His fame grew quickly, and crowds would come, prepped with rotten eggs and spoiled fruits and vegetables to cast at his feet as offerings of food—as if a beast such as himself deserved nothing more than pig slop for sustenance.
It was the first time he’d been unmasked and vulnerable to anyone. His own mother had made him wear his mask both awake and asleep. The shame and revulsion he faced when bared pecked away at any semblance of self-worth he had left. The horrified screams of other children, of their parents, bled into his nightmares and replayed mirror images of his own horrific face in vivid colors to haunt him.
At last, one night, after having insomnia for months, Erik took refuge inside his cage, slipping into the prop coffin used as part of his act. He closed the lid and slept soundly until morning, shutting out the terrified wails, depraved cries, and images of the monstrous deformity that always followed him in his waking hours.
The one way he could feel completely safe while at his most vulnerable—to assure no one would see him and scream in horror—was to be locked within a casket. So that came to be his eternal refuge.
Thorn understood his father’s need to shut out the past, as others never would. He’d lived in a cage himself, three harrowing months before Erik found and rescued him.
Father Erik’s eccentricities were by-products of his past, as were Thorn’s. As were anyone’s. Even the mundane staff that populated the academy had their own peculiarities and secrets. Thorn knew them all. He’d been observing from the shadows and taking notes. Such knowledge could prove useful, should he ever need to capitalize on it.
A chilled gust blew across him, tugging at his cape. He let the hood fall away as he positioned the last piece of clothing from the pink bag. His ceramic mask covered one side of his face, the shimmery white of bleached bones, and there was no chance of being seen by anyone anyway. Other than Madame Bouchard and Rune, the occupants of the academy were out all day.
Bouchard would be oblivious, preoccupied with her gruesome hobby—making amends to animals even in their death, via stitches, stuffing, and glassy eyes. An eccentricity the old woman shared on some level with Father Erik, to Thorn’s grim dismay.
He tensed, following the path across the footbridge and to the graves. Dirt clods crunched under his boots and his shoulders drooped, heavy beneath the vile obligation he’d been waiting a lifetime to fulfill.
Standing by a window, I position my third attempt at a letter to Trig and Janine where the dreary gray light filters in, so I can read the closing one last time:
Well, I should go. I had to stay behind while everyone else went to Paris for a day trip. Not happy about being stuck here, but I’m going to make good use of the time. I want to get out to the garden before it rains.
Oh . . . and one more thing, could you tell me if there’s any news on Ben? Is he better? Is he talking? The last I heard, he’d been showing signs of waking. Do the doctors still think it was a seizure from a head injury? Four weeks is a long time to be in a coma, right? I should’ve never come on to him after his poor cranium stopped my fall off that ledge. I should’ve insisted he get checked by a doctor right then.
Please, write back. You’re my only link to all things Americana. Even the food here makes me miss home.
Viva la hot dogs and hamburgers!
Rune
P.S. I miss your faces.
P.P.S. I took some pics of the academy with my phone. I’ll text them once I get to Paris where there’s service. No kidding, it’s like living in a primeval forest here.
Satisfied that this note won’t have to join the others in the trash, I fold the paper, slide it into the matching stamped envelope already addressed to Trig, and drop it into the outgoing mail slot in the box next to the main entry door.
I’m so tired of acting oblivious about Ben, but as much as I trust Janine and Trig—who’ve always accepted my operatic outbursts without judging me—I can’t tell them what really happened at that frat party.
When I met my two pals in theater during my sophomore year at school, they were both seniors. In spite of our age differences, I was drawn to them because they were outcasts like me. We live in an ultraconservative town. You can’t be a boy who likes boys and designs ladies’ fashions, or a bulimic ballerina whose mom raised money for her college tuition by being an exotic dancer, without the majority of people looking at you through lenses tinged with discomfort and judgment.