(A/N: Me=not Victor Hugo. You=already know that. Disclaimer=unnecessary.)
"Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices
I've heard them calling my name"
"Jehan...Jehan..." Voices. He is hearing them again. He curls up into a small ball and covers his head with the blanket in a futile attempt to escape. They beckon him, call him. He can no longer resist. He rises from his bed, pulls on his boots and worn jacket, and ventures out into the night.
The cold night air hits his face like a hard slap. Wincing, he carefully closes the door behind him and locks it. He pauses for a moment and gazes up at the night sky, taking in all its beauty, all its glory. Had this been any other time, he would take out the small notebook and pencil he always keeps in his jacket pocket, sat on the cobblestones, and wrote a poem. There is no time for that tonight; and he knows this all too well.
He smiles wistfully and begins walking. He doesn't know where his feet are taking him and frankly, he doesn't care. After walking in his trance-like state for about nearly 20 minutes, he finds himself at the cemetery.
He wanders among the rows of graves until one pulls him back. He squats to the ground and runs his fingers over the inscription. "Adelaide Prouvaire. 1781-1815. A caring mother and a devoted wife." Underneath the marble words is a carving of an angel. He smiles faintly, trying to remember his mother. He was four or five when she died. The memories of her are few, and blurred by the passing of time. Eventually he gives up and simply collapses to the ground.
"Maman, do you remember me? Your son, Jehan? I'm a man now, Maman. It is surprising how fast time can pass, is it not? I still write poetry. Do you? Yours was always so much better than mine. I've greatly improved, however. Oh! I have joined a group called l'Amis de ABC. We believe France should be a republic of the people. What do you think of that, Maman? Your shy little boy a revolutionary!" Here he pauses and looks at the sky. "I suppose it is time I go, Maman. I love you." A single tear trickles down his cheek as he blows the gravestone a kiss.
Walking home, he feels refreshed. A broad grin spreads across his pale face as he begins to sing softly. He remembers one thing about his mother. She loved to sing. She was horrible, he reflects, but she loved it. He loved it too. He would take out his flute and play and his mother would join in, her voice gravelly and out of tune.
He reaches the door of his home and lets himself in. Lying on his bed, he imagines he can hear his mother singing to him. His eyes flutter closed as he drifts off to sleep, lulled by his mother's voice.
(A/N: So? What did you think? Should I write more fics or should I burn at the stake? And oh, I don't own the song up there. I forgot who does...)