Bring Me to Life
"There is nothing like a dream to create the future." - Victor Hugo
Prologue:
Shattered glasses, broken stairs; Hopeless glances, fiery glares.
What does someone think of at the least of their hope? When everything he fought for, ended in pain. When everything he dreamt of, was dying in vain. Sacrifice. That's what he thought. That maybe when all of them were gone, few would awaken and take up their places. Regret. Maybe if he could have done better, the people would've rose; maybe if he spoke better, he would have persuaded them enough; maybe if he planned better, they wouldn't have been defeated. Maybe all of his hard work was futile.
Sounds of gunshot have made a coward of men, or so they said.
At the barricades, everyone tried their best to put on their respective brave faces. Trying to conceal, and forget everything that stood before them. Their cowardice was covered by their glares against the monarchy, and as they glance up in the sky, they could see the New Republic. They grasped the red flag and waved it, with much pride for their country. But even a brilliant man could be a fool.
How could he not have seen this?
Was he engrossed too much in his desires for the 'people'?
Had he selfishly sacrificed the lives of his friends?
Did his golden tongue do nothing but awaken their false hope?
On the top of the Café, he once stood valiantly. Being the great orator, and charismatic leader that he is; he awakened the passion of his people. But the people of Paris were too afraid. Mere words cannot help them foresee the better life. Or perhaps they were too cunning to not risk their very lives.
But wasn't it? When law becomes injustice, revolution becomes a right?
Wasn't it, when whispers die, shouts were needed to be heard?
But right now, he didn't know what to believe. Hence why, he believed in anything. The barriers that his mind closed from other opinions whether foolish or brilliant, has now opened its course. Wasn't there a saying that when you die, you'll live as another person similar to your previous life? If only that was true, he'd have another chance. Wasn't there a saying, that in heaven, the God above may give another chance to live? He was heavily relying on these, if ever they were true. For this was the first time he'd rely without evidence. So this is faith.
When the time came, and the national guards found him, he mustered up every single courage, pride and strength remaining in his body to grasp the red symbolical flag for one last time. The face of Pride and fulfillment swept across his face involuntarily as the guards released that one shot.
One shot.
One shot was all it took to send him hanging through that window. The same window where he looked upon the horizon of Paris, and nodded to himself that hope is coming; the same window, where he watched the constellations that indicated spring returning; the same window, where he fell, and hanged with the red flag in his hands, looking at the skies with his last words. Words failed to express the emotion that backed up that silent prayer.
"Long live the Republic."
Up in the sky, he had seen everything that transpired before and after the barricades. How everyone suffered. How it was not only him and the Les Amis who hoped for the better future; but they doubted. The people doubted them. The King of heaven, the king that they did not oppose, saw his sorrowful and regretful glance that was directed towards the earth.
And then there's that one day when he woke up.
He was Gabriel Enjolras.
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