The song Erik recalls is Un Flambeau, Jeannette, Isabella. 'Do' is pronounced 'doh', and is the rough equivalent of 'hush'.
Candle ----------------------
Prolouge:
It was beneath the festering light of one of the darker pubs that the night slowly crawled toward a faraway morning. The car had been abandoned on the street, its parts left as targets for whatever denizens felt claim to strip them.
Erik leaned back in the far booth, head resting against the coarse wall as he watched the circle of flies swarm back and forth through the light, buzzing around the fixture as though it were a source of life.
A flash of dismembered recollection surfaced: Sitting silently as a child on the floor, hand extended and thin fingers uncurled. Eventually one of the many insects would land on his wrist, or farther along, and he would wait patiently until the fly found its way down into the upper part of his palm. He never knew what to do with them after he caught them, although the glow of success and odd sensation of the trapped fly buzzing within the prison of his fist had been rewards in and of themselves. He thought he could almost remember prying one apart, one day, but--
And the past faded away like water into porous rock. Erik let himself slump forward, idly tracing a finger through the puddle on the table below his drink. His time in the Middle East had instilled in him a wariness of chemical indulgences . . . but on occasion the old habits of self-medication called strongly.
It was Christmas Eve.
From the depths of the pub he could imagine mindless carolers, wandering to and fro through snowflakes as they invaded the valuable time of other, warmer people. Unbidden, a weathered scrap of song found its way to his lips.
"Do. do. do. . . ."
He pushed a finger through the damp spot, the wood grain dark and richer under his touch.
"Do. do. do. . . ."
He hated going to places such as this on holidays. Invariably sad patrons would turn out by the score, hoping to mend within a glass what they could not by themselves. Loud, bothersome, insufferable wretches . . . it almost made him wish he had not left the house.
Almost.
Absently, Erik played the end of a finger over the condensation on his glass, its wake leaving meaningless pools of collected moisture. A particularly voracious crowd entered through the gray door on the left, hailing with them a whirl of tiny snowflakes. He turned his head toward the wall. Perhaps if he did not see them. . . .
The shadows passed away untempted by the masked man in the corner; he watched them find seats at the bar across the small room.
The monster struggled behind his eyes.
Abruptly, Erik stood. He donned his long coat, leaving his drink untasted as he quickly slid out from behind the small table and made his way into the crowd cloistered out of sight from the holiday. Several gave him scrutinizing looks; one or two rallied slightly at being shoved aside but froze upon catching sight of the man's face.
It was early yet. No one stepped up to challenge him as he wove his way to the door, and then out into the frozen evening.
Snow cascaded around him in a powdered downpour, brushing against his clothing and clinging where it landed. Erik glanced downward at the gathering blanket across his front, silently marveling a phenomenon he had not witnessed in uncountable years. The last time it had snowed, for him, he'd had his face pressed against a frosted window between a wooden barricade, staring through the glass at the transforming world.
He shook his head to clear the image of a whitewashed house, immaculate between a grove of little fruit trees.
He wished suddenly that he had not forsaken the drink.
Erik inhaled deeply, finding relief in the pain as cold air passed through his malformed nose and into his lungs. He was mildly surprised to find his car where he had left it, untampered with, although he checked beneath it and in the shadows for security's sake.
They could have been waiting for the owner.
The monster behind his eyes stirred, and Erik drew another long breath as adrenaline spiked through his veins. A final check confirmed that no thieves stood in wait, foolish and unaware of what violence fate would orchestrate for them.
Disappointment replaced his heightened senses, and as Erik turned the ignition the notion crossed his mind that he could always find prey elsewhere. There were always those who lurked in the night, behind alleys or--
Let's not have a repeat of last year, shall we?
Resolved to a long evening in the cramped interior of his home, Erik slowly turned into the glitter of sparse traffic.
The entire world seems arrayed as one damn Christmas decoration! With the glimmer of red and green lights, the strings of glowing bulbs wound between branches of dormant trees, and the nauseating glass paintings on storefronts, Erik was grateful for the gentle, obscuring snowfall.
Violence resurfaced, and with it the urge to step sharply on the gas pedal.
Too messy. And far too unpredictable.
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
Up ahead the final traffic signal declared him nearly home, and as he eased into place next to the curb it was with the secondary urge to spend the night in the front seat of his car. The house loomed, foreboding.
Snow drifted down, slower than before but still present, and as it collected on the windshield the feeling of claustrophobia mounted.
Erik flung open the door and pushed himself out, breathing deeply. He forced himself not to hurry his pace to the gate, and only when it swung shut behind him did he feel his shoulders relax. He tilted his head back, trying to lose himself in the darkness and the chill.
The uneasy feeling would not leave. Erik strode briskly up the short path, digging into his pocket for the ring of keys. On impulse he glanced left, toward the neighboring house and its lights, to the wreath hung in colored illumination on the door. He turned away.
The smell of carpet greeted the enterance to his home. Erik hung his coat on the peg in the front hall, having shook the heavy fabric sufficiently beforehand, and dropped his keys into the black dish nearby. He made his way to the back patio, pulling aside the curtains and emerging silently despite little chance of discovery. Through the falling flakes his gaze turned upward to the second story of the neighboring house.
Her light was on. The thin, cream-colored drapes seemed to glow in the darkness, and his heart pounded as he imagined her somewhere on the other side. Moving about, maybe, in preparation for sleep. Brushing out her hair, changing into night clothes. . . . He lingered for a several minutes longer in hopes of a silhouette, and then, resigned, turned back into the gloom.
Wanting the impossible was a pain he had held dear for all of his life.
Erik firmly shut his curtains, against the possibility that she would open her own and happen to glance down and into his house. No need to disturb the poor girl.
