Chapter Text
Starting over is rarely an easy thing to do. It’s almost impossible to make a completely clean break and start afresh. However, the task is made infinitely easier when the world believes you to be dead. A dead man can move about unnoticed, cultivating a new persona, a new life. It is an extreme measure, but sometimes it’s the only one available.
Erik had not planned such a fate for himself but then he had not planned on living. Up atop the roof of the Paris opera house, as he lay bleeding from a gunshot wound inflicted by his father in whose arms he now rested, death seemed the only likely outcome. The feeling of Christine’s lips on his forehead, her sweet, loving gaze as she looked upon his unmasked face, filled his mind as everything slowly went black. Surely this was the end, and what a beautiful end it was. How surprised he was then to find himself waking, resting in a soft bed, wound bandaged, in a place he didn’t recognize.
As he shifted slightly, pain shot through his entire body. Most of it seemed to be radiating from a spot on his side. That, he imagined, was where he had been shot. There was other pain too, but that was more of a consistent dull ache. It was mostly on one side, probably the one he had fallen on. Frankly, it was a wonder he had survived at all. Feeling restless and a bit nervous, he looked around and as he was about to try to rise someone entered the room.
“You’re awake,” the man said with some relief.
Gérard Carrière, former manager of the Paris Opera House and Erik’s father, walked over to the bed and began to check him over. He gently removed the bandage that covered his ribs and inspected the injury. Though he was still in incredible pain, it seemed to be healing well. Thanks to Gérard’s quick aid any possible infection had been kept at bay.
“What’s happening?” Erik asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “And where am I?”
“You’re at my house, just outside the city.”
“Why?”
“So that you can recover.”
“But I don’t understand. Why am I even alive?”
Gérard held out his hands. “I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t just kill you.”
“Don’t you understand? I wanted to die!” His voice rose in anger and he buried his head in his hands.
“Erik.”
“Why couldn’t you just give me that? It’s what I deserve. After everything I’ve done…”
“Erik, please calm down.”
“No! Why shouldn’t I have died? There’s nothing left for me. Everything I’ve loved is gone.” He took a deep breath, his voice finally breaking. “The opera, my home, Christine. Without those, what is there?”
“I know it seems bleak, but I promise it will get better. Now rest. You need to build your strength back up.”
Erik lay back on the pillows, sighing. This was certainly not what he had expected. He hadn’t thought much about what would happen next. Truth be told, there wasn’t supposed to be anything afterward. He was supposed to be dead and that was it. Realistically he should be happy to be alive, but instead he felt nothing, empty. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d yelled at Gérard. There wasn’t anything left for him. Christine, the person he loved most in this world, was gone from his life forever. He could feel the absence in his heart, nearly as painful as the hole left in his side.
With little other choice in the matter he rested, allowing Gérard to care for him and tend to him. He asked his father about what had happened after he’d blacked out and was told that he was carried back to his father’s house. A doctor had been sought out immediately, one that was known for keeping things to himself. The doctor carefully removed the bullet and treated the area. He wasn’t certain that Erik would survive but still gave careful instructions so that he had the best chance of pulling through. He came around the following day and was able to give him a more favorable report. He had lived through the night and may well be on the way to recovery.
Recovery turned out to be both painful and mind-numbing. After a few weeks of bed rest the doctor had instructed him to attempt some walking exercises. The fall, as it turned out, had done more damage than the bullet. While that wound eventually healed, the pain in his leg and hip stayed. He quickly realized he was unable to walk on his own and so Gérard produced a cane for his use. It took a while, but he was ultimately able to get around his father’s home with its help.
When not actively exercising he was encouraged to rest in bed. There wasn’t much to keep him occupied beyond the books his father brought to him. At first Gérard gave him books on music, but he found he couldn’t stomach them. He went through a variety of other topics before he finally settled on ones about gardening and flowers. One that he became particularly consumed with was one about the meanings of different flowers. It was fascinating, almost like learning a new language. There was a beauty about it that began to help ease the gloom in his mind as he continued to mend.
Once he was very nearly healed, Gérard began talking about plans for the future. Erik, barely listening, merely nodded at every suggestion he threw out. He didn’t care much about what happened from now on. In a way, it was almost as if he had died on that rooftop and was now merely following the motions.
“It would be for the best if we moved far away from here,” the old man said over dinner. “Going back to the opera house is just not a safe option.”
“Oh I don’t know,” Erik mused, some humor coming back to him. “It might be more believable that there’s a ghost there now that they’ve seen me die.”
“Erik, you can’t be serious,” Gérard balked.
“Of course not,” he chuckled. “I know I can never go back. And really, what’s there for me anymore? Nothing but anguish, despair, and misery.”
“Starting fresh will be good for you, I promise.” He laid his hand over his son’s and for a moment Erik let him.
In no time the two of them were packed and ready to leave Paris. As soon as Gérard sold his home, they began their journey south. What they were looking for was a small village well away from any big city. A nice country home where they could settle down and start a new life. A few places seemed promising, but something about them made Erik hesitate. None of them ever seemed quite right.
After weeks of travel, they found themselves in the village of Menot. It was a quaint little place almost dead center between Marseille and Nice not incredibly far from the Alps. In fact, one could almost see the vast mountains on a clear day. Gérard did some digging and found that there was a house for sale just outside the town. The house itself was small, the perfect size for the two of them, and already furnished by its previous owner. It also had an attached space that could be used as a shop of some kind. There were two rooms to the: a back area where work could be done and a front area with windows that took up most of three walls. It was a light airy space that looked beautiful and inviting.
Gérard took Erik to see it, wanting to get his opinion. He liked it immensely, particularly because it wasn’t too close to those that lived around there. But what really sold him was what lay outside. The house was on a large track of land filled with the most beautiful assortment of greenery and flora. He knew at once he was home.
“What do you think?” his father asked, looking hopeful.
“I think it’s perfect,” he sighed.
“I think so too. Now the only question is, what will we do with the shop?”
“Flowers.” The answer was immediate; there could be no other. “We should sell flowers.”
“I think that’s a marvelous idea,” Gérard said, patting him on the back. He left to settle with the seller, leaving Erik to wander the fields to his heart’s content.
If he could no longer make music his life’s work, he would work instead with flowers and plants, composing them as he would a song, and hopefully he could once again bring beauty into the world.