This is the official last chapter, but I have more planned for Phelan, including probably a few vignettes to follow as some bonus chapters/epilogue type stuff
I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I have loved writing this story. It turned out to be much different than I originally thought.
If you feel so inclined, please leave a review!
CH 100
Coping with loss was not linear, but I hadn't expected that it would be easy or predictable.
The morning spent with Lucille kept my mind from wandering toward grief. It was simply in her nature to part the clouds and draw me toward unexpected light.
"I will see you later on today," she said.
I furrowed my brow. "Today? Do we have plans for later?"
She gasped, her dark eyes owlish. "Tomorrow. I definitely meant tomorrow. I clearly misspoke."
I eyed her for a moment, finding her reaction odd, but she said nothing more and I shrugged.
"Tomorrow then."
Once we parted ways, I returned home, grabbed Elvira, and walked around the neighborhood, unable to bear the thought of being cornered by solitude.
"Shoulder!"
Clary and Cassandra flagged me down the moment I approached the corner of the street where their shop was located.
"No, no, Cassandra, it's Cousin Shoulder."
Cassandra tittered. "Yes, I almost forgot. Thank you, Clary."
"You are most welcome, Cassandra."
They paused, the two of them frowning at me. "We are so sorry to hear about Madame Kimmer," they said.
I nodded. "Thank you."
Together they both gasped. "What has happened to Elvira? She's practically bald!"
"She plucked her feathers in my absence."
"Will the feathers grow back?"
"In a few weeks, yes."
Clary clutched Cassandra's arm. "Oh! We should knit her a little red sweater!"
"That would be darling wouldn't it?" Cassandra asked.
I didn't have the heart to tell them that I would be missing all eight fingers and two thumbs if I attempted to put a sweater on Elvira, but smiled and nodded politely, telling them it was a marvelous idea, but not necessary. They then revealed that neither of them knew how to knit, but thought it would be a good idea if I attempted to make the sweater myself.
We chatted briefly before the girls excused themselves, saying that they could not leave Fadda unattended for long in the shop.
"Give Fadda my best."
"We will! Oh! Cousin Shoulder, before you go, we have more snails for Elvira when you are available to come in with a jar!" Cassandra yelled over her shoulder. "Goodbye, Cousin!"
Elvira beat her wings at the sound of her favorite word, and I was certain that if she hadn't been attached to my coat she would have abandoned me in favor of a snack.
"No one shall ever accuse you of being stalwart, my love."
oOo
The most difficult moments had always been the ones I spent alone. It had been that way for as long as I could recall and I suspected it always would.
I filled my days with interaction, but there were plenty of times when I was my own company. I had always dreaded those unfilled moments, finding it impossible to silence the dread.
Grief attempted to drive itself into me, nailed deep beneath the surface of my skin. I felt the vibration, the tap, tap, tap of the hammer penetrating further and further.
Ignoring the emotion was nearly impossible, so I sat beside it, cross-legged on my bed, sketchbook on a pillow resting on my lap and the self-portrait I had shared with Luci sitting atop my dresser.
It was quite possibly my best work, each brush stroke filled with the pain of a man who had lived a life filled with regrets. I had spent hours in front of the canvas, shoulder, back and neck in knots, suffering through the discomfort in order to commit the feeling to the canvas before the mood changed.
I didn't love what it represented. In fact, I had spent years hating that person, loathing the mistakes of a little boy who had turned his back for a matter of minutes.
Over and over I reminded myself of what had happened: I had wanted a moment to myself, a minute to draw rather than have my brother on top of me, demanding my full attention. I had wanted to be a child for a brief time rather than a caretaker.
But that was not all I had desired. I had also wanted someone to care for me, but that had not happened nearly enough as a child. Those feelings of needing someone to care for me were not selfish; they were human, and it was something that I should not have been denied. Love, compassion, a sense of security were the wants of a seven-year-old boy who had spent three and a half years as the sole caretaker of his brother. My most basic needs had not been filled, and it left me endlessly attempting to keep the void from being overwhelmingly vacant.
I felt the need for something more, the sensation like insatiable hunger, but didn't know how to keep it from becoming an unmanageable emptiness.
My jaw clenched, and I drew another sketch of Erik in my tattered sketchbook. Absently I glanced up at the self-portrait, at the visual representation of my loathing for myself and the days spent in Conforeit at the bedside of a man I despised.
I had wanted someone to accept that broken version of me that I had committed to the canvas with paint and brushes, that distorted and vile person that I saw within myself. I had wanted to be able to say I accepted myself as well, to forgive that little boy for wanting to be a child, for making an innocent mistake that had far-reaching, unimaginable consequences.
The image staring back at me was many versions of my past. It was the adolescent who was angry at everyone and everything, and the depiction of the man I had become who could not accept affection any deeper than the surface of my skin. It was all of my pain, dread, depression and hatred displayed raw like a wound.
"I don't hate you," I said, barely glancing at the portrait. I wasn't quite ready to face that version of me. "I don't love you, either. I don't know if anyone is capable of that, you're so intolerable..."
It was a destructive thing to say to myself, a damaging way to feel as the portrait was still me. A shit way to feel about myself, as Bernard would have said. The thought made me shudder.
I looked down at my arm, the bruise yellow in color. In a few days it would be far less noticeable, but for the time being, it was a reminder of my own self destruction. Physically I knew I could not harm myself again. Mentally I needed to try harder and cease torturing myself.
I took a breath and started over, rewording my thoughts.
"I don't hate you," I said, forcing myself to address the portrait, to face the pain I had endured, that I still endured. "I will try to be better at accepting you."
Love seemed impossible to profess to the person I had been, to the person I had inadvertently become. The ruins of the people I had been were the foundation for who I was now and I could not deny the part they had played. For better or worse, it had made me the person staring back at the portrait.
"We will work on acceptance, I think, and then in time perhaps…"
My breath hitched. Perhaps I could love and be loved in return. Perhaps I could express affection and receive it without ruining the relationship with physical intimacy, as I was prone to do.
I still very much wanted physical pleasure. I was human, after all, with the needs and desires that came with being a healthy mid-thirties male.
"I could almost be a priest," I muttered to myself. "Almost."
Frustration was not mortally wounding, I told her. I could abstain. I could forgo the pleasures of flesh until the time was right. I could do whatever it took for the wolf to stay within the boundaries of light.
Again I looked at the self-portrait. "I don't hate you," I said.
Almost immediately I averted my gaze and sighed, drawing a while longer, the faces of Hugo, Luci, and Bernard on the opposite page of Erik.
Inhaling, I looked at the portrait again. The suffering would always be part of me, part of my past. Perhaps one day I would be ready to paint over it.
"I don't hate you," I said.
For the first time, it felt like I meant it.
OoO
The new frame for the sketch of Erik turned out to be a much larger attended event than I had first expected, mostly because the gallery ran a small ad in Sunday's newspaper advertising the unveiling.
Much to my surprise, half of my students showed up. Given the reason for my absence, they attempted to remain solemn and quiet, but the mood didn't suit any of them.
"I can tell you are all about to burst, you vociferous little vultures," I said, motioning them into the second gallery, which was unoccupied. "Have at it."
They clapped and cheered, bouncing up and down, and enthusiastically shook my hand. Three of my freshman students hugged me tightly, both as a means of congratulating me as well as expressing their condolences, and the rest soon followed until I was in the middle of around twenty students, all linked together in a suffocating hug.
I made no attempt to free myself, grateful for each and every one of them.
"We're like a colony of bees around our precious queen," someone pointed out, and all of them–including me–chuckled.
Once they were satisfied by the amount of affection doled out, we walked back into the front gallery. I found Ivo, who worked for Goupil & Cie, adjusting the black drape over the easel that held the sketch.
"Is it straight?" he asked me, stepping back.
"It seems so," I answered.
"Good. Congratulations, Professor Kimmer."
Celeste and Bernard arrived at the same time as Theo, and the curator for the Louvre came by with two of his associates. A handful of onlookers who happened to walk into the building also stood and watched the unveiling.
Moments before the official ceremony started, Hugo walked in on his crutches, accompanied by Lucille.
"I had no idea either of you were coming today," I said, greeting them at the door.
"We're very good at keeping secrets," Hugo replied, winking at Luci.
"Mostly good," Luci said, blushing profusely.
I ushered the two of them to their seats, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Eliza rush into the gallery, her face flushed. "I had to run from school to make it in time," she explained to me.
"Is your father coming?" I asked.
Eliza shrugged. "He didn't say."
I nodded, looking away from her. Despite what had transpired the day before, I still hoped that Val would attend the unveiling. I wanted him there even if he didn't want me at the funeral Friday.
Eliza gasped as soon as she saw Lucille and immediately asked if she could sit with her, which was met with an enthusiastic nod.
With a crowd of around thirty people stuffed into the gallery, Theo motioned me to the front and cleared his throat, garnering everyone's attention.
"What an outstanding crowd. Truly, I am taken aback by the attendance alone as I don't think we've ever had this many people for a fairly new artist. If you will all wait one moment, I'll have Monsieur Lotti grab additional chairs to make you all comfortable."
The crowd murmured, nodding and smiling back at me while Ivo jumped into action. A moment later Sebastian walked into the gallery and sprang to his brother's aid. Behind him, the husband and wife from the Danish bakery and the father from the hardware store entered.
I found myself overwhelmed by the number of people, particularly those who were acquaintances.
"You didn't have to come to this," I said to them.
"Liva made me," Nohr grumbled, earning himself an elbow to the ribs. "I mean to say, I told Liva we couldn't miss it."
"Jeg er stolt af dig," Liva said, patting my shoulder in the most matronly fashion. I am proud of you.
"Tak," I said in response. Thank you.
Liva beamed at me. "See, Nohr. He is a Danish Viking and he speaks like one."
Nohr looked more than prepared to disagree, but merely nodded and allowed his wife to select their seats.
All of the strongmen from the gymnasium walked in together, a wall of muscle that took notice of Bernard before they seemed to recognize me, which I found amusing.
"How are you?" Theo asked me once we had a moment alone.
"A bit unsettled."
"Unsettled?"
"Yes, I thought I was approving the frame," I said.
"Well, you are, but with a slight introduction. I'm sure your cousin will do a fine job introducing you."
"I don't believe he's attending," I said.
Theo frowned. "Oh. Well, then, I'm certain you will be able to address the crowd. It seems as though the majority know you already."
"Thankfully," I said.
Theo looked past me and I followed his gaze, noticing his brother had walked in and taken immediate notice of Sebastian, who continued putting chairs out without lifting his head. I was fairly certain Sebastian was doing his best to actively avoid Vincent and a potential altercation.
My hands clenched at my side as I watched Theo approach his older brother, his posture stiff as he gestured toward Sebastian and shook his head. Whatever was discussed, Vincent nodded, and I saw Theo lead his brother toward Sebastian. With Theo mediating the interaction, the two shook hands and Vincent grabbed two chairs, setting them side by side before he walked away, apparently satisfied with his meager contribution.
"Again, thank you all for coming this afternoon. Please, take your seats," Theo said once the Lotti Brothers had the gallery filled with chairs for over thirty people.
"For those who are not aware, this gentleman standing beside me is Phelan Kimmer, and I am quite pleased to announce that he has sold one of his sketches for a very generous sum to none other than the esteemed Bernard Montlaur," Theo said.
The crowd applauded while I kept my eyes trained on Bernard, who looked genuinely happy beside Celeste.
Theo went on to read the biography I had submitted, which was the same as the one I handed out to students at the start of the year. My broker stumbled over the part about the hot air balloon and shook his head at me.
"Talented and apparently a very wild sense of humor," he said, thankfully more amused than annoyed. "I should have read through this before I read it aloud."
Throughout Theo's opening words, I found my gaze flickering toward the door, awaiting Val's arrival. I didn't care if he was fifteen minutes late or if he had no intention of attending and then changed his mind and rushed to the gallery. I wanted him there. I wanted him with me. I wanted him to be proud of me, to see that I had not wasted my life. I wanted his approval. And I wanted him to see that I could remember Erik in a way that was appreciated by others.
A woman walked through the door, pausing briefly to look at the seated crowd before she met my eye. Her expression never changed, and I felt as though she looked directly through me, as if I didn't exist.
Celeste Guin never fully entered the building, preferring instead to linger in the doorway, still looking past me. Her ability to pretend that I didn't exist drew my eyes away from where she stood, preferring instead to sweep along the first row to Eliza, Luci, and Hugo, then Bernard and Celeste seated on the opposite side. When I glanced up again, Celeste Guin was gone.
I was in no way brokenhearted by her departure, but would have liked the opportunity to speak to her once more. I wasn't sure that would ever happen, given how our last encounter had gone.
"Monsieur Montlaur, before we unveil the drawing by Phelan Kimmer, would you like to say what it was that drew you to this particular piece of art?" Theo asked.
Bernard scowled back at Theo, but Celeste jostled her father's arm, begging him to say something. With a sigh, Bernard relented and limped toward where I stood.
"I liked the drawing," he said, gripping my arm. He smiled back at me and shrugged.
I fully expected that was all Bernard had to say and appreciated his brevity.
"I, uh, ain't the type to appreciate art," Bernard continued, turning toward the crowd. "Never been in a gallery before until a few weeks ago and it wasn't 'cause I wanted to be there.
"But The Professor was real nice about showing me around, and he didn't make fun of me or nothin' for not knowing about art. We got to talking and I realized I really liked some of the scribbles and strokes and said what the–"
He immediately looked at Celeste, who mouthed to him that he could absolutely not curse in the middle of his speech.
"I said this ain't bad," Bernard corrected himself. "So now I got some art for my home, including this drawing, which is real personal to the artist and I'm gonna make sure that once it leaves the Louvre it's got a real nice place in my home where I'll see it every day. 'Cause that's what his art deserves. You should all have one of his scribbles hanging in your home."
The last part was spoken as a command, not a suggestion, and I smiled to myself, appreciating Bernard's friendship.
After he finished speaking, Bernar started to walk back to his seat but paused, turning to shake my hand. He drew me in closer, his lips to my ear.
"Congratulations," he whispered.
'This is all your doing, isn't it?"
"I ain't sure what you mean."
"Indeed."
"Are you talking about the advertisement in the paper about a ceremony for Phelan Kimmer, who is gonna have his drawing displayed in the Louvre? The one encouraging folks to stop by and see the drawing for themselve? That sure as hell ain't got nothing to do with me. Didn't know nothin' about it."
"Nothing at all," I dryly replied.
Bernard chuckled. "You succeeded, Professor," he whispered, patting me on the back. "I'm gonna keep telling you that until you believe me."
OoO
The frame itself was a work of art, one hand-crafted by a woodworker. The frame had been carved into trees on the sides and top and ferns at the bottom, extending the forest far past my drawing.
I'd never seen anything like it before and stood mesmerized by the craftsmanship.
The crowd stood and formed a line, coming forward to view the drawing and the frame. I chatted with every single person in attendance, graciously accepting their praise.
Most of the focus was on the drawing rather than me directly, which I was relieved to see as I could not have managed to survive an hour of being the center of their collective attention.
A little over two weeks had passed since The Phantom of the Opera became the most despised entity in all of Paris. Days after the Epoch had run the most devastating obituary I'd ever read, the small gathering at Goupil & Cie was there not merely for me, but for Erik.
He would never truly be gone. I had him in every single sketchbook within my home. I had him traveling in the back of my mind as fond memories. I had him on display in the Louvre and perhaps in the future I would give another portrait to Theo and share the love of my brother with another buyer.
As much as I wanted to physically be able to do more for my brother, I was at least able to remember him, to erase the notoriety of The Phantom and replace that villain with the memories I held so dear in my heart.
Surrounded by students, friends, and family, I studied the sketch one last time before it would be cataloged at the Louvre for display in the summer.
This was how I wanted to remember Erik: as the person I had loved with every bit of my heart and soul. Not even death could take that from me.