I've finally updated! Sorry it took me so long. Thanks to those who
reviewed the last chapter, especially to M. Angelowe: it was your review
that stopped me from being lazy and encouraged me to update.
In this chapter, young Erik meets his father. Please review! Oh, and if you do, please let me know what you thought of my grown-up Erik in the last chapter. I'd be interested to know what you all thought of my interpretation of his character.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.
Erik. 1856.
Biting my lip thoughtfully, I stared into the eyes of the creature in the mirror. They were extraordinary eyes, I knew that now. Extraordinary eyes glinting like jewels in the strange, asymmetrical lump of flesh and bone that was my head.
Two months had passed since I had learned the Truth, and I had spent this time shut away (as ever) in my attic bedroom, with only my aunt and my music for company. Looking back, I find it hard to remember what my feelings were during this strange, confusing time. I suppose there must have been some occasions when I felt sad, bewildered and angry, but most of the time I simply felt numb. It was a strange feeling, and it was certainly not in keeping with my usually emotional, passionate character. Over the years, I have frequently wondered what could have caused me to become so detached and listless. I can only conclude that it was down to shock, but perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps I instinctively withdrew into myself because I saw this as my one defence against the rest of the world. I had, after all, been hurt deeply.
There were moments when I did feel pain and confusion, of course. These moments usually came at night, long after my aunt had gone to bed. I would lie wide awake in the darkness, my whole body throbbing with an emotional pain which was almost physical. I would shut my eyes tightly and concentrate hard, trying to find out where this pain was coming from, but its source always alluded me. I knew I was upset about my face, but it went deeper than that. When I looked into the mirror for the first time, something inside me changed. I was still an innocent, I knew nothing of the world beyond those four walls, and yet I felt as though a part of me had somehow matured. I suppose my feelings were similar to those experienced in adolescence, when one is experiencing awkward changes in both body and mind. It was that sort of confusion. In my mind I had always been faceless, and now I had a face. I knew who- WHAT-I was, and I could feel a future trying to land on me.
And it was not the sort of future I wanted.
I had endured two whole months of this torture. There had to be some way to end it.
The sound of the door opening and closing broke into my thoughts. I looked up to see that my aunt had entered the room.
"Erik, I need to talk to you," she said, in a breathless, excited voice. I stared at her curiously.
"Is something wrong, Aunt Giry?"
My aunt sat down next to me on the bed.
"It's your father, Erik. He wants to see you in the library immediately."
I gazed at her in disbelief. "Why on Earth should he want to see me? He's never even spoken to me before."
Aunt Giry shook her head in bewilderment. "I'm not sure. He came into the library a few minutes ago, while I was getting a book down for you about cathedrals. He looked at me in surprise, and asked if I'd acquired an interest in architecture. I said no, but I told him that you'd been interested in it for a long time. He looked interested, and asked me to bring you down to see him."
"I'll go down and see him straight away." I paused for a moment. "Will my mother be there?"
"No. I understand she has gone to Rouen for a few days. But I think you should take that horrid mask, just in case. I'm sorry."
I gave a nod of understanding and got down on my hands and knees, pulling an old wooden chest out from underneath my bed. I opened the chest and took out my mask and wig, which I had wrapped carefully in some old scraps of material.
I had not worn my mask since the day I had learned the Truth. My aunt had wanted to get rid of it, but I had insisted on keeping it. I'm not sure why. Some instinct must have told me that I would need it again someday. I hated that mask with a passion, but I knew my poor Aunt Giry would be made to suffer if she ever disposed of it without my parents' permission. And it wasn't as though I had to look at it when it was under my bed.
Aunt Giry helped me put on the mask and wig, and then we began our descent towards the library. I was very nervous. What could my father possibly want to speak to me about?
We paused in front of a heavy wooden door. My aunt turned to look at me.
"Remember to be polite and call him 'sir,' and don't speak unless you are spoken to. You'll be fine. I'll wait for you out here."
She knocked on the door, and a deep male voice said "Come in." I stepped nervously into the room.
My father was seated in an armchair, reading a book. He was a large man with dark hair and a very handsome complexion. Despite his relaxed posture, I could already see that he was a strong and powerful gentleman, with a touch of real grace and nobility about him. He looked up as I entered.
"Ahh. Young Erik," he said. I continued to slouch in the doorway, too nervous to reply.
"Well? Can't you speak either?" It was the word 'either' which made me begin to fret.
"Why did you want to see me, sir?" I asked timidly. My father put his book down and sprang to his feet.
"For heaven's sake, boy! Stand straight and look me in the eye when you're addressing me! Did Mlle. Giry not teach you any manners? Come into the light and take off your mask. I want to see you properly.'
I stepped forward, removing the mask with shaking fingers. My father stared at me with critical eyes.
'Yes,' he said, after a moment's contemplation. 'I think the mask is going to be a necessity. And you're rather too small and thin - a bit of work is in order to strengthen those puny little muscles - yes, we'll make a big, strong lad out of you yet."
I felt terribly inadequate.
"What do you want to talk to me about, sir?"
"I want to discuss your future, my boy." He replied, rather theatrically. I shifted uneasily.
"What do you mean, 'my future'? You're not going to send me away, are you?"
My father suddenly laughed. The sound was warm, loud and rumbling. I suppose under other circumstances it would have been highly infectious.
"No! Of course not! Not now that we've found a use for you!" He paused, and looked at me a little more gently. "Look, I'm sorry about the incident with the mask. Your mother got a bit carried away. She's a very explosive woman, your mother. But you have to understand that it's for the best, if you want to be accepted into the world, that is. Please sit down."
I did as he asked, and he sat down in the armchair opposite me.
"Your mother tells me that Mlle. Giry's told you everything about your past." He resumed, in an almost cautious tone of voice. "And it's true, I did leave in a bit of a temper when you were born. You see, all I saw before me was a disfigured little thing who would never be able to inherit my business. I'm sorry."
"What for?" I asked. He did not seem to notice the hint of sarcasm in my voice.
"For not giving you a chance in life," he replied. "I ignored you from the moment you were born. But now Mlle. Giry's told me that you're extremely clever. Ugly, but very clever. I'm willing to give you a chance. I'd like to take you to see one of my construction sites. I would put you under the supervision of some workers who would teach you my craft. A fine opportunity for an unfortunate child such as yourself." He paused. "Well, what do you have to say?"
I stared at him in furious disbelief. My aunt had never compared me to other children before, but this man, who didn't even know me, seemed to be doing it all the time. I felt as though every inch of my body had come under his criticism, as if he was measuring each of my 'puny little muscles' against how much work I could do for him in his mason's yard. In this moment of blind anger I completely forgot my manners. I drew myself up and shouted at him.
"So! You wouldn't have given me a chance if my aunt hadn't told you I was clever! Am I right? Yes, of course I am! To you I'm just a little deformed runt who can now be used to help you in your workshop! You don't really want to teach me your craft! You're ashamed of me!"
My father looked at me in shocked surprise. "Mlle. Giry didn't say that you were rude." He said.
I suddenly felt very stupid. This was my chance to make my parents proud of me, and here I was, throwing it all away. Yes, I would accept my father's offer. I would learn to be a mason, and I would be extremely good at it. In fact, I would be the best mason ever! I would make them proud of me! I'd show them!
"I'm sorry, Father," I said. "I don't know what came over me. I want to learn whatever you're prepared to teach me. I'll do whatever you say."
My father smiled. "Good," he said. "We'll start tomorrow.'
* * *
The following day I travelled to Rouen with my father. This was my first trip outside the house, at the age of nine, and I cannot describe how nervous I was. Looking back, I know that I could not have been frightened, because I did not know there was anything to fear. Oh, I knew that there must be some rather nasty people in the world beyond those four walls, who would no doubt mock my appearance, but at the time I was simply too excited to care. And my father assured me that I would be quite safe.
My aunt, however, was harder to convince. I had never been separated from her before, with the exception of those rare days which she had spent at the Opera House. I suppose she was concerned about handing responsibility for me over to my father, who had never spent any time with me before. But she could not deny an excited child such an opportunity, and she was eventually persuaded to let me go.
The most exciting, nerve-wracking moment was when my father opened the front door. A blast of cold air struck me in the face and made me flinch, and then I gazed with wonder upon the landscape of Normandy spread out before me. I was taken aback by the sheer beauty of it all: the dense and mysterious blanket of the Foret de Roumare to one side, the grassy pastures of our estate, and the tiny village of Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville nestled snugly in the valley below. From our vantage point on the driveway I could make out the spire of the abbey and several large half-timbered houses, but nothing more. And beyond that, nothing but fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. Fields, and then the distant horizon.
Standing there, on the threshold of the only world I had ever known, I could not imagine anything more beautiful. Until the ride in the carriage, of course, which took us through more lovely little villages, copses and fields, and finally to the bustle and excitement of the city of Rouen.
The coach came to a standstill outside a large, half-finished, red-brick building which contrasted sharply with the much older, half-timbered buildings on either side. I followed my father under an archway to one side of the incomplete house, and we emerged in what I suppose was going to be the property's stable yard. Some men were at work building a wall on one side. They all stopped and looked at me as I passed, and I felt a little uncomfortable. My father paused for a moment.
"I just have to go inside for a minute and sort something out," he said, addressing me. "You wait here until I come back"
I nodded, and watched my father go into the house. I waited patiently, thinking about what a good mason I was going to be. Suddenly, a loud cry broke into my thoughts.
"You there!" Someone shouted. "You there with the mask!"
I turned around, only to see a large man standing behind me.
"Why are you wearing that ugly mask?" he asked. I made no reply.
"Come on, take it off!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't," I said, in a polite yet nervous voice. The man bent over and brought his face level with my own.
"Oh! What do we have here, then? A little rich boy?" He turned to look at his colleagues. "Did you here that, lads? 'I'm sorry, sir, I can't!'" The man laughed, and several other men laughed with him.
The man turned back to face me. "Your airs and graces don't fool me!" he said, grinning. "There's something wrong with your face, isn't there?"
I trembled. "There's nothing wrong with my face, sir," I stammered.
"Oh, rubbish! Did you hear that? There's nothing wrong with his face! Well, we'll soon find out!"
I tried to escape, but two other men caught me by the arms, and my tormentor finally succeeded in ripping the mask from my face.
The men in the yard thought it was hilarious. "Oh, there's nothing wrong with your face, is there, lad?" Someone laughed. "Perfectly formed, I'd say. Very handsome."
I hung my head in shame. "Please let me go," I begged, in a frightened little voice. "Please let me go home."
"Aww. Did you here that? The poor little monster wants to go home! Should we let him go, lads, or should we keep him here and talk to him a while longer?"
This vote, of course, was unanimous. They were enjoying themselves, and they were not in any hurry to let me go. Instead they held onto me, calling me names.
"Look at that lovely face of his," someone chuckled. "Such exquisite markings! I could make my wife a nice pair of gloves out of that!" He stepped forward and gave my deformed flesh a hard pinch. I gave a yelp.
"Aww, did it hurt?" Someone else jeered, twisting my small, crooked nose. "Who's your father, anyway? I don't half feel sorry for him. Why, if my son looked anything like you, he would be working for a living in a freak show by now!"
I was too frightened to even begin to contemplate what a freak show was. Totally unequipped to deal with the situation in which I now found myself, I had given up trying to fight back, and I remained standing against the wall.
"I'm Phillippe Claudin's son, sir," I replied, warily.
There was a delighted peal of laughter. "You're the boss's son? We'll have a good laugh at him when he comes back, won't we, lads?"
"Leave my father alone!" I said. I tried to sound frightening, but my voice came out as a soft whimper.
"Oh, I'm sooo scared!" said the man, faking a shudder. "But I'm sorry, Ugly, he's next!"
I gave up completely. I just stood there, letting them call me names. All their insults hit their marks, and I smarted under their attacks. There was no hope of escape. They were holding onto me so tightly.
"Monster!"
"Freak!"
"Gargoyle!"
"Vampire!"
These are just a fraction of the names which I was called. I can't remember how long I stood there. I had lost all sense of time.
Suddenly I heard another voice. A voice which seemed to rise from the depths of my subconscious: "They're right," said the voice. "And you know it. You're all the things that they say you are. You're different!"
I couldn't hear or see the men anymore. All I could hear was that voice, my own mocking inner voice, jeering at me.
"Different! Different! DIFFERENT!"
My head was spinning. I felt as though I was going to faint.
Then another voice, angry and authoritative, penetrated the strange fog enveloping my mind. "What on Earth is going on here?" It said.
Reality was restored in an instant. I was standing with my back against the wall, and two men were holding my arms. Their laughter died as my father stepped towards us, and they let go of me abruptly.
"Er - it was all his fault, sir," said one, pointing an accusing finger at me. "He's been running amok, disturbing us and showing us those strange scars on his face. Poor little boy. He must be mad!"
My father looked at me sternly. "Erik!" he cried. "Come here! I want a word with you!"
I trembled. It was clear that he was very angry with me. I didn't dare move. I didn't dare approach my own father! Whatever was wrong with me?
I looked at the crowd of men, then at my father, and then I ran from the yard as fast as my damaged leg could carry me.
"Erik! Come back here at once!" My father cried furiously. I ignored him, and kept on running. I dashed round corner after corner, until, to my vast surprise, I caught sight of a familiar face sitting on a bench in the cathedral square. I took a flying leap, and dived straight into my mother's arms.
"Erik!" she cried, startled. "Go away! I don't want you here!"
I clung to her tightly, too relieved to see her to let her go. I made the mistake of forcing myself into her arms and resting my disfigured face against her shoulder.
"Get off!" She cried, angrily pushing me away. It was then that I noticed there were two other people sitting on the bench next to her. I turned around, startled.
They were both women, and, as I looked at them with a confused, frightened expression on my face, one of them let out a great peal of laughter.
"Look at those lips!" she giggled, dragging me towards her. I received another hard pinch on the face. "Oh, Marie! He's wonderful! I've never seen anything like it! Is he really yours?"
My mother glared at me. "Not if I could help it," I heard her mumble.
"You know, my friend used to run a freak show. I'm sure he'd be only too happy to start it up again if he had this little fellow as an exhibit!"
My mother glared at me, and I looked down at my toes. I knew this was entirely my fault, all of this fuss. I presumed that I had done wrong, that it was somehow a crime to be deformed. I didn't understand why.
While my mother was glaring at me and her friends were 'admiring' my face, my father ran up.
"There you are, you revolting little creature!" he said, angrily. He caught me and dragged me roughly towards him by the scruff of my neck.
"Too right he's revolting!" said one of the women. I can just picture the looks on the faces of the audience in my friend's freak show!"
"He should be locked up!" my father complained, shaking me violently by the arm. "He made a laughing stock of me at the yard today, with that hideous face of his. I don't know why I bothered to take him with me!"
"I don't know why we bothered to keep him at all," said my mother. "The housekeeper was right. He should have been dropped on the fire or drowned as soon as he was born!"
This last statement filled me with terror. I couldn't imagine anyone doing that to a human being, especially their own child. Fear gave me strength, and I managed to break free from my father's grasp. Before he could stop me, I was off down the busy streets of Rouen. Oh, why were they so unkind to me? Why did they all hate me so much? What had I done wrong? Those men were right. I WAS a freak!
These thoughts rushed through my head as I ran blindly through the cold streets, terrified that someone was going to chase after me and catch me.
I ran into a disused shed behind one of the larger houses, and there I stayed until they found me the next morning, weeping and trembling in the corner.
In this chapter, young Erik meets his father. Please review! Oh, and if you do, please let me know what you thought of my grown-up Erik in the last chapter. I'd be interested to know what you all thought of my interpretation of his character.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.
Erik. 1856.
Biting my lip thoughtfully, I stared into the eyes of the creature in the mirror. They were extraordinary eyes, I knew that now. Extraordinary eyes glinting like jewels in the strange, asymmetrical lump of flesh and bone that was my head.
Two months had passed since I had learned the Truth, and I had spent this time shut away (as ever) in my attic bedroom, with only my aunt and my music for company. Looking back, I find it hard to remember what my feelings were during this strange, confusing time. I suppose there must have been some occasions when I felt sad, bewildered and angry, but most of the time I simply felt numb. It was a strange feeling, and it was certainly not in keeping with my usually emotional, passionate character. Over the years, I have frequently wondered what could have caused me to become so detached and listless. I can only conclude that it was down to shock, but perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps I instinctively withdrew into myself because I saw this as my one defence against the rest of the world. I had, after all, been hurt deeply.
There were moments when I did feel pain and confusion, of course. These moments usually came at night, long after my aunt had gone to bed. I would lie wide awake in the darkness, my whole body throbbing with an emotional pain which was almost physical. I would shut my eyes tightly and concentrate hard, trying to find out where this pain was coming from, but its source always alluded me. I knew I was upset about my face, but it went deeper than that. When I looked into the mirror for the first time, something inside me changed. I was still an innocent, I knew nothing of the world beyond those four walls, and yet I felt as though a part of me had somehow matured. I suppose my feelings were similar to those experienced in adolescence, when one is experiencing awkward changes in both body and mind. It was that sort of confusion. In my mind I had always been faceless, and now I had a face. I knew who- WHAT-I was, and I could feel a future trying to land on me.
And it was not the sort of future I wanted.
I had endured two whole months of this torture. There had to be some way to end it.
The sound of the door opening and closing broke into my thoughts. I looked up to see that my aunt had entered the room.
"Erik, I need to talk to you," she said, in a breathless, excited voice. I stared at her curiously.
"Is something wrong, Aunt Giry?"
My aunt sat down next to me on the bed.
"It's your father, Erik. He wants to see you in the library immediately."
I gazed at her in disbelief. "Why on Earth should he want to see me? He's never even spoken to me before."
Aunt Giry shook her head in bewilderment. "I'm not sure. He came into the library a few minutes ago, while I was getting a book down for you about cathedrals. He looked at me in surprise, and asked if I'd acquired an interest in architecture. I said no, but I told him that you'd been interested in it for a long time. He looked interested, and asked me to bring you down to see him."
"I'll go down and see him straight away." I paused for a moment. "Will my mother be there?"
"No. I understand she has gone to Rouen for a few days. But I think you should take that horrid mask, just in case. I'm sorry."
I gave a nod of understanding and got down on my hands and knees, pulling an old wooden chest out from underneath my bed. I opened the chest and took out my mask and wig, which I had wrapped carefully in some old scraps of material.
I had not worn my mask since the day I had learned the Truth. My aunt had wanted to get rid of it, but I had insisted on keeping it. I'm not sure why. Some instinct must have told me that I would need it again someday. I hated that mask with a passion, but I knew my poor Aunt Giry would be made to suffer if she ever disposed of it without my parents' permission. And it wasn't as though I had to look at it when it was under my bed.
Aunt Giry helped me put on the mask and wig, and then we began our descent towards the library. I was very nervous. What could my father possibly want to speak to me about?
We paused in front of a heavy wooden door. My aunt turned to look at me.
"Remember to be polite and call him 'sir,' and don't speak unless you are spoken to. You'll be fine. I'll wait for you out here."
She knocked on the door, and a deep male voice said "Come in." I stepped nervously into the room.
My father was seated in an armchair, reading a book. He was a large man with dark hair and a very handsome complexion. Despite his relaxed posture, I could already see that he was a strong and powerful gentleman, with a touch of real grace and nobility about him. He looked up as I entered.
"Ahh. Young Erik," he said. I continued to slouch in the doorway, too nervous to reply.
"Well? Can't you speak either?" It was the word 'either' which made me begin to fret.
"Why did you want to see me, sir?" I asked timidly. My father put his book down and sprang to his feet.
"For heaven's sake, boy! Stand straight and look me in the eye when you're addressing me! Did Mlle. Giry not teach you any manners? Come into the light and take off your mask. I want to see you properly.'
I stepped forward, removing the mask with shaking fingers. My father stared at me with critical eyes.
'Yes,' he said, after a moment's contemplation. 'I think the mask is going to be a necessity. And you're rather too small and thin - a bit of work is in order to strengthen those puny little muscles - yes, we'll make a big, strong lad out of you yet."
I felt terribly inadequate.
"What do you want to talk to me about, sir?"
"I want to discuss your future, my boy." He replied, rather theatrically. I shifted uneasily.
"What do you mean, 'my future'? You're not going to send me away, are you?"
My father suddenly laughed. The sound was warm, loud and rumbling. I suppose under other circumstances it would have been highly infectious.
"No! Of course not! Not now that we've found a use for you!" He paused, and looked at me a little more gently. "Look, I'm sorry about the incident with the mask. Your mother got a bit carried away. She's a very explosive woman, your mother. But you have to understand that it's for the best, if you want to be accepted into the world, that is. Please sit down."
I did as he asked, and he sat down in the armchair opposite me.
"Your mother tells me that Mlle. Giry's told you everything about your past." He resumed, in an almost cautious tone of voice. "And it's true, I did leave in a bit of a temper when you were born. You see, all I saw before me was a disfigured little thing who would never be able to inherit my business. I'm sorry."
"What for?" I asked. He did not seem to notice the hint of sarcasm in my voice.
"For not giving you a chance in life," he replied. "I ignored you from the moment you were born. But now Mlle. Giry's told me that you're extremely clever. Ugly, but very clever. I'm willing to give you a chance. I'd like to take you to see one of my construction sites. I would put you under the supervision of some workers who would teach you my craft. A fine opportunity for an unfortunate child such as yourself." He paused. "Well, what do you have to say?"
I stared at him in furious disbelief. My aunt had never compared me to other children before, but this man, who didn't even know me, seemed to be doing it all the time. I felt as though every inch of my body had come under his criticism, as if he was measuring each of my 'puny little muscles' against how much work I could do for him in his mason's yard. In this moment of blind anger I completely forgot my manners. I drew myself up and shouted at him.
"So! You wouldn't have given me a chance if my aunt hadn't told you I was clever! Am I right? Yes, of course I am! To you I'm just a little deformed runt who can now be used to help you in your workshop! You don't really want to teach me your craft! You're ashamed of me!"
My father looked at me in shocked surprise. "Mlle. Giry didn't say that you were rude." He said.
I suddenly felt very stupid. This was my chance to make my parents proud of me, and here I was, throwing it all away. Yes, I would accept my father's offer. I would learn to be a mason, and I would be extremely good at it. In fact, I would be the best mason ever! I would make them proud of me! I'd show them!
"I'm sorry, Father," I said. "I don't know what came over me. I want to learn whatever you're prepared to teach me. I'll do whatever you say."
My father smiled. "Good," he said. "We'll start tomorrow.'
* * *
The following day I travelled to Rouen with my father. This was my first trip outside the house, at the age of nine, and I cannot describe how nervous I was. Looking back, I know that I could not have been frightened, because I did not know there was anything to fear. Oh, I knew that there must be some rather nasty people in the world beyond those four walls, who would no doubt mock my appearance, but at the time I was simply too excited to care. And my father assured me that I would be quite safe.
My aunt, however, was harder to convince. I had never been separated from her before, with the exception of those rare days which she had spent at the Opera House. I suppose she was concerned about handing responsibility for me over to my father, who had never spent any time with me before. But she could not deny an excited child such an opportunity, and she was eventually persuaded to let me go.
The most exciting, nerve-wracking moment was when my father opened the front door. A blast of cold air struck me in the face and made me flinch, and then I gazed with wonder upon the landscape of Normandy spread out before me. I was taken aback by the sheer beauty of it all: the dense and mysterious blanket of the Foret de Roumare to one side, the grassy pastures of our estate, and the tiny village of Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville nestled snugly in the valley below. From our vantage point on the driveway I could make out the spire of the abbey and several large half-timbered houses, but nothing more. And beyond that, nothing but fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. Fields, and then the distant horizon.
Standing there, on the threshold of the only world I had ever known, I could not imagine anything more beautiful. Until the ride in the carriage, of course, which took us through more lovely little villages, copses and fields, and finally to the bustle and excitement of the city of Rouen.
The coach came to a standstill outside a large, half-finished, red-brick building which contrasted sharply with the much older, half-timbered buildings on either side. I followed my father under an archway to one side of the incomplete house, and we emerged in what I suppose was going to be the property's stable yard. Some men were at work building a wall on one side. They all stopped and looked at me as I passed, and I felt a little uncomfortable. My father paused for a moment.
"I just have to go inside for a minute and sort something out," he said, addressing me. "You wait here until I come back"
I nodded, and watched my father go into the house. I waited patiently, thinking about what a good mason I was going to be. Suddenly, a loud cry broke into my thoughts.
"You there!" Someone shouted. "You there with the mask!"
I turned around, only to see a large man standing behind me.
"Why are you wearing that ugly mask?" he asked. I made no reply.
"Come on, take it off!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't," I said, in a polite yet nervous voice. The man bent over and brought his face level with my own.
"Oh! What do we have here, then? A little rich boy?" He turned to look at his colleagues. "Did you here that, lads? 'I'm sorry, sir, I can't!'" The man laughed, and several other men laughed with him.
The man turned back to face me. "Your airs and graces don't fool me!" he said, grinning. "There's something wrong with your face, isn't there?"
I trembled. "There's nothing wrong with my face, sir," I stammered.
"Oh, rubbish! Did you hear that? There's nothing wrong with his face! Well, we'll soon find out!"
I tried to escape, but two other men caught me by the arms, and my tormentor finally succeeded in ripping the mask from my face.
The men in the yard thought it was hilarious. "Oh, there's nothing wrong with your face, is there, lad?" Someone laughed. "Perfectly formed, I'd say. Very handsome."
I hung my head in shame. "Please let me go," I begged, in a frightened little voice. "Please let me go home."
"Aww. Did you here that? The poor little monster wants to go home! Should we let him go, lads, or should we keep him here and talk to him a while longer?"
This vote, of course, was unanimous. They were enjoying themselves, and they were not in any hurry to let me go. Instead they held onto me, calling me names.
"Look at that lovely face of his," someone chuckled. "Such exquisite markings! I could make my wife a nice pair of gloves out of that!" He stepped forward and gave my deformed flesh a hard pinch. I gave a yelp.
"Aww, did it hurt?" Someone else jeered, twisting my small, crooked nose. "Who's your father, anyway? I don't half feel sorry for him. Why, if my son looked anything like you, he would be working for a living in a freak show by now!"
I was too frightened to even begin to contemplate what a freak show was. Totally unequipped to deal with the situation in which I now found myself, I had given up trying to fight back, and I remained standing against the wall.
"I'm Phillippe Claudin's son, sir," I replied, warily.
There was a delighted peal of laughter. "You're the boss's son? We'll have a good laugh at him when he comes back, won't we, lads?"
"Leave my father alone!" I said. I tried to sound frightening, but my voice came out as a soft whimper.
"Oh, I'm sooo scared!" said the man, faking a shudder. "But I'm sorry, Ugly, he's next!"
I gave up completely. I just stood there, letting them call me names. All their insults hit their marks, and I smarted under their attacks. There was no hope of escape. They were holding onto me so tightly.
"Monster!"
"Freak!"
"Gargoyle!"
"Vampire!"
These are just a fraction of the names which I was called. I can't remember how long I stood there. I had lost all sense of time.
Suddenly I heard another voice. A voice which seemed to rise from the depths of my subconscious: "They're right," said the voice. "And you know it. You're all the things that they say you are. You're different!"
I couldn't hear or see the men anymore. All I could hear was that voice, my own mocking inner voice, jeering at me.
"Different! Different! DIFFERENT!"
My head was spinning. I felt as though I was going to faint.
Then another voice, angry and authoritative, penetrated the strange fog enveloping my mind. "What on Earth is going on here?" It said.
Reality was restored in an instant. I was standing with my back against the wall, and two men were holding my arms. Their laughter died as my father stepped towards us, and they let go of me abruptly.
"Er - it was all his fault, sir," said one, pointing an accusing finger at me. "He's been running amok, disturbing us and showing us those strange scars on his face. Poor little boy. He must be mad!"
My father looked at me sternly. "Erik!" he cried. "Come here! I want a word with you!"
I trembled. It was clear that he was very angry with me. I didn't dare move. I didn't dare approach my own father! Whatever was wrong with me?
I looked at the crowd of men, then at my father, and then I ran from the yard as fast as my damaged leg could carry me.
"Erik! Come back here at once!" My father cried furiously. I ignored him, and kept on running. I dashed round corner after corner, until, to my vast surprise, I caught sight of a familiar face sitting on a bench in the cathedral square. I took a flying leap, and dived straight into my mother's arms.
"Erik!" she cried, startled. "Go away! I don't want you here!"
I clung to her tightly, too relieved to see her to let her go. I made the mistake of forcing myself into her arms and resting my disfigured face against her shoulder.
"Get off!" She cried, angrily pushing me away. It was then that I noticed there were two other people sitting on the bench next to her. I turned around, startled.
They were both women, and, as I looked at them with a confused, frightened expression on my face, one of them let out a great peal of laughter.
"Look at those lips!" she giggled, dragging me towards her. I received another hard pinch on the face. "Oh, Marie! He's wonderful! I've never seen anything like it! Is he really yours?"
My mother glared at me. "Not if I could help it," I heard her mumble.
"You know, my friend used to run a freak show. I'm sure he'd be only too happy to start it up again if he had this little fellow as an exhibit!"
My mother glared at me, and I looked down at my toes. I knew this was entirely my fault, all of this fuss. I presumed that I had done wrong, that it was somehow a crime to be deformed. I didn't understand why.
While my mother was glaring at me and her friends were 'admiring' my face, my father ran up.
"There you are, you revolting little creature!" he said, angrily. He caught me and dragged me roughly towards him by the scruff of my neck.
"Too right he's revolting!" said one of the women. I can just picture the looks on the faces of the audience in my friend's freak show!"
"He should be locked up!" my father complained, shaking me violently by the arm. "He made a laughing stock of me at the yard today, with that hideous face of his. I don't know why I bothered to take him with me!"
"I don't know why we bothered to keep him at all," said my mother. "The housekeeper was right. He should have been dropped on the fire or drowned as soon as he was born!"
This last statement filled me with terror. I couldn't imagine anyone doing that to a human being, especially their own child. Fear gave me strength, and I managed to break free from my father's grasp. Before he could stop me, I was off down the busy streets of Rouen. Oh, why were they so unkind to me? Why did they all hate me so much? What had I done wrong? Those men were right. I WAS a freak!
These thoughts rushed through my head as I ran blindly through the cold streets, terrified that someone was going to chase after me and catch me.
I ran into a disused shed behind one of the larger houses, and there I stayed until they found me the next morning, weeping and trembling in the corner.