"Well, then, aren't you a sight? I've seen a lot in my day, sir, but you. . .filthy, soaked, covered in mud and oozin' a damn river of blood," An intake of breathe and a clearing of the throat. "I'm guessing that's a war injury on that side of your face, there, hmm?" The voice spoke in a lilting, almost jovial accent. A rough, calloused hand grazed over his forehead and moved away some of the sparse graying hair. The wig and the mask had ling been lost to the stage hours ago. Erik inhaled a rank mustiness in the air. Something foreign, unknown. . It wove around his senses in an unfamiliarity that only served to further confuse and disorient him. The smell of opium and tobacco, perhaps?
Something sharp and excruciatingly painful dug into Erik's flesh, a raw scraping of bone and skin that he could feel in electric shockwaves, as if his entire form was being ripped asunder. Was he being methodically torn apart, a living corpse set on display in a surgeon's learning auditorium? He would have screamed, save for the cloth gag stuffed between his teeth. It stifled his breath, removing the power of his omnipotent voice. Unbidden tears fell down his tortured face, and his toes and fingers clenched from the agony of whatever was being done to him. He realized, with utter horror, that his arms and legs were pinioned down. He could not move. Flashbacks of the freakshow whizzed across the ravaged landscape of his mind in milliseconds, images striking. . .the Devil's child singing as an angel from the wooden coffin, his body bound and strapped to an X-shaped frame in the Persian court for all eyes to view his death's head and the innumerable lashings he had silently endured. . .but he was nothing like a Christ, a Messiah. He was anything but a martyr, anything but benevolent. A monster on a pillory, instead. Reviled and hated.
There would be no redemption for him.
Not for The Opera Ghost. The Trapdoor Lover. Erik of no surname, and without a home.
"Oh, deeply sorry, sir. Didn't know if you were awake. Didn't know if you'd wake up at all, frankly. But if I'd known you would, I'd 've warned you that this is gonna hurt a bit. Don't try to move, won't help matters. As you come to, you'll see that you're restrained on all four of those gangly limbs of yours. For your own safety, of course. I need you still as a stone." The voice was strangely comforting, a guiding tone in the haze of an opiate fueled dreamscape.
Erik's eyes shot open, and he was suddenly and brutally aware. He struggled to lift his neck to find the face that matched the foreign and almost cheerful voice. But, a rough palm pressed softly against his fevered forehead and eased his head down. With no fight left inside, Erik obeyed the silent command with a mute acquiescence. For, truly, he had let his battle behind him when he had run from Chrstine's side.
"Now, we can't have that, lay your head back and don't squirm. That is, if you want to live. And I suppose you do, with all that crazed moaning you kept making about that woman. . .ah, well. I'm sure we can talk all about it when you're recovering."
Erik had no choice but to abandon his attempt to move or learn the face of his captor. He did, after all, wish to live, regardless of what little might comprise the remainder of his miserable existence.
Another twist of pain shot through him, it was what Erik could only assume was a rudimentary, and hopefully not rusty scalpel. It began to dig into the damaged flesh of his shoulder. He fought his body's innate need to spasm at the pain of it. Sweat began to cloud his already blurry vision, as a swarthy, red-faced man with what appeared to be copper-colored mutton chops peered down above him. Erik, actually couldn't be certain of what he saw. His head began to nod from the intensity of the pain, and whatever this man had given him to dull it. Alcohol? Laudanum? He couldn't be sure.
Erik's body began to convulse. Was he going into shock? He tried to swear at the stranger through his muffled mouth, his anger and bewilderment at being restrained and tortured unable to properly be voiced. It was a trauma he'd never hoped to relive, but here he was again.
His eyes shot fully open once more, as he felt the excruciating suction and savage rip of some object being pulled from his ravaged flesh. Another waking nightmare. As if he would ever be rid of them. The former Opera Ghost fought to clear his vision, blinking rapidly, his eyes finding the rotting wooden planks of a ceiling, when he looked above. Peripherally, on either side, dim lamps, a tray of medical tools, some towels, a bottle of some kind of strong liquor, a bucket, piles of linens drenched in blood, and the mutton-chopped man with the red-face, spectacles perched upon his bulbous nose.
The man bent over Erik's shoulder, squinting as he worked. From what Erik could ascertain, he was a short, rather paunchy fellow, large round arms, and rather broad-shoulders. But what struck Erik the most in that moment, was the calm indifference in which the man worked and in which he regarded his deformed features.
"I'm sure you have lots of questions. Name's Doctor Malcolm Abernathy. But around here, I'm known as Professeur Suture, as you French call me." The man attempted a terrible French accent, which Erik would have derided with a clever remark had he been capable of speaking. "But in my own country, I'm known as Doctor Stitch, "Stitch" for short. Obvious reason for the moniker," he chuckled. The man paused from his endless blathering to take in Erik's face, not the deformity, no but the awareness and recognition in his eyes. "You can understand me, then, yes? You speak English?" The ruddy-faced man smiled gently. "Blink once for yes and twice for no, right? You understand English, mate?"
Erik blinked one.
"Oh excellent! Then we'll be able to have a proper conversation once you're done and had a bit of a slumber. That laudanum should be doing the job for ya. I'll give you more later, so you can rest. But better watch that stuff," The man whistled, "It can grab you by the balls and all the rest of ya if you like it too much."
Erik could only stare wild-eyed at the infuriatingly calm man who seemed to be helping him. Him, of all people!
"There now, there she is! Got her out with no trouble at all. Well, no trouble on my part. I'm sure you're not feeling the finest right now, aye? This next part may be quite the doozy, you'll see. Gotta clean out that wound before I sew ya back up. Sorry, mate."
From the corner of his eye, Erik glanced at a warped and bloodied bullet, with a small amount of what could only be his precious flesh dangling from it. He fought the urge to wretch. And then, with no other warning, water and whatever other liquid the doctor was using drenched his open wound. Erik's body clenched so severely that the table to which he had been strapped rattled and nearly began to splinter.
"Strong one you are, for a tall, spindly thing, aren't ya? You'd have to be to make it through all that." The "doctor" made a gesture to sweep over the course of Erik's upper body. "All them scars. I bet you've got a lot of stories, my friend. I'd love to hear them. All in due time."
Erik continued to silently stare aghast at the man. If he could speak at the moment, he was not certain he would have been able to form adequate words.
Professeur Suture, or Doctor Stitch, whatever his bloody name was, turned around to wash his bloodied hands in a basin, all the while humming.
The man was humming! Calm and placid as the waters of the underground lake. Erik was equal parts infuriated and baffled.
"Now that the hard part's over, I'd like to ungag you. You seem tough as nails, so I'm trusting you not to scream like a banshee when I do so and when I sew," The man giggled and mimicked the threading and running of a needle through cloth. The pun was not lost on Erik, who let out an exasperated sigh against the fabric in his mouth.
"After I take your cork out, I'm gonna give you a bit more of this fine medicine," He tapped the bottle of laudanum with his fingers and held it in front of Erik's eyes, "Make the sewing and the sleeping much better for ya. I hope you understand that I'm going to have to keep you restrained until I'm done with the stitching? Can't have you squirming and all." Doctor Stitch moved towards Erik's face and gestured at removing the gag. "You ready, mate? Blink one for yes and. . ."
Erik, coming out of the first laudanum haze and the torturous pain and shock of his injury, immediately blinked once.
And then, with a slow gentleness that he had not anticipated, the fabric that had served to stifle his voice was removed from his mouth.
Erik sputtered, coughed and inhaled deeply, his chest rattling. The ache of taking such a labored and full breath very nearly undid him. He lifted his head to see the Doctor bent over in a chair beside the wooden bed, purposefully threading the suture of his namesake. He turned his head to look fully at the doctor.
"Water," he rasped, "please, monsieur, some water." His voice was a thin reed, a glint of its usual golden perfection. The man's eyes swiftly turned to him.
"Yes, of course. I'll have one of my boys that dragged you from those tunnels bring you some while I work. Sorry sight you were when they fished you out, they said. One moment." The "Professeur" craned his neck and yelled none too loudly into what must be the adjoining chamber. "Gilles, our man here would like some water, if you'd be so happy to oblige. Thank you." The doctor returned to threading his surgeon's needle. The action complete, he scooted his stool right next to the operating table and pushing the spectacles further up his nose, he bent over Erik's shoulder. Abruptly, the scatterbrained physician shot out a hand and grabbed the bottle of laudanum. Filling a capful of it, he offered it to Erik. "Lift your head, sir and take this." Erik did as commanded, without hesitation, feeling helpless as a stricken puppy. It burned a sweet fire as it coursed down his sore throat.
"Before I begin, I'd like the privilege of your name, sir. Doctor Stitch never works on a stranger if you catch my meaning. I'd like to know what I should call my newest bonhomie." The doctor leaned closer to Erik's face, an eager curiosity shining in his eyes.
"My name," Erik struggled and gulped down the last of the medicine from his dry tongue. "I was born a man without a name, only the one which I have chosen for myself. I do not make it a custom to give many my name. But to you, sir. For your kindness and mercy to me," Erik paused, weighing whether to offer such a secret to the man who currently had him helpless and strapped to a wooden table. Had the man wished to kill him, he would have already done so, Erik reasoned. "My name is Erik."
"Well, Erik, it's a pleasure to meet you. Mind you, I wish it were under better circumstances. Here's Gilles with your water. Take a few sips like a good lad and let's get on with it, shall we?"
"Yes, doctor," Erik mumbled before the first suture began to weave his skin back together, and the next wave of laudanum sent him into the sweet haze of a painless oblivion where the only image that touched his mind was that of his beloved Christine.