Chapter 1: How the Story Should Have Ended
The other tenants of the building murmured among themselves regarding the strange, melancholy man that rented the apartment on the fourth floor. From what the tenants could observe in the few times that they had seen the man, he was quite young, not yet thirty, and seemed to be alone in the world. He stood apart from the other single men in Paris in that no one entered his apartment save him; no friends, no coworkers, no women designed to combat the loneliness that seemed to consume him. He came and went quietly, infrequently, and always at night.
One night, at about 9 o'clock, the little boy who lived with his mother and sister two doors down from the mysterious man sat in the passageway, bouncing a ball against the wall. He caught his ball tightly in his hand when he heard the rattling of the man's door, followed by the appearance of the man. He was dressed in a long, somewhat worn, black coat, and his head was covered by a hat. He locked the door behind him and turned, about to walk past the boy.
"Monsieur!"
The young man stopped, as if startled by the sound. Seeing that there was nothing to do but respond, he replied, "Yes?" in a voice that seemed as if it had long been unused.
"What is your name?" the boy asked, staring up at the man with wide blue eyes, shining in their innocence and youth.
The man laughed, a dry, weary chuckle. "Christian. My name is Christian. And yours?"
"It's Jean-Pierre. What do you do, Monsieur Christian?" the boy asked, proud of himself for his use of the formal address.
Christian looked down at the small boy and replied, "I am a writer."
"What do you write? Newspapers? Poems?"
"I write tragedies," he said, with a note of finality in his voice. The child looked at him with question but he couldn't bear to elaborate. The boy was no older than six years old. Let him believe that there were still fairytales in the world.
"Bon nuit, Jean-Pierre," Christian said, almost kindly, and walked past the boy, down the stairs, and out into the night.
Christian walked alone through the streets of his neighborhood, a less-than-safe prospect for a man who cared even a little about self-preservation. Nevertheless, Christian remained untouched, as if the vagrants and thieves who roamed Paris knew that the young man had nothing worth taking. He moved carelessly, walking slowly, with no concern for the things that went on around him. He stopped when he reached the local bar, a shady establishment that comforted Christian nonetheless.
"Christian!" the bartender exclaimed when the young man entered the bar and sat down on a stool at the counter.
"Raoul," Christian acknowledged him, removing his hat and placing it beside him.
"What'll it be tonight?" the large, gregarious bartender asked, getting a glass ready for his customer.
"An absinthe, tonight, please." Christian said, with a touch of weariness.
"Writer's block again?" Raoul asked as he prepared the drink.
"But of course," Christian assented with a smile.
"You know, Christian, there is more to life than writing and drinking. There are hundreds of girls in this city who would be glad to keep you company for a night- for a price of course," the bartenders suggested, placing the drink in front of the young man.
"No," Christian said, pain ringing out in his voice, and he had to suddenly clutch at his glass to keep his composure.
"Just a suggestion, mon ami," Raoul defended himself, lifting his hands apologetically. Christian nodded, taking a generous sip of the absinthe. Raoul, as a bartender, could never take a hint. "Tell me, Christian, what made you this way?" Christian looked at him blankly.
"Do you really want to know?" the young man asked quietly, glancing at his hands.
"I have all night."
Christian began to speak, his voice steadying and growing in conviction and strength. "Five years ago I came to this city as a young and naïve man. I was in search of employment, adventure, and most of all, love. I found these things, and the greatest love I could have ever known. She was beautiful, but the word does her no justice, and can't possibly convey her grace, poise, confidence, and the joy behind her genuine smile. We met quite by accident, a misunderstanding if you will, but something undeniable and electric formed between us, and I was able to convince a woman who made her living by deceiving men to think that she loved them to believe in real, true love. Romantic, no?" He paused to take another sip of his drink, and for once, Raoul did not speak.
"We engaged in an unlikely affair, but I truly loved her, and I know that she loved me. We had to hide our love from her employer and mine, but for once in her life, she was worth something to someone, and she became my whole world. For the first time, she wasn't pretending. Maybe we were too happy. I grew jealous, how could I not? How could I allow a man to look at her, touch her, in lust, when I did the same and was so much in love? We fought, and she left to save me, but I didn't know. What a love story. There was a touching, heart-wrenching scene of reunion, and then, we should have ridden off into the sunset together."
Suddenly, Christian slammed his fist down on the table and raised his voice, startling the bartender and causing heads to turn. "That's how the story should have ended!" His voice echoed in the silence of the bar, and the young man drew in a ragged, painful breath. His hand shook as he raised the glass to his lips, and his eyes shone in the dim light. Raoul waited for him to speak, not daring to interrupt. After several minutes of silence, Christian began again, not raising his eyes from the glass. "She was sick. I never even knew. I thought nothing of her coughing, just tiredness, or some dust in the air. She didn't know how bad it was, how little time we had. She died in my arms." A sob slipped out of his lips, tears falling unchecked down his cheeks. "She begged me to go on, to tell our story. But after knowing what it's like to no longer be alone, to live for someone else- I don't think she really knew this thing she asked me to do." Christian was silent again, his shoulders trembling slightly in the aftermath of his sobs. It became clear that there was nothing more to be said and in his silence Raoul saw the past five years of Christian's life flash before his eyes, and he pitied him. What a shame that such an earnest, passionate young man was left like this, a mere shell of his former self.
"Here, mon ami. Another absinthe, on me." And that was all that the bartender, the only semblance of a friend that Christian had, could offer him. Christian wordlessly finished his drink and departed, nodding to Raoul as he left. He returned to his barely furnished apartment and sat down to write a play about betrayal and death, with no mention of that thing called love.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review as it definitely encourages me to continue! I appreciate any kind of reviews, especially constructive ones. Tell me what I did right and what I did wrong! Thanks