September 18th 1892: Erik
As I had stated before, there were horrors in this world that people had no words for. The feelings that were rushing through me as Philippe fled from the room were one of those indescribable horrors. Calling myself sad would have been as insufficient as calling my face not very beautiful. It was more as if my heart was turned into lead, slowly, painfully, pulling my body downwards. It was a small miracle that I managed to remain sitting and didn't fall to the floor, writhing in agony.
Christine's voice drifted to my ears from afar.
"Do you want me to go after him?" she asked uncertainly.
I shook my head slowly. Even that little motion cost me enormous strength. Was the rest of my body turning into lead as well?
"No", I managed to get out with difficulty. "Leave him alone… he needs to recover from the shock…" I gave her a painful smile. "How very much like you he is," I observed. "You wanted to run from me as well…"
She fell silent, knowing I was right. If I hadn't held her back on that fateful night when I had first taken her down to my lair, she'd have run as fast as her feet would have carried her, even into a world she had known nothing about. She'd have probably preferred drowning in the lake to being with me for another moment.
And now Philippe was just as appalled. It occurred to me that perhaps I should have exposed him to the sight of my face sooner. If he had seen it ever since he had been an infant, he'd have maybe grown used to it. But I had been too scared, too disgusted by my own appearance to show my face more often than necessary. Besides, my mother was the perfect example for the fact that it could also work the other way around. I had always had the impression that she had grown more disgusted every time she had looked at me. It was no wonder that I had decided to leave her house soon.
A thin, hesitant voice brought me back to the present.
"May I… touch it?" Antoinette asked softly. Hr eyes were wide and her face pale, and yet I could see a hint of the normal curiosity.
"Of course," I replied with a resigned shrug. What did it matter whether she touched me? She'd hate me anyway, so she could as well satisfy her curiosity first. It made no difference.
I turned in my seat, so that the girl could reach me from her bed. She sat up, and a moment later, her fingers hovered uncertainly over my cheek.
"You don't have to touch it," I told her in what I hoped was a gentle rather than miserable voice. "I hardly do it myself, unless I have to."
"What does it feel like to have such a face?" she wanted to know shyly.
"It doesn't feel like anything special," I answered. "It's just like the other side of my face, just… different." Inwardly I cringed, realising that the explanation hadn't made any sense.
Antoinette seized my moment of inattention. The tips of her fingers touched my cheek. I jumped at the sudden contact, as though she had slapped me. This in turn made the girl jump and pull her hand back.
"Did I hurt you?" she asked in a small voice. "I didn't mean to… you told me it was all right…"
I could have kicked myself for having made the poor child even more frightened. Wasn't it enough that I had scared away her brother?
"You didn't hurt me," I hastened to assure her. "It has just been a while since the last time someone touched me like that." I looked at Christine, who blushed prettily. Of course she had been the last one to touch me there.
She seemed to take my glance as encouragement to become involved as well, for she asked her daughter:
"What did it feel like?"
"Strange…" the girl replied with a sideways glance at me. "Rough… like old leather or bricks or… I don't know…"
"Now you know why I couldn't describe it," I said gently. "Not even I, who have lived with it all my life, have the right words."
"All your life?" Antoinette breathed. "So you've never been… handsome?"
I shook my head.
"Never," I answered. "But wearing a mask at least keeps people from running away when they see me."
I threw a sad glance at the door.
"I didn't run away," the girl reminded me, and there was something like pride in her voice. "I'm much braver than Philippe."
"Your brother is still very young," I muttered. "And he has always been more easily scared than you."
Antoinette nodded, a satisfied smile on her lips.
I sighed. I didn't like to be reminded of that fact that my face was something that people had to be brave in order to look at. My little boy hadn't been brave enough. He hadn't been able to stand the sight of his own godfather's face.
Feeling tears sting in my eyes, I tried to pull myself together and think of something else, but my head was filled with the sound of the door closing behind Philippe. A single tear escaped my eye. I didn't fail to notice the irony that it ran down my right cheek.
Hastily I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped my face with it. Being ugly was one thing. Being ugly and weak was something rather different. As I closed my eyes and ran the piece of fabric down my cheek, it met an obstacle. Blinking in confusion, I saw that the girl had approached me again. Her fingers were resting lightly on my deformed cheek.
"Philippe is stupid," she whispered. "You're still the same Uncle Erik as before. You just… look strange."
I felt a rush of gratitude and affection for the little girl, mingled with guilt. Her opinion hadn't meant as much to me as Philippe's. But now I was very glad that she was here, stroking my face with feathery-light touches. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Christine watching her daughter, glowing with pride.
I closed my eyes again, trying to take in as much as possible of the unfamiliar and wonderful sensations I felt. It was strange to be touched by fingers so small, so unlike my own. I had rarely experienced it. When Philippe had been an infant, he had sometimes run his tiny hands over the smooth surface of the mask, doubtlessly attracted by its shiny material. Yet as he had grown older and tried to feel around the edges of the mask, I had pushed back his curious fingers. The risk of him accidentally removing it had simply been too high. From that day on, he hadn't tried to touch my face again.
And now a little girl was doing just that. Her hands were warm and soft, unlike the twisted mass of flesh that was the right side of my face. Now that she knew she wasn't hurting me, she had lost some of her shyness and was touching me the way she wanted to. And I didn't mind her satisfying her curiosity at all. Perhaps there'd be at least one child who'd learn to live with my appearance.
"Stop!" someone called, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself. For a second, I thought the Vicomte had returned, for it would have been exactly the kind of thing he liked to do. But no, it had been a child's voice. Since there were but two children in this house, and one of them was sitting in front of me, this could only mean one thing: Philippe was back.
My eyes snapped open, and I turned my head towards the door. Yes, there was the boy, coming towards us quickly. His sister was so surprised that she had taken her hand away from me for a moment, yet when she moved it into the direction of my face again, Philippe repeated:
"Stop! Didn't you hear what Maman said before? We mustn't touch wounds with our bare hands!"
He climbed onto Antoinette's bed and pushed her aside. It was so unlike his normal behaviour that the girl didn't even protest, but simply straightened up again and sat down next to her brother.
"Here," Philippe said, holding up his hand. It was only then that I noticed he was clutching something in his fist: a glass jar with a creamy white substance.
"Oh…" Christine made. She seemed to understand more than I did. "It's the salve we used for the children's injuries," she explained, interpreting my puzzled glance correctly. "Did you go and fetch it from the bathroom, Philippe?"
The boy nodded seriously.
"My knees hurt a lot when I grazed them, and when you put the salve onto them, they felt better," he said. "Uncle Erik's face looks much worse than my knees, so I thought he should use the salve to make him feel better as well…"
My heart was swelling with emotion. So Philippe hadn't run away because I had frightened him, but because he had assumed my face was a terrible wound. It made me feel happy and sad at the same time.
"It's not an injury I have," I told him. "I was born with it. It doesn't hurt, but sadly, it won't become better either, no matter how much salve I put onto it. I'll look like this for all times."
I watched him anxiously to see how he reacted to that unpleasant revelation. Perhaps I had put it too bluntly, but I didn't want him to be in any doubt about it.
"You can touch him," Antoinette encouraged her brother. "I won't hurt him."
Philippe put down the salve, and soon I had two little hands touching me instead of one. It felt even better than before.
"You see?" the girl asked. "He's still the same Uncle Erik."
"I know," he gave back, his finger tracing my cheekbone. "And I love my Uncle Erik."
"I love you, too, Philippe," I mumbled. "And you, Antoinette." Quickly I made sure that I was still holding the handkerchief. If the tears in my eyes were anything to go by, I'd still need it.