The fatal shots rang out, and when the smoke cleared the enormity of his actions became clear. The sunlight streamed down through the broken wooden slats onto the bodies lying on the floor. Silence enveloped the living as they stared for a few moments, overwhelmed by the sudden feeling of guilt that had breezed over them, along with the final expelled air from the last members of Les Amis de l'ABC.
The shining Apollo, bathed in the light of the lord, lay upon the dusty floorboards, soaked in his own cooling blood, while his loyal servant and brother, whose last breath had been tinged with alcohol, lay strewn across his legs.
The sergeant could admire his 'work' no longer, and so he turned his back on the dead and left the scene without another word. His fellow National Guardsmen watch him leave, still silently watching the dead corpses as if expecting them to rise once more with the cries of 'vive le France!' and 'Revolution!' Unlike their sergeant, they felt little sorrow and remorse at the act they had just committed; for them, it was a typical day in the life of a French guardsman. They had done their job, quashed the talk of revolution and were free to leave, leaving the mess for the peasants of the street to clear up. Scrubbing away at rivers of blood, sweat, splinters and gunpowder while the tears silently dripped and splashed onto the worn cobbles they worked hard to clean. Yet the memories of that fateful day would never be removed, no matter how hard they scrubbed away; the street would still remember- the people would still remember the brutality, the slaying of innocent babes who had left the breast of their mothers but a moment ago.
Images still flickered on the insides of his eyelids, haunting him with every step he took away from the crumbling café. He halted, dull eyes lowered to inspect the crumbs of white plaster and black soot of gunpowder that decorated his bright blue uniform. The sergeant raised a trembling hand, and with each well-aimed flick of the callused fingertips, he attempted to flick the memories away as well.
They entered the café below, the dead men quivering upstairs. Above their heads, the gentle creak of floorboards issued from the feet of frightened men. He ordered them to point the barrels of their guns upwards. The command had barely left his lips when the flash of light and deafening bang had rang out. There were screams cut short, tongues stayed as bullets hit their intended mark. Heavy thuds shook the dust from the floorboards, causing it to rain down upon their heads. They paused, and yet heard four feet shuffling above. The sergeant held his breath, and proceeded up the broken staircase.