|Author:||La Reina (Authenticated as La Reina)|
|Date:||September 8, 2012 at 7:45:56 AM|
|Reply to:||Build-a-Story: Round Six! by Viola Eponine|
Vague murmuring noises burble at my ears. They sound so distant, so faraway, and yet at the same time coming from all around me. Someone is screaming; shrill, tinkling, like a glass xylophone. Madame. I wonder what happened to her. Did the police catch her at last? I hope they did. I hope they'd stop her endless depravity, her ignominious crimes against human rights, her tyranny. Then, our goal will have been accomplished.
Our goal. Our Cause. Our motive, our drive, our -
Inertia is making me feel cold. But not pain. Cold, numb, dull, muted... but not pain. I don't feel any pain, not any more. The wall behind me had ceased being a barricade of ice and became a welcome stony support. Like Sadie. Sadie - Sadie who lowered her barbed defences to become a pillar upon which I can depend. Sadie who put aside her doubts and fears at last and became someone I could trust on, rely on. Sadie who now leads them to their freedom. Oh! Be strong, Sadie. When the pupil has learned, there is no longer need for the teacher. She will rise and take my place.
A sliver of fear. Can it be I fear to die? No, no, it can't be. It must be the cold. For revolutionists there is no rest save in the tomb, and I am going to sleep at last. There is no fear of dying - only valour. Then what do I fear for? Not seeing - not hearing -
But I see it now.
Delicate face covering a heart of fire, blue eyes contrasting fair hair; it's him. And he's not alone. Behind him, many more of us. But he leads them. He walks up to me - oh! He's walking up to me! Invites me with his eyes - the vaguest of smiles ghosting his lips. I must answer, if nothing more I must muster the breathiest whisper -
His smile grows. He stretches out his hand to me. He permits it; he permits it. I try to raise my hand, but my efforts are too feeble. I want to take his hand, press it to mine... oh, he's coming even closer now - has something to say. Leans near to me, I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. He whispers, softly, reassuringly:
I feel a smile tugging on my face. Liberté! Liberté! At last!
I try again to raise my hand, and manage to do it. I bow my head to look at it, to ascertain if I really am raising my hand - I am, it is moving, I will take his hand, and he will lead me to salv
An omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.
This message was edited by the author on September 10, 2012 at 12:23:43 AM
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