This one is an original prompt of mine, but it's dedicated to my friend. I created this in like ten minutes so I really am sorry that it's super short!


Blood. All he could see was blood. As he looked around, he can see lots of blood on the floor.

A pounding headache hit him, obviously an effect of the drinking. For a moment he couldn't remember what had happened and why he was there.

Then he remembered everything. The revolution, the barricade. Éponine and Gavroche and the traitor. Marius. Enjolras. He saw the bodies of his friends on the floor-Joly, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Jehan, everyone.

His eyes scanned the room, looking at the blood flooding the floor and the chairs and tables. Then his eyes reached the window.

No, he thought, no. This can't be. Kill me. Not him, he thought, It shouldn't be him. Enjolras, the leader. The one who wanted this to happen. It has to be a dream. It can't be real.

Grantaire ran down the stairs, calling out names of his friends. Enjolras, Joly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Bossuet. Jehan, Combeferre, Bahorel, Feuilly. As Grantaire walked out, he looked up to the window and saw his face. It's him. It's not a dream. Enjolras' face lay hanging from the window. Lifeless, emotionless.

Enjolras, the face of the revolution.

Enjolras, the fiery spirit.

Enjolras, the one he looked up to the most.

Enjolras, the one who worked hard to change France.

Enjolras, dead.

And the revolution died with him.


Thoughts? Comments? Feedback?