A/N: As always, thanks to my beta, Le Chat Noir.

I figured I would try a different style for this episode. Enjoy!

Erik: the Vampire Hunter

Episode 52: Dead Boy's Poem

By: Elektra

Dear Diary-

No. I am not a teenaged girl…

The Life and Times of-

No, I am not important enough for such a title.

A Ghost Story

Yes, that's it.

Now where to start?

I was born in a dirty little hospital in the red-light district, the son of a whore who had made the mistake of falling for the wrong man. Or rather, a creature who pretended to be a man.

I came into the world silently. The doctors thought I was stillborn due to my appearance. In fact, they thought I had been dead for some time before my mother's body finally purged itself of me.

Until I cried.

The doctors cleaned me up, and showed me to my mother.

If I were capable of memory at such a young age, my first one would have been the horrified expression on Madeline's face and the sound of her scream as she lay her eyes upon me.

I was told she refused to take me in her arms

I asked her once, 'Mother, if you despised me, why did you not immediately put me up for adoption?'

Her answer was simple: she foolishly thought my father would stay around if she had me. When he left us both alone after setting his eyes upon his hideous child, she gave serious thought into leaving me in a dumpster. Besides, who would have wanted to adopt a thing such as myself?

She was told, however, that the government would provide her money for my welfare. Not as much as she would like, but enough to buy what drugs she needed from her dealer.

Thus, I was useful to her.

Madeline made no secret of how very repulsive I was. How I was the reason she lost the man she thought she loved – a man she had met by whoring herself.

Of course, knowing what I know now, I realize Shay never had any intention of living happily ever after with her; at the time, however, she liked to think he would have.

My mother commissioned one of her clients – a man who owned a key-cutting, belt and shoe repair store – to make a leather mask for me the moment she brought me home from the hospital.

She paid him in free sex. And like new clothes, she would 'commission' him to make new masks as I grew.

It took perhaps two weeks for him to finish each new one as I began to grow out of the old ones. Until then, she would cover my face with a washcloth or some such thing.

So disgusted was she by my appearance that it was an effort to even bathe or feed me. If I did not cry, she admitted once, she would simply leave me in my crib. No doubt she hoped I would roll onto my face and stop breathing.

Alas, she was sorely disappointed. I had no plans to leave this world.

I started developing faster than any child my age. I began to stand on my own, and would often climb out of the crib. My mother would place me back in it when she saw me, but eventually, she did not bother, often leaving me to fall asleep on the floor.

When I started to crawl, she would close the door of my room, lest I crawl out into the sights of her 'guests'. I quickly figured out how to walk and open doors on my own, much to her horror.

It was not natural. I was not natural.

I don't remember when I first began to talk, but Madeline did. I imagine it must have added to her discomfort, but what could she do?

The years went by, and I soon began school. Preschool, at first. I remember the sing-alongs our teacher - Ms. Amalie - would often lead us in. I would watch her play the piano, memorizing what keys she would touch to bring forth what sounds.

One day, I emulated her playing on my skeletal little legs, my bony fingers touching down just as she hit the keys. Her student assistant, Adrien, saw this and brought it to her attention after class.

As I waited for my mother to pick me up from school – something that, more often than not, would require an insistent call from Ms. Amalie – she asked me if I would like to try the piano.

And so I did, mimicking her earlier playing perfectly.

After that, she would have me sit with her by the piano when the rest of the class had left, and she would teach me how to play. Whether it was out of pity or kindness, I never knew.

Like everyone else, Ms. Amalie had done her best not to question why my face was always covered, why my body was so very thin and unhealthy looking. You see, my mother had given her a story about how very ill I was when I was born, and how it had left indelible scars upon my face and had damaged my body.

Ms. Amalie did not know that I had never been sick a day in my life. She did not know that I was born perfectly healthy with a strong heart and body. It was far easier for Madeline to make up horror stories about my health rather than admit she spewed me out as I was – a little living corpse-boy of questionable origin.

As I began my musical education with Ms Amalie, she offered to help me find another instructor to teach me once pre-school was over. Madeline would not hear of it.

Madeline, however, did not realize how determined her little boy could be. Not more than a block away was a music store.

When I began Junior Kindergarten and was then unable to see Ms. Amalie, I ventured out of the house on my own. I entered Saranda's Music Store, and ran to the first piano I saw, playing what I had been taught.

The shopkeeper, Mr. Saranda, was shocked – as were his customers. Seeing this, he took it upon himself to continue my musical education. He taught me violin as well as piano, and rather enjoyed the attention and customers it garnered when I sat in the middle of his store – a child of 5 – and played like a virtuoso.

My presence gave him two excellent years of business; alas, he was not a young man and soon old age, chain-smoking, and far too much fast food caught up to him. He suffered a severe heart attack and passed on. The store was sold by his sons and subsequently torn down.

This ended my musical education. It did not, however, end my music.

One good thing about public schools is that most have music rooms. Since Madeline no longer bothered to pick me up from school, I would make my way home on my own time.

And my own time was usually a few hours after school was over. If the door to the music room was locked, I would find a paperclip and unlock it - I learned how to pick a lock by grade four – and if there was a chance of being discovered, I would hide.

I had learned how to hide at age four. Not out of choice, of course, but when one's mother, in a drunken rage, begins screaming, yelling, and throwing anything that is not bolted down – usually at one's head – one learns how to make their presence scarce. Whether that meant hiding in the ventilation system of the building we lived, or running out of the apartment and climbing down into the sewage tunnels, did not matter. The point is, I became very good at it.

But I digress.

I suppose the ghost came into existence during those after-school diversions in the music room. Caretakers walking by would hear my playing, but I would keep the lights off in the room, finding that I could see much better than most in the darkness - no doubt a genetic trait I inherited from my father.

It seemed to be similar to a trait They had as well. Yes, They: The ones that lurked in the darkness when I would finally make my way home from school after several hours of playing.

They:The ones I seemed to FEEL more so than SEE.

They: The hellish ones that I would catch fighting various humans when they thought no one else was around.

And how very special these humans were indeed. Ones who could pull out sharpened pieces of wood and turn the aforementioned creatures into dust.

No one ever knew that I witnessed these little skirmishes, nor that I had taken to whittling myself a small collection of sharpened wood in case I was seen lurking.

And so my life continued.

My mother still refused to touch me, save to strike me should I dare show up in front of her without my mask, or without her permission… or at any time the urge compelled her, really.

Oh yes, Madeline had no issue touching strange men in the most intimate ways, but she could not even offer her son a hug. I dared ask her about that once. Perhaps I had a death wish at the time.

I had been provided the answer with a rather rude awakening. It had ended with mirror shards embedded in my flesh, and the horror of my face completely revealed to me in a hideous reflection.

'This is YOU! This is why I can't stand to touch you. A freak of a son! A little corpse!'

I can still hear her voice yelling those words...

But enough about that.

My tenth year came upon me quickly.

My mother had been doing far more than whoring herself by this time. She had taken to stealing what she wanted, selling drugs to buy more drugs, and making no secret of her lawbreaking.

She had caught the attention of the police.

They raided our apartment and found me hiding in the closet – where I usually hid when Madeline had guests.

Shortly after this, I was given over to social services and placed in foster care. No one wanted to keep me around longer then necessary. Of course, I was used to such things by then. I remained unaffected.

There's no need to describe what I went through when I started high school. No need to repeat the lewd taunts in the change room when my male classmates noticed that my thirteen-year old body was still as smooth as the day I was born. No need to share what it was like to be thin as a skeleton yet taller than most boys my age.

And certainly there is no need to speak my thoughts on the neighborhood kids that believed it would be fun to open up a freak show in their backyard.

None of that mattered more then what happened when I was fifteen - when a classmate named Laura took it upon herself to see my face.

The incident that followed led me to a night in prison, another foster home, and several months on the street.

I used my ability to hide to great effect - even learning how to break and enter various homes and places of business to provide food and clothing for myself - until an unintentional meeting with Antoinette Giry changed my life.

I found Giry cornered in an alley by one of Them, weeping over the body of her dead husband. I still had my little collection of sharpened wood - and finally found a use for it.

Grateful, yet confused at what had transpired, Giry introduced me to the Hunter's Guild and offered to hide me beneath her place of work – Ravelle College – for as long as I wished.

She also introduced me to one Nadir Khan, a former police officer and detective who trained me in the ways of the guild, showed me how to eat properly, and how to build my body into healthier proportions. With his help, I was soon able to develop 'meat on my bones,' as Nadir put it.

Three years passed and I became one of the guild's best hunters, At age twenty, I evolved into the Executioner.

How?

Perhaps it was the ice that had grown over my heart, or my lack of a soul. But I had managed to master a weapon known as the punjab lasso – a deadly little rope Nadir had once shown me on display in a museum.

He had never intended for me to use it, of course, but I broke into the museum that very night and took it for my own. It was helpful in fighting the creatures that tried to run away.

I still remember the first time I killed with it – in vivid detail.

We – Nadir, Giry, two others and myself – were facing off against a man whose preternatural skills extended far beyond the norm. A mere thought could injure or kill one of us. It had, in fact, already done so.

We attempted to fight fire with fire, so to speak, but found nothing was working.

And then, the man attacked Antoinette.

To understand what drove me to kill, you must first understand how important that woman is to me - though I would never dare admit it to her.

Antoinette Giry showed me far more care and compassion in five years than anyone else had in fifteen. She accepted and took care of me when I thought I would be an outcast for the rest of my life.

I suppose she was a mother to me in some ways, a far cry better than any I had ever had - biologically or in foster care.

I owed her much. And I killed a man to save her life.

It was odd, the feeling of killing. I was detached from it. I had only one goal, and that was to get the man away from Antoinette. To keep her from ending up like the victims he had already left behind.

I took the lasso out, wrapped it around his neck, and pulled him back.

The human body is not as resilient as that of the undead, however, and my strength was far more than I had thought. When I tugged on the rope, it not only pulled him away from Antoinette, but snapped his neck and brought him crashing to the ground.

Dead.

I felt nothing.

I stood there, stared at the body, and felt nothing.

And thus began the life of the guild's Executioner. I think there were others before me. At least, Antoinette hinted at it once. I remember her words, accidental words she had let slip:

Among the Hunters, there is always one found who can handle the other threats.

I wonder if she knew more than she let on at the time. I wonder if she knew my true origins.

Perhaps I should ask her one day. I should ask her why I, as the Executioner, do not care about the lives I have taken.

At least, I did not care until Christine.

Ah, Christine. Where to start?

Even now, I cannot think about her without that ache in my chest. I love her beyond what words could ever express.

I can watch her sleep and feel content; I can see her smile and feel warmth; I can look into her eyes and feel lost.

She is my weakness and my strength. My damnation and my salvation.

She is my angel, my light, and my very soul.

She is my Christine.

Christine gave me my first hug, my first kiss, and my first experience with physical intimacy.

I have memorized every night I've spent in her arms: the smell of her hair, the look in her eyes, the feel of her skin, the sound of her cries, and the taste of her kisses.

Christine makes me feel that perhaps… just perhaps… I can be a normal man instead of a living corpse.

I would die for her... and I will live for her.

I will crawl out of my darkness and leave behind the Guild and the Executioner if it means I can be with her forever.

I will do anything for her. I want to.

But I cannot pretend the darkness will let me go that easily. I've tried so many times, and have failed. My father will never free his claims on me.

I know what I am, and it is nothing human. Christine has seen it first hand.

It was not more than three weeks ago the angel of death appeared before her and took a life as she stood frozen, watching. It was the one side of me I never wanted her to see.

I have been hiding ever since.

I have become part of the shadows and shied away from her light. I have heard her call out for me, but cannot bring myself to answer.

I see her rehearse on the stage of the Populaire, but cannot appear to her. I watch her asleep in her bed, but cannot join her.

I cannot face her.

I cannot speak sweetly and know that she has seen death at my hands. I cannot love her body and know that I am stained with blood.

She deserves far more than what I can give her. She deserves a man, not a monster.

My Christine deserves a prince. A wonderful, handsome prince.

And that is something I will never be.

Christine… I love you. I wish I could be what you need. But all I can do is sit here and write. I do not even know to whom I am writing. I intend to show this to no one.

… alas, I must stop. I did not realize I have been writing for so very long. It is growing late - my vision is getting blurry.

Should anyone ever read this, do not think these are tears that have smudged the ink on this page, for such a thing would be impossible. I am nothing more than a ghost.

And everyone knows ghosts cannot cry.

The Opera Ghost - no

The Executioner - why must I be?

The Angel of Death - Is this really what I am?

… Erik

END OF EPISODE 52

Extra A/N: "Dead Boy's Poem" is the title of a song by "Nightwish".