This was actually my District Narrative Writing Assessmant for school. The instructions were "Rewrite part of a novel or story in a different character's point of view." So this is what happened. A tragic homosexual love story. Of sorts.
Zedelghem, Bruges, Belgium
1931
Dearest Robert,
I am writing this in the bathroom of your room at the hotel. I cry as I write, looking at you from across the tile. You're almost cold, all the life and spirit almost drained out. The clouds are all gone now. But as I glance to the window I can see new ones coming. Or maybe the same ones, in a new form. I suppose I should tell you just how I came to be here, I suppose. In case you wondered.
Five O'clock this morning I rushed down the Belgian streets, the cool air whipping my face. Hurriedly looked at the passing buildings as I ran, my mind racing. Robert, Robert, where are you? I know you're here… Above the town the clouds were shifting and swirling, a vortex of ever-changing matter. Never the same… Transcending all life. My eyes caught on a sign. "Hotel". Robert! Pushed open the doors with a great strength I never knew I possessed. Flew up to the counter.
"Where is he?! Robert Frobisher, the room!"
I know I must have looked like a madman- an English gentleman, all wide-eyed and frantic, shouting and flailing. You would have found it hilarious, me the out of control one.
"Room- room 216", the manager stammered in heavily accented English.
Rushed up the stairwell, heart hammering. Heart a gunshot, loud and piercing. I stopped. All of me, my heart, my breathing, my mind. Seconds passed. Restart. No, no, no, no! Continued up the stairs at a pace even you could be pressed to outdo. 213, 214, 215- There! Kicked the door open, I vaguely heard it slam against the wall.
Called franticly for you. "Robert! Robert!"
Glanced through the kitchenette and the bedroom. You weren't there. Saw the bathroom, ran to it. Opened the door. You were there, are still there in the bathtub holding a Luger. Towel wrapped around your head. Blood. There's still blood flowing out of you, streaming down the wall, congealing on the floor. I can't remember when I started crying- the stairs, the main room, when I saw you? I kneeled down beside you, and cradled your head in my arms. You were still warm. The clock on the wall said 5:05. Outside the window the clouds were moving, turning to wisps of smoke, crossing the sky to places unknown. Sat there with you held against me for about fifteen minutes.
I left the bathroom, placing you back in the bathtub. I looked around the room. On your dresser was a sheet of music. The Cloud Atlas Sextet. You and I both know very well how abysmal I am at music. But I looked at those notes and felt something inside me stir. I don't know what it is or what it means. But I do know, staring at your lifeless body, all the soul gone from it, that death is just a boundary. And as you always said, 'All boundaries are conventions waiting to be transcended.' Our souls will cross the ages like the clouds cross the sky. And even if we change our shapes and sizes and beings, we will still be the same, just like clouds.
All my love,
Rufus Sixsmith.