White Roses
Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Phantom of the Opera. Just in case anyone was thinking of suing me.
Author's note: Based mostly on the ideas from the ALW movie. T to be safe.
Author's note again: Wow! I've had this account since January, and I'm finally posting my first phic! Alex is no longer just a reviewer:happy dance:
The Devil's Child
The young boy cowered in the corner of the cage. The scene outside was gaudy, thrilling and cheerful, but in this tent, it was anything but. There was nothing inside but the rusty bars of the cage and the dusty stool where the gypsy sat as he counted his earnings for the day. Inside the cage lived one of the 'human oddities' the travelling fair was famous for. The boy hated that name.
Slowly, he tied off the thread he had used to make another crude plaything, although he knew that the gypsy would confiscate it sooner or later. The joyful music blared outside, taunting the boy. He wanted nothing more than to be part of a normal world where he could walk among others without the inevitable stares. All he wanted was to be, well, human.
"Come, come inside! Come and see the devil's child!"
The raspy voice of the gypsy awoke the boy from his stupor. He shuddered as the crowd poured in - mostly made up of chattering girls. How he wished he could be like them! So carefree ... enjoying life ... Shuddering, his long fingers pulled the burlap sack further over his face, fruitlessly hoping that he would be spared the cruel humiliation he knew he was about to be subjected to.
Sure enough, the brutal hand with its grimy residue wrenched the sack away from the boy with no apparent effort. Frantically, the boy tried to cover his marred face, but it was too late. The crowd had seen. Half of the boy's face appeared normal, but the other half was not the face of a human. The flesh was twisted, contorted, bubbling, distorting his face into something unrecognisable. As he still attempted to hide from the crowd, his fingers traced over the deformity, hating every imperfection, furious that he could do nothing to tame it but wear the unsightly sack. His ears burned with the sound of the crowd's laughter. How could they be so callous? Spurred on by their shouts, the gypsy grasped a stick lying on the ground and advanced on the boy. Slowly, he raised it before raining down stroke after stroke on the boy's already bruised body. Angry tears filled the boy's eyes as the crowd laughed harder. One man even spat on him. Desperately, the boy scanned the crowd, mismatched eyes pleading for help. But all he saw were the shallow faces, still laughing at his misfortune ... except for one girl.
This girl did not laugh. While the other young children jostled around her, each pushing for another glimpse at his face, she simply stared in ... pity? The boy did not know - the only emotions ever directed towards him had been anger and scorn. After what seemed like an eternity, the gypsy backed away and the crowd began to disperse. Limbs burning from the beating, the boy shamefully reached for the sack again, hiding himself from the world once more. He winced as he felt an old scar open once again and the blood trickle slowly down his back. Looking up at the gypsy, the boy felt a sense of pure hatred. The man was greedily counting the coins the crowd had paid him, laughing under his breath. Breathing heavily, the boy reached for one of the ropes littering the floor. He fashioned it into a noose, fantasising about the satisfaction he would gain from seeing his oppressor lifeless beneath him.
The boy didn't know why he was thinking this way now; he had been part of the fair for years - or so he assumed. Nobody had ever told him. He didn't know his family ... how old he was ... he didn't even know his own name. All he remembered of his life before the gypsies were a few nights in an orphanage.
"Come, you naughty boy! You must take that sack off your head!"
The boy had shaken his head frantically. He wasn't sure why he wore it, but whenever some meddlesome person removed it, he was met by screams of terror and cruel taunts from the other children.
"Now! We are eating - how can you eat like that?"
"No!'
The nun had sighed in frustration and yanked the sack away. The boy wouldn't easily forget what happened next. In the rare moments he slept, he could still see her eyes bulge and her mouth open wide in shock. But what cut him up inside were her words.
"The child is a monster! His poor mother - I would have died of horror! A monster, I say - a child of Satan himself!"
That night, the boy had crept out of bed and made his way to the bathroom at the end of the dormitory. With some difficulty, he sat himself on the counter-top and removed the sack from his head once again. Slowly turning around, he gazed at his own reflection for the first time.
Now he knew why he was different. Tears welling in his young eyes, small hand hesitantly touching his infected face, he understood.
"I'm a monster ..."
Scowling, the boy raised his head with an air of crazed determination. Monsters are not bound by the same code of behaviour as humans, he thought. With an accuracy that surprised even himself, the boy reached through the bars of the cage and looped the rope around the gypsy's neck and pulled it tight. He felt a morbid pleasure as the man gasped, choking under the boy's trap. The man struggled, and yet the boy held on, not letting the rope slack until the gypsy slumped over - dead. The boy was a murderer.
He gave the corpse a look of disgust before raising his head to survey the tent. It would not take long for the rest of the gypsies to find out what had happened. Suddenly, he heard a small gasp. He snapped his head around to see her - the girl with the kind eyes - still lurking by the door. The boy stood, frozen. She had obviously seen the whole, gruesome spectacle. He expected her to run, screaming from the tent, but instead she hurried over to the gypsy's body and slipped the key to the boy's cage off his belt. The lock was stubborn but she managed to turn it eventually, grabbing the boy's wrist forcefully and leading him away from it all. The boy was in too much shock to register where she was taking him.
She led him through the alleyways and secret roads that snaked through the Parisian streets. Discretion was important; people would surely question the presence of two young children - especially as one was wearing nought but a sack and a pair of trousers. By the time the boy began feeling dizzy from too many tight turns, the girl stopped. The boy looked up at the grand structure he was standing at the base of - the Opera Populaire. He could not marvel for long, though, as the girl ushered him into the opera house via a hidden door. The boy began to make his way through a series of dead ends before emerging into the opera's chapel. She joined him soon after, taking his hand again and leading him deeper into the opera house.
Stumbling slightly behind her, his vision blurred by the sack, the boy followed his saviour down seemingly endless stairs. One hundred ... two hundred ... eventually he stopped counting and simply allowed her hand to guide him further and further into the bowels of the opera house, knowing that no matter where she led him, it could not possibly be worse than the hell from which he had just left. He felt no guilt over the gypsy's death - he was completely justified in his mind. But, as yet, he could not say the same for the girl. He was still confused as to why she had helped him escape - all he knew about her was that she was the one person who didn't seem to be absolutely terrified of his face.
Finally, the girl stopped and turned around to face him. The boy shifted the sack so he could see through its eye-holes and took in his new surroundings. The passageway was lit by a few weakly burning torches that threw strange shadows on the grey stone walls. Looking up, the boy could see the spiraling staircase that they had just descended and looking ahead, he could see black water lapping at the floor.
"Are you alright?"
The boy tore his eyes from the flooded tunnel and looked back at the girl. She was chewing her bottom lip nervously, her dark eyes flitting around as if afraid that somebody had followed them. The boy wasn't sure how to respond - nobody had ever been concerned about him before. The girl, however, appeared to take his silence for surliness instead of uncertainty.
"I'm sorry," she said, flustered. "That was a silly question. Of course you're not alright."
The boy nodded slowly. "Why did you want to help me?" he murmured.
"I couldn't stand it," the girl replied quietly. "Everybody was being so heartless."
"But ... I'm a monster!"
"No!"
The boy started as the girl pulled herself up to her full height. Hands on hips, she looked down at him in indignation.
"You're not a monster," she said, bristling. "You're just ... different. That's all. You didn't deserve that. Nobody does."
Again, the boy found himself lost for words. Again, he was lost as to the girl's actions. Why is she treating me like this? Why is she not running away in fear?
He laughed bitterly. "Don't I scare you?"
"No," she replied simply, to the boy's surprise.
"Why?"
"I don't know." The girl sighed and let her eyes wander for a few moments before turning matter-of-fact. "You can stay down here, if you would like to. I can bring you parcels of food and other things you need. Nobody will find you here."
"Are you sure?"
"Or I could take you back to the gypsies. Whichever you like."
The girl raised an eyebrow as the boy shook his head. He blushed and was thankful that the sack hid his burning cheeks.
"Don't make me go back ..."
"I was joking. I would never let you go back to those horrible people," she said, laughing.
The boy smiled. "Thank you."
"Not at all, uh ..." The girl paused for a second. "What is your name?"
"I don't know," he replied hesitantly. Again, that expression came over her eyes - that foreign emotion that the boy could not place.
"Why do you look at me like that?" he asked.
"I - I don't know." She gave a small smile. "But you must have a name. I cannot call you 'boy', now, can I?"
"I suppose not."
"What names do you like? Jacques?"
"No."
"If you insist. How about Gaston?"
"No."
"Fine, then. Perhaps Raoul?"
"Raoul? That sounds like a poodle!"
The girl sighed in frustration. "Well, do you have any suggestions?"
The boy paused for a moment. "Erik."
"Erik?"
"Yes."
"Very well, then," the girl said. "I'll bring you some leftovers from supper tonight, Erik."
She turned to leave, but then looked back. "By the way, my name is Antoinette. Antoinette Baudeux."
"Good-bye, then, Antoinette," Erik said. "And thank you."
"Not at all, Erik."
Erik watched Antoinette scurry back up the staircase, leaving him alone in the darkness. He turned again to survey his new home. Cautiously he tested the water with his toes; it was freezing cold. Gritting his teeth, Erik waded forward, discovering it barely reached his waist. For hours he explored the catacombs, memorising their labyrinth-like pattern. Eventually he happened upon a rusty half-raised portcullis. Curious, he looked beyond it to find - finally - a dry piece of floor. Upon further exploration, Erik discovered several small adjoining rooms. He smiled and looked around the area critically, noting what could be improved to make it fit for living. Antoinette could help him. Thank God for Antoinette, he thought. In actual fact, he had long ago decided that no kind and benevolent god would place such a horrible curse upon him regardless of what the nuns at the orphanage had told him. Even if there is no God, Erik thought, at least there are angels.
Author's note again again: Does anybody know Madame Giry's first name? I just picked Antoinette because I though it fit her for some reason. :shrugs:
