And the Deformed Ones did stay together, caring for each other, utterly wrapped within their own world. Another three months passed without excitement, Margareite eventually convincing Erik to walk free about the Lair without his mask. Erik, however, was still tickled with guilt at the back of his mind. There was little he could do to reassure Margareite for her deformation. He knew her worst scarring was between her legs, and upon the inner thighs, thus she could not walk freely baring her "deformation." Never could he lay gentle, caring hands upon the raised ridges of skin as she had his face. It worried him that it would be a long while before the girl could possibly receive a loving touch there, and he wondered if those years would permanently convince her, as his face had him, that she could never be loved by a normal person for such markings.
And yet as much as he thought heavily upon this subject, he found the only way he could reassure her was simply be kind to her as no other man had. And so he did, caring for her more then he had ever cared about any other human being, even more so then when he had been obsessed with Christine. He offered her everything he could, his heart laid out upon a platter, and she held that heart close to her as she confessed her life.
As the weeks had gone by, Erik had finally been able to nudge her into talking. It had been hard for her at first, tears always spilling over as she talked. Eventually the tears stopped and she would stare ahead as she talked, her eyes haunted with memory. Each night she would tell of a different encounter with men. And yet, she never revealed their names. She always called them "He", never once giving a clue to who they might have been. Little did she know that combined with the music that she continued to compose and play, her confessions explained almost everything to Erik. He still had yet to figure out who these men were, but he had wondered, many a-time, how one girl could possibly had so many run-ins with men that would rape her body and soul. But eventually he had figured it out, it's terrible truth hitting him as, once again, one of the piercing notes as "He" penetrated.
It was a network. A string of men all interconnected. It was a family, or club of men that used the women somehow forced in to their every sexual whim, possibly, Erik considered, using the babes that were the results of such abuse, as their newest victims. It only made sense. How else would Margareite have fallen into those hands at such a young age. Such thoughts led him to believe that her mother was one of the forced victims, possibly dead by now due to some disease contracted, her father one of the men that pleasured himself within the network. Erik thought about the first experience that Margareite had confessed. When she had told him of the first time she could remember, he had been numb with shock. She had been four at the time, forced into unspeakable things. Now, thinking back on the horrid revealing of such an experience, Erik found himself gagging, his stomach threatening upheaval.
Swallowing down the bile that threatened to raise havoc in his body, he breathed heavily as Margareite ended the composition with a saddening sound. She twisted upon the organ bench to face him, frowning at the side of his face that had turned an ashen grey, but said nothing. She was used to the coloring of his face belying his simple acceptation of her past. She knew that it sickened him at times, and had once caught him vomiting after the confession of a particularly horrific time. What she hadn't told him was that it had been her own father. Or so she had suspicions. It had never been proven to her, and she had never asked; they had not been allowed to speak. But she had been a spitting image of the man that had frequently "used" her, and she had begun to wonder. She smiled bitterly, sickly to herself at the thought of how badly Erik would have reacted to her suspicion. The smile, however sick, became, if possible, sicker. It was not a smile of amusement. A smile of horror. A smile of a slightly disturbed mind.
Such a smile was to be expected of her, Erik thought. He recognized the smile that had often spread itself across his lips more then once in his life time. He was curious as to the thought that had brought that twitch of the lips to her, but then, upon second thought, he decided it was better not to pry for that thought. He didn't really feel like having the bile rise within him.
"It's been six months you know," Margaretie said, the smile disappearing off her face as she thought about how long she had lived in peace. Erik's brown pinched together, then nodded slowly.
"I suppose it has been, hasn't it?" he answered slowly. "Since I saved you." A teasing smile twitched on his lips. The girl's face formed a pout.
"I think I saved you, Erik," the girl answered with an equally teasing tone. Erik's smile faded, and he nodded seriously.
"You did, Margareite," he answered, his face genuine. His eyes clouded over, and Margareite's brow pinched. He was going to ask her questions again; she had quickly learned to pick up the change in the shade of his eyes when he was about to bring up her past. "Margareite…your family…who were they?"
Margareite blinked blindly at him for a moment. After all this time he asked her now? What was she to say? "I'm not entirely sure who my mother was. The stabbed her to death after raping her before my eyes to show me my future when she refused to give me to them"? O for her father? "I think he was one that tended to favor me"?
"Dead" she answered hollowly. At least she was telling part of the truth. She hated lying to Erik. But no longer could she deny him answers.
"How did they die?" Erik asked gently, his question as sharp as the knives that had flash before it cut into her. She winced.
"I don't know," she lied, her eyes averting from his own. She was lying. Her refusal to look at him belying her words.
"You do know," Erik insisted quietly. "Tell me." She shook her head.
"I don't know," she answered again.
"You do. Please, talk to me, Margareite. I figured it out. You were in the enslavement of a network of meant hat paid for your use…along with others?" his last words were a question, unsure of his guesses. Margareite's eyes closed tightly. She nodded slowly, painfully.
"And your mother was one of those women, wasn't she?" Again the girl nodded. "And your father? He paid for use of the network didn't he?" She bit her lip to keep down a sob before answering,
"I'm not sure, but I think I knew which one he was."
Erik's hands shook in anger as he clenched them, taking a deep breath. He could not let this pass. What if they were abusing others as they abused Margareite. Other wonderful girl's like Margareite that just wanted love and-
" Mommy was only fourteen," Margareite's voice was cold, numb, and so quiet he could hardly hear her. "She wouldn't give me to them, so they snatched me from her…they raped her in front of me, told me that was my future… and then they stabbed her to death. Said she was useless now that she had given birth. And that if I ever gave birth I would meet the same fate she did…"
Erik bit his cheek until he tasted blood, his nails cutting into his palms harshly. He tried desperately to hold himself back, fighting the urge to force the knowledge of the whereabouts of these men out of her, and rush there and end all of their lives. But he could not, not without pushing Margareite too far. He held out his arms to the child, and she encircled herself within them, burying her face in his chest, and he held her tightly, never wanting to let her go.