Wicked Manor

           

Monmouth New Jersey 1872

            There had to be a certain essence that was plentiful on that night. The girl’s nimble fingertips graced the piano, its elegance charming the ballroom. She played unlike anything they’d ever heard, ever experienced, ever imagined. The audience remained captivated, alike to a hallucinatory drug, an addiction of sweet nectar. They couldn’t possibly fathom it- why, the girl was but sixteen and just barely old enough to marry, and yet she strummed the keys as though she held a professional title. Their eyes lingered on her stance.

            But the girl hadn’t recognized their attention, nor was she particularly pleased by it. Certainly she wasn’t offended or insulted but simply felt neutral. It wouldn’t matter to her if they were observing her talent or not, the act of playing was enough in itself. Music was its own reward. It emerged sweetly, curling through her touch and up her spine in a method that proved so entirely lovely. Her eyes fell shut, and she exhaled in grace, for the melody was so impossibly divine.

            If you’ve ever witnessed euphoria, you’re well-aware of its majesty. That was the only basic explanation to describe her abilities. This girl, a mere child in reality and yet a woman in so many other forms, was truly an amazement. However, it came as no revelation that she was hopelessly oppressed by society, by the guidelines of her own lineage. She succumbed to the whims and orders of others rather than her own. And really, she was so hopelessly misconstrued.

            This girl had but one friend, a man who had recently resided in the vicinity of her very location. He had appeared from nowhere, and not a single soul had knowledge of his purest existence- except for her. In their companionship existed no romantic entities but instead comfort, love, and warmth- she had been robbed of it. Quite frankly, he had been robbed of it as well. The man was nearly thirty and he dwelled alone in his manor.

            Rumors spiraled around the quaint town of Monmouth, pouring in through the cracks of mankind, emerging as blatant lies in particular cases. “Prostitution,” One wealthy woman whispered to another. “… a male prostitute, for the favor of the lesser female population. You can see that, can’t you- devilishly handsome, with a striking lack of innocence?”

            “Disowned by his family, but plagued with wealth- oh, what a pity!” A man mocked, certainly of a class that resided below. “If I had that, I’ll tell you, I would not waste it all alone. Why, the man should have a family by now- A wife, children… such a shame. With all he has to spend, too.”

            The rumors themselves were rather embarrassing, actually- the man was no prostitute in any form. Nor had he been disowned- how could you be disowned from a family you never possessed? It was preposterous, truly. However, he was incredibly lonely. He was an artist, a starving artist, although that wasn’t a valid term to be of use at the time; yet he was not entirely starving. He thrived in darkness, replicating images and distorting them in corrupt masterpieces. They called him handsome, and his sadness arose. He wasn’t seeking glory in appearance. He desired merely silence.

            The man’s name was Gerard Arthur Way, and he befriended sixteen-year-old piano extraordinaire Claira Chantal Moreau.

            He stood, lavished buried in the shadows of the ballroom, and observed his friend. His best friend, he could add. He was assured that a majority, if not all of the population in the gathering were unaware of his presence, for he possessed a subtle skill in slipping away unnoted. He was only there to observe her. Besides, he could merely do so for a certain extent of time.