Cursed Flesh

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bonhcmme:

  There is some sort of ASTONISHMENT  that has settled in the countenance of the boy who cannot fathom how on earth this man-- this STRANGER   remains so impassive-- so KIND & gentle-featured  despite every wish in Erik’s heart.  [ He wanted, desperately, to tell the man to GO AWAY-- ]  how many other signs could he possibly give?    Impatience drags the child’s gaze back to the sound of his mother’s cursing   which is raising in volume once again, accompanied by several thuds,   ( the angry cry of a name:  ERIK! )  The boy hesitates, freezes, stiff with fear & a minute of agonizing anxiety,  before finally allowing a wicked little grin to settle along his lips when he’s sure she hasn’t escaped & isn’t rushing down the stairs to beat him---  he wonders if she’ll break the door before she finds the spare key  he’s hidden in her perfume bottle.   Ah, but the words pull him to reality,  & once again, the child finds himself staring at this man,  this stranger, who’s caught him in the act of mischief ( but appears none the wiser. ) His smile is gone, as quickly as it had come,  & Erik gives a weak, half-hearted shrug.       “ Only when I am out of my room, Monsieur, “    He offers the answer to the man’s question truthfully, with a slickened scowl. His mother never was happier than when Erik hid away, out of sight.    “ She is happy when I leave her alone. She says so all the time.      Or when I am singing... though.. “  he snickers, momentarily, a thoughtful glaze in his eye,     “ I don’t think she has a choice to be happy or not when I sing. “      He doesn’t really believe the man   who so humbly denies the boy’s claim that he was created to save souls--  in his heart of hearts, Erik believed all men desired to change another’s soul,   in some way or another.  He cannot think different of this man.   “ Oh, “ He says, with a flat sort of indifference,   like he is neither ecstatic nor overwhelmingly disappointed by this news,    “ I had hoped you were a Reverend... they always know good music,   like the Kyrie Eleison & the Dies Irae. “ Concerning the Rosemary, Erik’s brow grew dimmer than it had been before,   wrinkling the bridge of his hallow nose below his simple, tight little mask,   his eyes darting to the place where he’d planted the key,  ( wishing, suddenly, he was telling the truth about the flowers-- )   “ No, Monsieur, “   His boyish tenor is quiet, a pianissimo of vulnerability    as, at last, the challenge of his gaze drops,   to the spindly little hands that clasp before him   & pick dirt out from beneath his nails,  recollecting the information Marie Perrault, the only kind soul Erik had known, had relayed to him one rainy March day.   “ Maman stopped tending to the garden after my father had died;    Anything here does not live until its bloom. “  He hesitates, then adds, miserably,   “ Even if it did, she would not allow me to see it.    Does it grow commonly beyond these hills? “ 

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   “ of course I didn’t kill him   by dropping him off the roof---   Non, Non, that is too stupid--   Why, he was already dead when I did drop him off it, Mon Amie! “ 

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@bonhcmme​:

    The smile might come easily to the man opposite,  but for the boy, it remains elusive, nonexistent.     ( his lips are turned down, ) a permanent scowl   that lingers on his masked features       like collected, climbing, clinging ivy ( a thing acquired over time, not so easily swayed )      Golden eyes narrow, suspicious, after the stranger,    ( this amicable Monsieur ) in skeptical INQUIRY,         as the boy takes a few silent moments to pat the dirt & mud from his scarred fingertips & palms,       before adjusting his collar, tucking the hem of his shirt back into his pants.     A gardener? For a moment, Erik wonders if the man had seen the key -- ( that would be the end of his fun right then in there, if he has, )--      & then he LIES, as easily as breathing, without a twitching expression or flitting focus.        “ Rosemary. “    He says it matter-of-factly, his eyes locked upon this stranger’s own,     a CHALLENGE of sorts---     & in that moment, there’s another muffled holler from his mother’s locked bedroom, a faint THUMP--    He turns his head, then, to glance upwards ( toward the curtained window above )  before returning his gaze to the stranger, words finding his thin lips    & indifferent countenance once again.     “ Do pardon mother; she is.... c r o s s  today. Can’t find something or other, you see.     I did not assume you a gardener.     You have the face of a reverend, Monsieur.         Perhaps you have Rosemary in your garden, as well? I am told it is very beautiful when it blooms. “ 

   The boy is QUITE SURE he has never seen anything         nor anyone     so beautiful in his entire life--    ( which, granted, isn’t very long-- )    but for a child deprived of LIGHT & LIGHT & love ?  Why, he felt like a man trapped in an eternal desert,     finally allowed a taste of clean water.    [ In his great, gleaming, sunken eyes, ]   the child sees not just a woman, but a goddess, an angel of sorts,  who far surpassed the beauty of his poor, cruel mother.    Suddenly, the boy is quite ASHAMED.  Ashamed of the mask upon his face, that has rubbed red rashes into the curve of his cheekbones,   & worn the flesh away from his face along parts of his jaw, his temples,    the knowledge of its ill-fit neglected by the creator of both boy and mask.  He is ashamed, of his wrinkled clothes,   his unkempt hair, & the scars that line his hands from the shattered mirror of months passed.   --- & mostly, he is ashamed of his face, his cursed existence, his horrible, damnable life--   For now that he is sure he has seen true beauty, Erik cannot help but believe that he must be like the demons of hell before her.       Instinctively, he recoils away from her,  curling inwards to himself,   ( all bone & no flesh, ) like a great spider,     with only a pitiful expression of AWE & fear   that mixes upon malformed lips   & a distorted brow.  For a moment, he fears she knows his disobedience--  ( after all, he was not to be outside his house, let alone playing the church’s great organ....  not in a thousand years! )    & he is nothing if not SILENT, stunned,  like a deer in the headlights,  before the plea comes tumbling like a prayer   from his poor, trembling lips.             “ Please-- please, do not tell my Maman. “    

  He cannot help it--  ( HE FLINCHES ), pulling away from the woman  who is taller than him-- [ fearful she might HIT him, YELL AT HIM-- h u r t  h i m ... ]  after all, Erik has no reason to believe this woman isn’t exactly as his mother has said those outside were-- ( cruel & terrible people. )   & as far as he is concerned, whether she is in his house on invitation or not,  she is still a stranger-- ( she could be... u n s a f e )  For a brief moment, Erik wonders if that is why his mother had locked him up, so foolishly,  in his little room in the cold, cold attic.   Selfishly, he clings to a diamond-like bottle,  filled with a ( sweet scent )      like his life depended upon it,  & though he backs away, he does nothing to relinquish the stolen goods--  the perfume he has nicked from his mother’s room--  ( nor will he make an effort to admit that he has stolen it, or even mention it at all.  )  Why, under his mask, the distorted, twisted, malformed features of the child twist  to innocence & near STUPIDITY.  ( caught, red-handed, unawares.. )   He stumbles over his own voice  in some attempt at conversation,  ( hoping to the God his mother made him pray to that she would not get him in any trouble. )      “ B---Bonjour... Madam...--    Are you... Are you here to talk to... my Mother?  She’s upstairs looking for--- for her---  perfume... & I---       Oh, please,  p l e a s e ,   do not tell her I left my room--  she would be quite cross if she learned I have done so without her permission!-” 

  There’s dirt caked under the nails  of the young boy who is composed of JUTTING ANGLES,   & sharp edges,   ( all bone & skin, stretched tight & thin over the frame of his malnourished  skeleton. )  & even as the footsteps grow nearer, the child takes no effort to HURRY in his task  of burying the little silver key  in the flowerbeds outside his great ghost of a home,  ( where, if one listens hard enough, you can hear the occasional curses flying from the upstairs bedroom of a woman furious-- for his part, Erik doesn’t know yet if she is aware HE is the one who has locked her in there. )  & then, when he’s sure the patch of dirt is successfully evened out,  the boy stands   ( small, horribly thin, with long, scarred fingers & great, piercing, golden eyes. )  & a mask, plain, that sits upon his boyish ( distorted ) features, too tight to be anywhere near comfortable.   [ There is redness under the corners of the object, though he makes no effort to adjust or remove it. ]    Upwards he stares, after the man who has approached,   & the boy is ODDLY CALM-- a reserved sort of ALOOFNESS that is not becoming of him--  ( defense-- for though his posture remains even, his eyes are wary & searching, like a wild animal. )    “ Bonjour, Monsieur. “  His voice is sweet.  Sweeter, perhaps, than the choirs in the churches, & the angels in the heavens,    “ Are you here to see my Maman?     She cannot talk right now. She’s....      busy. “ 

@brazenlass said: 

   There is a an expression of COLD INDIFFERENCE   that settles upon the masked features of the Opera Ghost,  ( looking down upon the CHILD, who reminds him nearly so much of himself-- )  & for that, he loathes her.  He loathes her upset, her desperation her--- QUESTIONING.   How can she not accept this cruel truth? This painful fate?  ( he has known it since he was younger than she... that life was CRUEL, & that they,     the vagabonds & outcasts, would be the ones to suffer the most,     until they died [ forgotten ] ) For a moment, he is silent, & then the sneer begins to form;  It is an expression of ANGER & FRUSTRATION,     a man whose heart has been beaten to darkness,   to hardness-- ( & he has no intention of letting a foolish child experience any different. )      “ Oh, so perhaps you thought running away would ensure your life  m e a n t   something?         Perhaps, Mademoiselle, you assumed so IGNORANTLY     that your own existence would become worth something,             a pretty penny, maybe,       when you lived by your own free will, by your own rules?         Your idiocy would be PITIFUL, if it weren’t so   f u n n y.      Now that you have discovered your life here means nothing,               where will you run next? “