'Monsieur, here, let me help you. I—' Pain.
What is this?
Blood.
What of the revolution? Of Alexandre?
'We mustn't kill him.' 'Leave me alone.'
'Citizens, can you conceive of the future?'
'Will no-one go?'
'Life is the hideous invention of someone I don't know.'
'Vive la future! Vive la France!'
Memories…
Alexandre was always the light, carefree one, while Luce was always darker, more subdued. He looked as if he carried a burden on his small back… Then something happened. Alexandre, like Siddhartha, saw the real world. Saw suffering. Saw death.
'Why do the children cry?' Luce, a child no older than he, had no answer.
After that, Alexandre had stopped. He stopped laughing. He stopped having people call him by his nicknames. He said they were childish.
He, like Luce had before him, found a new reality in books. Like Luce, books were his other world, a place he could escape to when times got too hard, when reality overwhelmed him. He read more and more every day.
Alexandre doesn't read anymore.
(This came as a shocking realization to Luce. This was the stark truth, that they had grown apart since old times…)
Alexandre and Luce sat outside, in the cool shade of a weeping willow tree, each reading. They were both in their early teens, 12, 13. Both were absorbed in their reading. Suddenly, Luce looked up.
'Alexandre?' The other boy looked up.
'Yes, Luce? What's wrong?' For Luce did, indeed, look vaguely ill.
'I've been thinking. You know, in church, they always tell us about God, how great He is, how He punishes sinners, all this. But really, who is God? We have no proof of Him. A while ago, a few months, I don't know, I asked ma mère the same question, "Who is God?" and she said "God? Mon chère, you know this. He is the creator, the King, the All-Mighty." And I asked, "How do you know He exists?" And do you know what she said? "Of course He exists. There is proof of Him everywhere. In nature—the trees, flowers, rain. In the sun. In you, in all life is proof of His existence. Go play outside, mon chère." Of course I did, but what kind of answer is this?' Luce paused and took a few deep breaths, flushed from his tirade.
Alexandre looked up at his friend for several moments, looking concerned.
'You think there's something wrong with me, too, don't you, old friend.' Luce used the usually nice sounding title almost spitefully. 'No-one ever questions anything.'
Alexandre looked pained by his friend's tirade, but Luce continued nonetheless. 'Do you know why I read? To get away. I hate this world, I hate all of the people acting like ants, going to work, going home, the exact same routine every single day.' Luce was getting more and more carried away by his insane rant. 'No-one ever questions anything anymore. I read philosophy books because these dead men seem to be the only people with any sense in them.' He paused, and Alexandre took the opportunity to speak in this small silence.
'You think that I don't philosophize? You are wrong, Luce. Our government, look at it! We are being controlled by terrible tyrants. If only we had a republic, we—Luce?'
Luce had turned his head away, and when Alexandre moved to his friend's side he could see that Luce was crying. Luce looked at Alexandre, scanning his sympathetic face for any trace of mockery. There was none. Then Luce realised something—Alexandre never cries. For it was true, Luce had never seen his friend cry.
I have only seen Alexandre cry once since then.
'He could be your brother.'
(Luce looked at the sky.)
It has grown so dark...
(He closed his eyes, with one last thought.)
God, if you exist, please let me tell Alexandre. May I? He has always wanted to know...
(A bout of pain washed over him.)
Darkness.