The stench of piss and vomit was strong in the night air as he wandered the streets. He was forced to leave his haunt at least once a week to get fresh air, or otherwise succumb to constant bouts of pneumonia caused by the dampness of the lake.
The only safe time to venture the streets of Paris was in the deepest part of night, and then only in the poorer sections where mysterious gentleman wandering the streets would not be questioned too much. Most of those questions were deflected with a simple statement that he did not "want for company" that night. The other question, "Where's your purse?" was easily solved through the swift deployment of the deadly Punjab lasso.
Fortunately at this hour, just before dawn, when all the coarse laborers had returned from the pubs for a few scant hours of sleep before returning to the factories, the streets were deserted. Even the prostitutes had given up for the night, returning to their pimps and madams.
He walked the lonely streets, trying to rid himself of his writer's block over the ending of Don Juan Triumphant. While Don Juan would undoubtedly abandon Aminta after their night of carnal passion, he was not so isolated from society to know that such an ending would be displeasing to the audience. The fools would have it that the force of Aminta's passion would change Don Juan from his rakish ways. This idea he could not bear, and refused to consider seriously. There had to be another way in which to solve the dilemma, he knew, but was at a loss…
He was torn from his thoughts by the cry of an infant. This was unusual of course because he was in an abandoned alleyway. A quick look up made him realize that the alleyway was off a church. His eyes finally found the source of the noise, a crude bundle sitting on the step of the side entrance to the chapel.
Curiosity, a trait in which had gotten him into more trouble than he could count, propelled him forward. He squatted down next the bundle of rags, surprised to find that the child stopped crying as soon as he reached out to touch, and began to coo with happiness. He felt a small pang at that, although he couldn't quite decide why.
He peeled back the wrappings and revealed the child underneath, naked and soaked in it's own defecation. The smell did not bother him terribly, after all there was not much one infant could do to overwhelm that particularly pungent reek of Paris at night.
He gazed at that face, with its horribly swollen tumor in violet-red that pressed down upon the left eye, the harelip, and the clubbed arm. No wonder the child had been abandoned on the stoop of the church, disfigured as it was. The child was not newborn… it was too large for their that, and so he supposed the burden of the child must have become to much for the mother and she had graciously left the child in the tender mercies of the church.
That mother knew nothing of compassion obviously. The church knew it neither, Erik knew, he was certain as to what they would do.
There was only one right way of dealing with this child, though the fools would refuse to see it.
He wrapped the child once more, careful not to send it into further fits and attract the unwanted attention of one of the friars. He lifted the boy-child gently. His eyes met with the peaceful blue ones, and he felt vindicated in his course of action.
He would do what his mother had been too frightened to…
What the world had been too cowardly to do…
With a sharp jerk he bashed the infant's head across the step. The child's smile never had a chance to waver, and now was softly sliding into the solemnness of Death's mask. Blood spattered the stones and his person; little gray flecks of brain matter, flesh and bone splayed everywhere.
He placed the child reverently down once more upon the step, careful not to disturb the peaceful face, although it hardly mattered any more. He stood, pausing to readjust his cloak so as to cover the bloodstains. He spat harshly on the door, imagining the looks of horror upon the friar's faces when they saw the petit massacre on their entryway. Fools… there were no god, and if there was he was as flawed as humans for letting creatures as himself live.
The audience could hang themselves (and he'd only be too happy to assist them); Don Juan would triumph once more.
Fin.
Author's Note: Sorry to anyone whom I've horribly scarred by reading this piece of fiction. I felt I couldn't put a warning at the top, as it would ruin the story. It just struck me as I was browsing through all these stories along the lines of "Erik finds horribly deformed child and raises it as his own" that it seemed out of character… even for ALW Erik (gasp!).