You must know that I am made of death...

Then, when he had all but tired, he’d let the violin fly into the air again, giving a deep bow as gratefully as he could manage, making sure to let the mask slip from his face just long enough to allow the audience a glimpse of the monster beneath.  Another smoke bomb amidst the gasps of the audience and he was gone. It was with rare occasion that anyone--performer or audience member--bothered to find him after shows and he didn’t much mind. It was one thing to be gaped at during a conscious display of performance, but quite another when he wasn’t expecting it. Thus, he tensed instinctively at the sound of a knocking at his trailer door. He adjusted his mask with apprehension as he approached the door, opening it just a crack to get a glimpse of the person outside.

“Perhaps that would be wise, as it will be rather dark in the theater.”

“How kind of you, sir! I like the mask, by the way.”

People in the waiting room uncomfortably looked away, none offering consolation to the man. It was an awkward atmosphere. It was difficult to offer a seemingly grown man comfort and the only thing the people could do was look at him sadly or pitifully. 

One of the nurses noticed. Tori’s eyebrows furrowed at the sight of the crying man, but she immediately became worried the moment the clipboard clattered on the ground. She excused herself from the patient and quickly ran to the man, mismatched hues gazing at him with worry. “Sir? S-Sir, are you alright? Does something hurt,” she gently inquired as she knelt down, looking up at him. She looked at one of the other nurses and mouthed the word “water” before looking back at Erik. 

“Sir, it’s alright. E-Everything’s okay. We’re getting you some water, okay? My name is Tori, and I’m going to help you okay?” She picked up the clipboard and set it in the empty chair next to him.

“Alright?” Erik raised his head slowly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Without a mask, it was as though he had been stripped bare, his accursed ugliness laid out on a platter for all to see. The urge to leave his arm at his face so as not to reveal what lay beneath was a strong one, but, for the first time since discovering the truth of his identity, Erik’s rational mind won out. This was a hospital and the woman that tended to him was a nurse. Surely, she’d been trained such that his face would not terrify her. After all, if his doctors at the sanatorium could manage to look at him, a modern-world nurse wouldn’t be dissuaded...or so he hoped.

Slowly, Erik removed his arm and raised his eyes to face her, “I--I suppose so,” he stammered, his heart still pounding at his throat, “I’m in no more pain than usual but...” he paused, wondering how best to explain that in a world long passed, he’d inhabited all that was terrible and cruel, as ugly in spirit as he thought himself in body? Why, by the standards of this age, he’d be considered nothing short of a serial killer. The thought sent a chill down his spine. How was it possible? How could he have placed so little value on human life?

The answer glared at him from the floor, the clipboard stained with his tears reflecting his every imperfection back at him. His self-loathing could not be contained to a single body. No, all of humankind would not be enough to alleviate his wrath. It seemed that death was all he was, all he’d ever be...He just barely managed to stop himself from tearing the drawstring from his sweatshirt and fashioning a noose from it. There was no need. There was good in the world, good like this earnest young nurse. She would help him, he told himself, he just had to trust her.