So here I am, armed with nothing but a blank piece of paper, the writing tool on my right hand and my own mind. A poor team, if you ask me, to try to bring the events back to life, and I know beforehand that whatever I write in here will only be a sketch, a half cooked piece of clay, made up of distant memories and painted by nostalgia. But even this version, this far from perfect paper creation, will be better than nothing...
If I try, I think I can see him now, leaning on the table, his back to me. I can see the ruffled white fabric of his chemise, that slips down one of his shoulders and the stained bandages that part his blond hair in two. He mumbles something, suddenly raises his voice and threatens the empty space in front of him.
It's one of those nights.
From the upper part of the stairs that lead to the cellar, I watch him as I hold my candle, hoping he does not see me. I freeze as I wonder what's better, to stop him before he starts using his crutch as a sword or to turn around and fetch madame Trépat. It does not matter because in a second he turns around and chooses for me. His hand is wrapped around my wrist and it was so sudden that I'm yelling for madame, as if the roles had reversed and I was the student and he the gamin.
I can still feel his tight grasp around my wrist and see the feverish droplets that run down his bandaged forehead. But this memory, even if it seems so clear to me, is like a single note in the middle of a song, its importance cannot be fully perceived without the notes before it. So I guess this goes back, back to the fallen barricade and the shredded red and black banners on the wet streets. It goes back to the darkness, and the smell of death. To the day that shouldn't have been, but was.
A little note here!
First of all, thanks for taking a look at the story, each read means the world to me, so thank you! Second, any feedback is welcomed, positve, negative, comments, questions, just feel free to comment. The story will be mainly based on the musical and movie version, but I hope I can capture some of the nature of the story. Les Miserables, belongs to the master Victor Hugo...and greetings from Colombia.