He stood beside a moonlit pool. It was late, quite late at night. Silent as a shadow, he crept to the edge of the water and peered over the edge at himself. The wind picked up, sending ripples across the smooth glassy surface. He cursed quietly, the adult words sounding borderline ridiculous in his child's voice. The wind quieted, the water stilled.

No mirrors existed in the home on Rue Montrage. He suspected his mother kept one in her locked dresser, but try as he may he could not catch her with it. There existed a single photograph of his father, with the glass carefully removed from the frame. No way to know if he favored the strong, handsome man in the suit.

In the water beneath him, the pale oval of his face began to come into focus. He narrowed his eyes, not sure why his features were so hard to make out. Why would the water lie? This was not the face of a boy, this was the face...

His mother came upon him then, pulling him up violently by the shoulder. He'd had bruises in the shape of her fingertips for three days after that night. Her eyes were cruel and angry when he turned, then he saw the look of revulsion and mild nausea that had long been familiar return. She shuddered visibly and turned away.

"Put it back on." Her words a harsh icy sob.

That was the moment he'd realized it wasn't him she hated. It wasn't something he'd done, or something he'd said. It was his face. Whatever distortion he'd blamed on the water was reality.

He was a monster.

The room came into focus slowly, his vision pulsing. Each pulse brought a bit of reality back. First the view of the fireplace, his chair turned on end. A glass lay in pieces on the hearth. Then the awareness of the rug beneath him. He was on the floor. He turned and blinked blearily at the ceiling, then craned his neck back to see a bookcase destroyed. Splintered wood and unbound books in a pile. He pushed onto his side, up into a sitting position. The room was cold and his blood was pounding unnaturally in his temple. The fire had gone out hours ago. Near the doorway, a torn sheet from his bed, more splintered wood, and a small white shape...

His mask.

Pieces of what transpired float into a more complete picture. He remembers reading, settled into an armchair. The words on the page were meaningless strings of letters, for his thoughts had been only of Christine. At some point, he drifted off into that perfect, deep sleep that comes so rarely. Something awoke him, the sensation of cool air on skin that seldom went uncovered, always an unnerving and exhilarating feeling. Then the sharp intake of breath, the wordless sob, the crash of an upset glass onto brick as she backed against the mantle.

Her eyes. Wide, disbelieving, velvet dark puddles threatening to run over. Fear dwelled in those eyes. Fear he was accustomed to. Fear could be dealt with. The pity that rushed onto her face immediately after, however... that was beyond the pale. She would NOT pity him. He felt the rage swell within as he drew to his full height, towering over her petite frame. The menacing effect was not lost on Christine, she began to shrink away and let fear again override her emotions, clutching her hands protectively in front of her and pushing her body along the wall, toward the door.

Erik remembered knocking over the bookcase when he grabbed for her. He remembered the way she'd fled from him, how he'd stood between her and the door. The frightened animal noises she made as she leaped onto his bed. The way she shook her head slowly as he pulled the sheets and blankets from her grasp. She'd looked so very frightened and helpless, mouthing "no," whispering "please." Until that moment, Erik had not truly been certain of what he planned to do once he caught her. The wild expression on her face meant she had assumed the absolute worst. It was that look that stopped him. Knowing that he had become the thing he loathed most in men.

Once, years before, he'd found himself employed by a gypsy circus. He was young and somewhat of a target, something to be teased and bullied. He'd chanced upon one of the young dancing girls on a moonless night. Her name was Danya. She was lovely and lithe when dancing. Now she was a messy pile of skirts and tears. Danya had fallen and twisted her ankle. When Erik offered to help, she'd pulled away, curled into a ball, sobbed and screamed that she knew what he was trying to do.

Rape. The word was not unknown to him. And although other men in the encampment had been known to take what they wanted, even when refused, Erik could not consider himself among them. No woman had ever come to him willingly, and he'd be damned if he would become the kind of man who took what was never offered. It took a certain sort of darkness to bring a man to such acts. Women were frequently cruel to a man like Erik, but it did not justify his being such a vile monster.

The look in Christina's eyes echoed Danya's. She had thought him capable of an act so heinous. It was enough to pause his directionless rage. He'd collapsed to the floor beside the bed, panting heavily.

"Get out."

Christine, to her credit, didn't hesitate to follow his order. She fled from the room, bare feet padding down the hallway. A slammed door. A strangled scream. And his damned heart wouldn't slow. It pounded in his chest like a bass drum, thundering in his ears, gripping him with a simultaneous surge of energy and a woozy sensation that felt as if he were going to faint.

Erik wasn't sure when the darkness had finally taken him. He flexed his fingers now, feeling the strange tingle in his left arm. A bit painful, but it would heal. He staggered to his feet and caught a glimpse of the clock.

Nine hours. He'd been unconscious for nearly nine hours. Twice as long as he usually slept. He limped across the room to where his mask had fallen. The room could be sorted out later. For now, he had to sort out Christine.