Mackenzie. God be with you."
Erik left in the shadows, more quietly than he had come.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
"What did you think that you were doing, Erik?" The eyes behind the full face mask were furious, just as little Erik had known they would be. "I have told you time and time again what could happen up there, I have warned you time and time again about leaving.... What did you think that you were doing?!"
He flinched back, feet scuffing the floor ashamedly, eyes on his black, marked shoes. "Nothin... Papa, I just thought-"
"You just thought what?" The elder man roared, advancing angrily on his repentant son. "You just thought that you would waltz up to the street and have a look around? That the people up there would forgive the mask, suffer no curiosities, and let you have your foolish whim? I thought I raised you not to be a fool!"
"Nobody saw me up on the street!" He shouted back, not afraid of his father, and becoming equally as angry. "I was careful of that! I stayed in the shadows just as you taught me, Papa... You have been up there! You go up all the time and you don't get caught! No one finds you or hurts you, Papa, and I am just as smart as you are! Besides, they aren't all cruel..." He remembered the kindly face of the fudge merchant. "There was a nice chocolate man and he gave me some-"
"You were SEEN?!" The roar this time nearly shook the large house across the lake, and sent little Erik stumbling back, a bit fearful, and feeling very stupid. He had not meant to let Papa know about the man... and here it was, he had stupidly let it slip.
He had no choice but to nod, and he shut his eyes. "I... I didn' mean to, Papa... I only wanted some fudge... I was gonna pay for it... I had some money that I pilfered... I only wanted a piece of chocolate, Papa...." He mumbled softly, flinching back from the palpable anger in his father's eyes and voice.
To his surprise, he was swept into his father's arms and held tightly. Then he noticed the sparkle in his father's eyes, and all the self- righteous anger was gone, only shame and self-loathing remained.
"Don't cry, Papa!" He pleaded, softly, his own eyes prickling with hot and heavy tears. "Please, don't cry! I didn't mean it, Papa! I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I won't disobey you never again!" He curled close against his father's broad chest, beginning to cry softly, wanting to make it right.
"Oh, Erik..." His father's voice was the barest whisper, and the agony in it was so tight and painful that the little boy could only remember it being so bad once in his entire life... The one time, he had entered the room-which now remained locked and bolted to him-at the end of the hall, and found his father clutching a white lace veil, his face pressed to it; Erik could remember being shocked at seeing his father, for the first time, in tears, and then had come that tormented, soft whisper-so much like the one he had just uttered-saying the name 'Christine.' Only then had the pain in his father's voice been so terrible.... And now it was again. "Oh, Erik.... " The tall, heavily cloaked man whispered again. "I was so afraid that I had lost you... The world up there... would kill you if it could, and I could not live without you if that happened... You are my son, my beloved little boy... to see you hurt, dead, by those above.... Erik.... Oh, Erik.... My son..."
"Don't cry, Papa... Please... don't cry..." Ripping off the half-mask and letting it fall to the floor, the boy butted his head into his father's shoulder, trying to stop his own tears, and trying to comfort the older man at the same time. "I'm sorry, Papa... I'm sorry.... I won't do it again... I promise... Please don't cry..."
"Erik, I wouldn't ever forgive myself if something ever happened to you!" The elder Erik pulled his son firmly against him, cradling him close, and struggling to regain his usual composure. "Please, don't ever go up there without me again.... Please..."
"I won't, Papa, I won't... I promise... Don't cry..." More than angry words, or threats, those sad, panicked tears that streamed from his father's eyes made him stick to that promise, and he vowed to himself never to run off again.... For as long as he could, he kept that promise... And for the next fourteen years, he lived alone with his father, in the bowels of the Opera Populaire, learning voice, illusions, and everything else the Opera Ghost had to offer.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
******14 years Later******
He had been apologetic, loving, sincerely sorry... like all the other times, but for once, he didn't go back to his abusive ways immediately. For a while, he stayed away from his late-night bars, stayed away from the bottles of alcohol, from the cheap games of cards and the whores that went with them. And for those few blissful months, Christine thought that maybe he had changed for good, maybe he did love her and the children that they had made together. Maybe there was a chance for them after all...
It took only the first few months for her to learn how to care-and to teach Richard how to help-with her now completely blind daughter. Thankfully, besides the loss of vision, that was the only lasting damage to Journey, and Journey was soon up and playing, happy, regardless of her lack of sight.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A tiny figure wandered the streets of Paris, hidden by a cloak that was two sizes too large, and quick to fall back into shadows. Not discouraged by the deluge that sent most of the locals scurrying home for cover, he took absolute delight in the multitude of novel things that dazzled his eyes, as well as that he had successfully escaped the building that had always been his beloved home, but lately had also been a prison to his eager, six-year-old mind. He took a last, quick glance behind him, although he had already rounded too many corners to be able to see it; the Opera Populaire... home... father...
Quickly, he put further distance between himself and the large, stone building. Father was going to be absolutely furious with him! If he was harshly scolded for simply going to the normal floors of the Populaire, and doubly scolded and scowled at for going all the way up to the roof, what severe punishment would be his for leaving the Opera House all together?
With a simple shrug of his shoulders, little Erik dismissed the dangers of his father's wrath. One did, after all, have to take some risks in life. Besides, he was six-years-old, certainly old enough to be looking after himself. And, when all was through and done, when he returned home finally and accepted his father's anger, well, at least he would have the memories of this great city that he had often yearned to know from his vintage view on top of the Paris Opera House.
Some people, scuttling for shelter as the rain began to pour down in a new onslaught of torrential downpour, nearly bumped into him and he jumped quickly back into the safety of a dark alleyway, fingering the leather satchel he now held. He glanced only briefly at the ID found inside before tossing it over his shoulder, and greedily searching for money. He fingered a large ruby ring, trying to discern the value of it, and then grinned as he caught sight of the wad of francs he found hidden a little deeper. Counting it with a casual scrutiny, he was pleased with his little trickery of the moment. Perhaps he had doubted his abilities once, but he had been taught by his father, the master of illusion, after all, and the one time he had managed to steal something of his father without the older man's knowledge, was the moment little Erik had no more doubts. If his father, who knew every trick of deception as well as had the senses of a large cat, couldn't catch him, then what could the poor fools in the upper world think to do? And now, to feast on the spoils...
Pulling the hood, which had slipped off as another gift from the horrible weather, around his face again, he traversed the narrow Parisian streets, hoping that a chocolate shop might still be open. He was disappointed again and again up the first few rows of shops he came across, but at last he saw one that was not yet, quite, closed. He could see the owner, an aged man with graying hair and a friendly face, just getting ready to close up shop, and he slipped into the door, careful not to be seen. Making sure to stay in the shadows that the gracious night had extended him, he made his way to the fudge counter... It was open. His eyes on the prize, and not on the man who had gone into the backroom, he began to reach out to snatch a piece of chocolate chocolate fudge. Then he felt a hand, withered with age but strong, clamp down on his shoulder, and muffled a startled cry as he was whirled painfully around. The man looked much scarier close up, dull hazel eyes, the right half clouded by cataracts, were now brilliant with anger, and he was at least as tall as Erik's father, or so it seemed to the boy at the time, and he had a gun in the other hand.
"A little thief, eh?" As Erik cringed away from the man, hiding his half-mask as best he could because his hood had fallen away, he was shocked to hear gentleness in the man's tone. Very slowly, his arms came away from where they protected his head and face, and his eyes, wide with fear and surprise, slowly raised to meet the man's.
"Please, monsieur." He mumbled softly, head dipping with the manners his father had insisted he learn. "Please, I was not stealing.. I was going to pay for them, je promets..."
"Were you then, lad?" Now there was amusement in the elder's face and voice, and Erik was relieved to see him put the gun down on the countertop. "And with what were you intending to pay?"
"Money, of course..." As though he really needed to prove it, Erik pulled out the wad of francs he had stolen off the scurrying couple earlier, and shoved it towards the man.
The man glanced briefly down at the tiny, sweaty palm, and smiled, and Erik felt very much less afraid, only now his fear was quickly being replaced with a feeling of foolishness. And what would his father think when he learned that Erik had been found out, seen, caught? God.... Papa... Papa would be furious! He felt tears sting the corners of those bright blue orbs, and he hurriedly looked down in shame. A real man didn't cry... Perhaps he was only a boy after all...
He was startled again by the older man, whose gruff voice brought little Erik's eyes back up to meet his. "There now, lad, don't cry. It was only a piece of fudge, and you had money after all..." Little Erik felt himself being lifted gently off the floor and set down on the countertop. He was unable to keep the half of his face that wore the mask away from the light as he was taken away from the shadows, and he heard the soft gasp as the man saw it.
"What's this then?"
Erik checked to see if the small dagger he'd stolen off his father was free from it's sheath, and held it carefully in a hand he hid behind his cloak. If the man touched the mask, if he tried to remove it.... Erik would make sure he did not. He had heard what the bad people above had done to his father when his father was hardly older than Erik, himself, was now. He had heard about the rocks being thrown, the jeers and taunts... the cage. Such a thing would not happen to him, he swore it in his mind. He would send the man to hell first.
Instead of reaching to pull it off, the man pulled up a chair and sat down, making him and little Erik at eye level now. He did not touch the mask, but Erik could plainly read the curiosity in the man's eyes.
"It is a mask, sir." Erik's voice trembled with faint anger and fear. He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice, but he was not entirely successful.
"I can see that, laddie. It's why you're wearing it that I want to know."
The man was going to reach for the mask; he was going to hurt Erik! Erik pulled out the knife, and in a flash had it poised and ready.
The shopkeeper looked down at it for a long moment, and then regarded the child holding it for a few moments more. He smiled, and held out his hands, showing he meant no harm. "There, there, now. A man's a right to his own secrets, I will not be forcing you of yours."
Erik did not put away the knife.
"C'mon now. You might hurt something with that, and the prisons are no place for a man as small as you. Now, you came for fudge, oui?"
Slowly, Erik let the knife drop, but kept it in plain view. The thought of fudge was making him less cautious, and at last he nodded, eagerly.
"Well, fudge is what you shall have then. What flavor were you wanting?"
He let his eyes slip to the case next to the counter, which contained a dozen types of different flavors and varieties. He'd had a piece of chocolate chocolate chunk fudge once, and he'd adored it. Why waste a chance like this to get a different flavor he would be unsure about? Almost immediately, the small hand, finely covered with a glove miniature to the ones his father wore, pointed to the plate that held the chocolate chunk fudge.
"And a good buy it is then." The man was careful to select a large piece from the platter, wrap it up carefully, and put it in a bag. "That'll be two francs, lad."
Erik's eyes went wide; the sign in front of the platter said ten francs, not two. However, the man's eyes told him not to question his good fortune, and he hurriedly slipped two francs into the man's waiting hand. Deftly, he hopped off the countertop onto the floor and slipped back on the hood of his cloak. He moved to the doorway, and, on impulse, turned back. Slowly, leisurely, he made his way back to the man and held out one of his tiny, gloved palms.
"My name is Erik, sir." He put on his deepest, manliest tones and attitudes.
The man chuckled softly. "Angus, lad. Angus Mackenzie. God be with you."
Erik left in the shadows, more quietly than he had come.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
"What did you think that you were doing, Erik?" The eyes behind the full face mask were furious, just as little Erik had known they would be. "I have told you time and time again what could happen up there, I have warned you time and time again about leaving.... What did you think that you were doing?!"
He flinched back, feet scuffing the floor ashamedly, eyes on his black, marked shoes. "Nothin... Papa, I just thought-"
"You just thought what?" The elder man roared, advancing angrily on his repentant son. "You just thought that you would waltz up to the street and have a look around? That the people up there would forgive the mask, suffer no curiosities, and let you have your foolish whim? I thought I raised you not to be a fool!"
"Nobody saw me up on the street!" He shouted back, not afraid of his father, and becoming equally as angry. "I was careful of that! I stayed in the shadows just as you taught me, Papa... You have been up there! You go up all the time and you don't get caught! No one finds you or hurts you, Papa, and I am just as smart as you are! Besides, they aren't all cruel..." He remembered the kindly face of the fudge merchant. "There was a nice chocolate man and he gave me some-"
"You were SEEN?!" The roar this time nearly shook the large house across the lake, and sent little Erik stumbling back, a bit fearful, and feeling very stupid. He had not meant to let Papa know about the man... and here it was, he had stupidly let it slip.
He had no choice but to nod, and he shut his eyes. "I... I didn' mean to, Papa... I only wanted some fudge... I was gonna pay for it... I had some money that I pilfered... I only wanted a piece of chocolate, Papa...." He mumbled softly, flinching back from the palpable anger in his father's eyes and voice.
To his surprise, he was swept into his father's arms and held tightly. Then he noticed the sparkle in his father's eyes, and all the self- righteous anger was gone, only shame and self-loathing remained.
"Don't cry, Papa!" He pleaded, softly, his own eyes prickling with hot and heavy tears. "Please, don't cry! I didn't mean it, Papa! I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I won't disobey you never again!" He curled close against his father's broad chest, beginning to cry softly, wanting to make it right.
"Oh, Erik..." His father's voice was the barest whisper, and the agony in it was so tight and painful that the little boy could only remember it being so bad once in his entire life... The one time, he had entered the room-which now remained locked and bolted to him-at the end of the hall, and found his father clutching a white lace veil, his face pressed to it; Erik could remember being shocked at seeing his father, for the first time, in tears, and then had come that tormented, soft whisper-so much like the one he had just uttered-saying the name 'Christine.' Only then had the pain in his father's voice been so terrible.... And now it was again. "Oh, Erik.... " The tall, heavily cloaked man whispered again. "I was so afraid that I had lost you... The world up there... would kill you if it could, and I could not live without you if that happened... You are my son, my beloved little boy... to see you hurt, dead, by those above.... Erik.... Oh, Erik.... My son..."
"Don't cry, Papa... Please... don't cry..." Ripping off the half-mask and letting it fall to the floor, the boy butted his head into his father's shoulder, trying to stop his own tears, and trying to comfort the older man at the same time. "I'm sorry, Papa... I'm sorry.... I won't do it again... I promise... Please don't cry..."
"Erik, I wouldn't ever forgive myself if something ever happened to you!" The elder Erik pulled his son firmly against him, cradling him close, and struggling to regain his usual composure. "Please, don't ever go up there without me again.... Please..."
"I won't, Papa, I won't... I promise... Don't cry..." More than angry words, or threats, those sad, panicked tears that streamed from his father's eyes made him stick to that promise, and he vowed to himself never to run off again.... For as long as he could, he kept that promise... And for the next fourteen years, he lived alone with his father, in the bowels of the Opera Populaire, learning voice, illusions, and everything else the Opera Ghost had to offer.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
******14 years Later******
