Poor Erik

PROLOGUE

Long, long ago... Well, maybe it was not as long ago as most of stories beginning with these words take place. Let us say, it was long ago enough to consider those evens the ones, not all of us can remember, especially the young generation. This sad story of a lonely heart tattered by numerous failures begins in a French village, just after the end of World War Second.

There is a boy, the one dreaming about both fame and life full of adventures, also the one who is given numerous talents, though many of them are yet undiscovered. After all, he is only nearly five. In my mind, I can see a little pretty kid lying on his bed and watching the stars through the window. He believes, a falling one can fulfill his wishes, the ones which remain deep within his childish heart.

However, there is always a price to pay. Little Erik – for this is the boy's name – is currently unaware, he is in for a chain of dramatic events that are going to direct his existence, that will surely make him wonder what the point of his life is. He will raise and fall. And love. And yearn. And keep dreaming...

Sleep, Erik... Sleep for this is your very last day of peace. Tomorrow, you will celebrate your birthday, Erik! Can you expect what new changes this day brings?


PART ONE in which Erik's life makes a few spins around and hits against pavement


France, Les Graves, 1945.


"Oh, my dear Erik, open your eyes and see what I have bought to you!"

The little boy uncovered his beautiful hazel eyes with utter enthusiasm, only children can show, looking at the present he had been given. There was a bike standing in the middle of the room, a real brand new bike! Every detail of it was shining like million stars. It was giving out a sweet temptation, an utter encouragement to be sat on and ridden wherever the wheels take you.

Erik could not hide his excitement. Not that he tried to do it at all. He jumped a few times with uncontrollable joy. Then, he gave his parents a dreamy gaze and asked:

"Is it really for me, really, really?!"

Repeating the last words, he started jumping again.

"Yes, it's for you," replied his dad with the kindest smile you can give to a child.

Forgetting even to thank, Erik ran to the bike and jumped on it. There were, however, no additional circles on its sides, so, if not rapid change of position, Erik would have just fallen on the ground like a cut tree. Nonetheless, despite of his parents' requests to be careful, he quickly got outside the house and began a destructive ceremony of decorating freshly-mown lawn with the wheel traces.

Previously, I have told you, Erik was a very gifted one. Actually, his parents were quite impressed of how many talents their child has. He could do so much, that one would say, I am cheating or exaggerating by telling this to you. He had rich imagination and impressive artistic skills. His paintings, though being obviously made by an inexperienced childish hand, shown numerous details. Simultaneously, he already knew how to read bind shoes on his own and build a bird-box. That was why all his neighbours were so jealous. It was quite visible, even though they were turning to him with false masks of kindness whenever they saw him. Thus, it was not surprising, at that time, some of them were hiding behind their fences and watching carefully. Every failure committed by the boy during his ride would mean, he's not as ideal as he seemed to be.

Unfortunately to them (how ironic, someone's innocent joy can be so miserable to us!), Erik did very well. He quickly obtained the arcane knowledge of how to ride a bike. Like for nearly every child, basic skills were not enough for him. Such a talented person had to follow his inner desires so typical of those ambitious ones. He wanted to... He HAD TO reach out for more.

For this reason, the dialogue heard by his neighbours went so:

"Mommy, mommy, I'm riding with one hand only!"

"It's wonderful, my dear!"

"Mommy, mommy, I'm riding with no hands!"

"Great, you're so gifted!"

RAWRRRRBANG!

It is needed to put a short explanation here since the above onomatopoeia is not a quite precise illustration of what took place on Erik's yard. Namely, the bike, having got out of its rider control, felt a sudden whim to turn rapidly and hit against a kerb. According to the basic laws of physics, the hard kerb remained untouched while the bike raised to the air, made a few glorious spins, the professional stunt men would feel ashamed by and eventually landed on a pavement in a position which could not make it go further. In a magical way, the roles changed. At that time, it was the bike which seemed to ride little Erik. His face made a short way across the pavement, leaving a bloody mark behind him.

"Mommy..." he cried, too weak to stand up.

His caring mother ran up to him, raising limp remnant of his body from the ground.

"Erik! Your face!" she let him go and drawn back with disgust. "It's... terrible."

Indeed, half of his face did not resemble a human face any more. There was blood covering it, but even this could not hide the destruction caused by crossing exceptionally course surface. To be frank, it looked like an unformed piece of boiled meat.

"Mommy..." he repeated, raising his semi-numb hands to his parent.

She did only step back with dread.

"I can't look at you!" she confessed.

This way, the days were passing, but they could not kill both parents' repulsion to their own child. Soon, they decided to get rid of him. Thus, little Erik's journey began. He was handed to a group of Gypsies.