(no subject)
Who: Erik
What: Erik's made a deal.
When: Day 39
Where: Palace Cinema
Erik was done.
Whatever this was--hell, purgatory, some sick sort of joke--he wanted out. And if he could not go back to the Opera, or die as he had meant to do, the next best thing was getting away from partners and roommates and everything else that made this purgatory Hell.
Erik was getting his desire.
It had been all too easy, in the end. A simple deal, the price steep but not impractical. He could move out of the boarding how, be separated from the invisible tether--but he could not wear his mask.
It was gone, now--the mask--and Erik was gone from the boarding house. No trace of him remained but the scrawled musical notes and words in various languages on the wall next to his bed, meaningless to anyone but himself.
With the chill air against his face, Erik felt a pang of anxiety over his nakedness. It had been a long time since he had exposed himself this way, to anyone but his Christine, and that memory was not altogether reassuring. But it was worth it, this freedom: he would install himself in the cinema, learn its arts, cloak himself in shadow and live apart, as he was meant. If he was to live.
His hat drawn low over his brow, he entered the Palace Cinema, the faceless staff of no concern to one who had built automatons for the Sultan of Turkey. He chose a seat in the rear, where no one entering would see him in the darkness, and waited. The projector whirred into motion, light flickering for a moment against the screen before it resolved into an image. No titles, no credits, no newsreels. The image was of a young man, no more than a boy, really, singing. The voice was flawless, crystal clear and effortlessly tuned to draw any emotion it pleased from the listener.
The boy was in a cage.
Erik knew that the boy was not a prisoner. That it was a calculated ploy, an effort to titillate the audience with danger, for the boy was thin as a lathe and his face...
His face.
Erik had not looked into a mirror for decades. All he had was the response of others to the sight of him, and he had limited that, too. And here he was, larger than life, on display as he never had been even in the gypsy camps. Everything Erik had been thinking about film, about its possibilities, flooded back to him. Permanence. Duplication. Distribution. A freak show on a national, global scale, unstoppable and grotesquely impersonal.
The image changed, and Erik got up, his long legs carrying him to the door. Behind him, his life played out in highlights on the screen, and there was not much difference between the good or bad. There was just violence, survival, fear and hatred. The door did not open, and Erik's curiosity forced him to glance over his shoulder, catching glimpses of gruesome murders in Persia, of a dark young woman laughing, of a decomposing body on a shore and a man with jade eyes watching him from the shadows. A young woman in a blaze of limelight, her voice the purest thing Erik had ever heard, the crystallization of every passionate thought he had ever had.
He gave up on the door, sliding down against it, transfixed again by her voice. It stabbed him, his chest literally hurting, and suddenly, fiercely, he wanted this film. He wanted it to play again and again, until it killed him, until he could withstand no more.
But the film flicked through to her horror, the hatred of the world perfectly mapped onto her face as she fell away from him, her absurd boy making plans under Apollo's Lyre to take her away, her pleas to let him out of the torture chamber. The daroga as Erik told his story, claimed his redemption, an old man crying for the monster he had saved and fought.
The door fell open against his back and he slid through it, fleeing, to anywhere but the theater. Part of him urged his legs to slow, stop, turn. To take him back, where she was, where he could relive that which was no worse than in life. But flight took over, until a roof covered his head again. An empty house, silent and still; Erik threw himself down onto the hideous sofa face-first, as he caught his breath.
Was there no where to go? No place that might be his, that would not remind him of that which he had willingly died for? Why was he here? The life on the screen, bleak as it was, had at least been his. It was preferable to this. He recalled the tapes burning in the street, and the temptation to join them rose.
But it had never been his sin, self-annihilation. For all his self-hatred, he loved himself, and life, too much. It was animalistic, biological. He lived as he breathed, as he ate. Because he had to. But he had always needed something other than that. The cinema... he mourned its loss as much as he hated what it had shown him. But perhaps there was a way.
And at least he was alone.
What: Erik's made a deal.
When: Day 39
Where: Palace Cinema
Erik was done.
Whatever this was--hell, purgatory, some sick sort of joke--he wanted out. And if he could not go back to the Opera, or die as he had meant to do, the next best thing was getting away from partners and roommates and everything else that made this purgatory Hell.
Erik was getting his desire.
It had been all too easy, in the end. A simple deal, the price steep but not impractical. He could move out of the boarding how, be separated from the invisible tether--but he could not wear his mask.
It was gone, now--the mask--and Erik was gone from the boarding house. No trace of him remained but the scrawled musical notes and words in various languages on the wall next to his bed, meaningless to anyone but himself.
With the chill air against his face, Erik felt a pang of anxiety over his nakedness. It had been a long time since he had exposed himself this way, to anyone but his Christine, and that memory was not altogether reassuring. But it was worth it, this freedom: he would install himself in the cinema, learn its arts, cloak himself in shadow and live apart, as he was meant. If he was to live.
His hat drawn low over his brow, he entered the Palace Cinema, the faceless staff of no concern to one who had built automatons for the Sultan of Turkey. He chose a seat in the rear, where no one entering would see him in the darkness, and waited. The projector whirred into motion, light flickering for a moment against the screen before it resolved into an image. No titles, no credits, no newsreels. The image was of a young man, no more than a boy, really, singing. The voice was flawless, crystal clear and effortlessly tuned to draw any emotion it pleased from the listener.
The boy was in a cage.
Erik knew that the boy was not a prisoner. That it was a calculated ploy, an effort to titillate the audience with danger, for the boy was thin as a lathe and his face...
His face.
Erik had not looked into a mirror for decades. All he had was the response of others to the sight of him, and he had limited that, too. And here he was, larger than life, on display as he never had been even in the gypsy camps. Everything Erik had been thinking about film, about its possibilities, flooded back to him. Permanence. Duplication. Distribution. A freak show on a national, global scale, unstoppable and grotesquely impersonal.
The image changed, and Erik got up, his long legs carrying him to the door. Behind him, his life played out in highlights on the screen, and there was not much difference between the good or bad. There was just violence, survival, fear and hatred. The door did not open, and Erik's curiosity forced him to glance over his shoulder, catching glimpses of gruesome murders in Persia, of a dark young woman laughing, of a decomposing body on a shore and a man with jade eyes watching him from the shadows. A young woman in a blaze of limelight, her voice the purest thing Erik had ever heard, the crystallization of every passionate thought he had ever had.
He gave up on the door, sliding down against it, transfixed again by her voice. It stabbed him, his chest literally hurting, and suddenly, fiercely, he wanted this film. He wanted it to play again and again, until it killed him, until he could withstand no more.
But the film flicked through to her horror, the hatred of the world perfectly mapped onto her face as she fell away from him, her absurd boy making plans under Apollo's Lyre to take her away, her pleas to let him out of the torture chamber. The daroga as Erik told his story, claimed his redemption, an old man crying for the monster he had saved and fought.
The door fell open against his back and he slid through it, fleeing, to anywhere but the theater. Part of him urged his legs to slow, stop, turn. To take him back, where she was, where he could relive that which was no worse than in life. But flight took over, until a roof covered his head again. An empty house, silent and still; Erik threw himself down onto the hideous sofa face-first, as he caught his breath.
Was there no where to go? No place that might be his, that would not remind him of that which he had willingly died for? Why was he here? The life on the screen, bleak as it was, had at least been his. It was preferable to this. He recalled the tapes burning in the street, and the temptation to join them rose.
But it had never been his sin, self-annihilation. For all his self-hatred, he loved himself, and life, too much. It was animalistic, biological. He lived as he breathed, as he ate. Because he had to. But he had always needed something other than that. The cinema... he mourned its loss as much as he hated what it had shown him. But perhaps there was a way.
And at least he was alone.