An eternity seemed to pass in silence, as Remy continued to stand completely still, her eyes locked on his face, gun still pointed towards him. He reached his hand up to cover the distorted side of his face, knowing that it was too late, but not wanting to feel her eyes burning into his deformity. He could not meet her shocked gaze, and hanging his head, waited for her to fire another shot.
"Is he dead?" Her voice startled him, but it was soft and low, almost too quiet to be heard. The hand holding the gun was shaking, and her blue eyes were wide. "Did I...did I kill him?"
He managed a small nod, and she immediately lowered the gun, and tucked it into the waistband of her skirt.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" She started to take a step forward, but stopped when he recoiled. She seemed so utterly innocent, as if she couldn't see is face at all, that he wondered at her acting ability. Unless, perhaps, she actually did not care. He saw her cast a glance around the hallway, and bend to pick something up. When she stood back up, he saw is mask gleaming pearly white in her hand. Wordlessly, she held it out to him, like some kind of silent peace offering.
So many thoughts flew through my mind in those moments that I would not have been surprised if my head had exploded. The surprise attack, my rescue by Erik, the man lying on the floor, Erik's face uncovered before me...I had to just let myself think for a moment before I tried to say or do anything. I knew that the entire experience could not have taken more than a few moments, but I felt like I had watched the events unfold over the course of hours.
Now I held a gun unsteadily in my hand, trying to decide whether I was more concerned with the body at my feet or the man in front of me trying to cover his face, his shoulders shaking. Before I could think, or function normally, I had to know that the attacker was dead. His body was too far away, and it was too dark for me to tell, so I asked Erik. He seemed surprised at the question, and I asked again. When he nodded, I realized that I was still pointing the gun at him, and it struck me that he might be uncomfortable with a loaded gun aimed at his head. I quickly tucked it in my waistband, in case the other attacker returned.
Now that I could concentrate, I moved my gaze to Erik's face. My original impression, when the mask first flew off had been complete shock, and looking at him now, I could understand why he had chosen to live under the opera house. How the world must have shunned him!
His right cheekbone was higher than his left, and protruded sharply under his skin. Another ridge ran directly under his eye socket, giving his eye the appearance of being sunken deeply. The skin from his forehead to right under his cheek, from his nose to his hairline was slightly red and tinged purple from the veins that ran too close to the surface of his skin, which was raised in some places and sunken in others. Perhaps more disturbing than the actual deformity was the sharp juxtaposition of the distortion on one side, and beauty on the other. I had seen some frightening things in the sideshow of the fair I grew up traveling with, but never anything like this.
I wanted to look away, but my gaze was riveted to his twisted features, partially hidden beneath his outspread fingers. He wouldn't meet my eyes, and stared at the floor, his posture stiff and hunched over, as though he was waiting for me to scream. His shuddered sigh broke through my shock, and I wondered suddenly if he might have been injured. When I asked, and started towards him, he drew away, like a dog that has been beaten so many times that it comes to expect it. I wanted so badly to say something to him, to tell him that I wasn't afraid, that I wouldn't run, that I still trusted him, but I couldn't think of any words that would fit the situation.
With his mask off, Erik seemed like a different person, completely lacking the cold confidence he usually displayed; he looked like a lost child. Glancing towards my feet, I saw his mask lying on the ground. I picked it up and held it out to him. He took it without a word, and turned away from me to place it back over his face. Once he had it on again, his shoulders straightened and he turned back to me.
This time I approached he did not waver, and his eyes held mine, as if he was asking me a question. Unfortunately, bending down to retrieve his mask, I had also gotten a glimpse of the dead man's gaping head wound; the combination of that gruesome sight and my own physical weakness were working their evil on my stomach, and I was beginning to feel ill.
He noticed the pained expression on my face, and asked me what was the matter. I could only reply by dropping to my knees and groaning. He crouched down beside me, and placed a hand under my chin, lifting it to look at my face. He was lucky that I was considerate enough to wrench my face away from him before throwing up on the floor, my empty stomach heaving desperately. He moved his hand to my shoulder and patted it hesitantly.
When I stopped wheezing, he helped me to my feet, and began to walk back towards the entrance to the mirrored room. I took a moment to gather the clothing I had dropped when I was attacked, and began to follow him, but with every step I took I grew dizzier, and finally, I sank against the wall and called out to him to wait.
"What's wrong?" He asked, striding back towards me.
"I can't...I just need a moment to rest. I don't know what's the matter with me..."
He glanced down the empty hallway quickly, then without warning placed one arm around my shoulders, bent to put the other under my legs, and lifted me up in his arms.
"You are tired, and should not strain yourself any further."
I agreed wholeheartedly, and certainly didn't have the strength to argue that I was strong enough to walk. I wrapped my arms around his neck to steady myself, and felt his muscles stiffen as my hands brushed against him. I laid my head against his chest, breathing deeply and listening to the quiet beating of his heart.
As he carried me down the hallway, I found myself quite enjoying the closeness of contact, and the warmth emanating from his body. It had been a long time since I had felt this safe, and I closed my eyes with a gentle sigh. He stopped abruptly, muscles tensed, and glanced down at me.
"Are you alright? I'm not hurting you, am I?" He looked worried, and his voice sounded unsure. I smiled up at him, and whispered that I was fine. His muscles relaxed, and he continued to walk. I was struck with the thought that he might be so unsure because he had never done this before. He might never have known the love of a woman, and never held a woman in his arms. I knew how it felt to be lonely, but at least I had good memories to keep me company. What good memories could he have, being born with that face and living alone under the opera house? The thought tore at my heart, and brought out compassion that I didn't know I had left in me. I wanted so badly to help him, to comfort him, but I didn't know how.