Children of the Barricade

Did you see them, lying where they died?

Someone used to cradle them, and kiss them when they cried.


The Chief (Word count: 668)

With a stony face and a hardened heart, he approached the man, the leader of this rebellion, as he laid hanging out of the window, his blonde hair blowing in the breeze, the damned red flag still in his hand.

He had killed this traitor to his country. He had done his duty. He should feel glad. Accomplished. Proud.

But his heart felt different.

Enjolras. The leader in red.

But he had known him more personally as Antoine. As the boy who lived down the street. As the boy who was both his best friend, and his greatest nemesis.

Their fathers had been businessmen together, their mothers friends. He was only a few months older than Antoine, and had known each other since the blonde boy was born.

Their lives had started off very similarly. Born into rich families, doting mothers, and busy fathers. Both only children. They went to primary school together. Despite their opposite features of light and dark hair, they had been inseparable and often confused for twins.

As he looked out the window at childhood friend, it almost seemed as if the wrinkles disappeared from Antoine's face and reversed in time to be that child he grew up with once more.

He had to turn away to fight the feeling of bile creeping up his throat.

The man he had killed was no longer his friend, his brother. He was a rebel. A traitor. And he had to pay for his transgressions.

They had remained friends until secondary school. While he had reveled in the socialite circle and impressing ladies, Antoine retreated to the library to his precious books and essays.

Antoine never had to try to get the girls to notice him. They simply flocked to him and his angelic looks while he slaved away in the library oblivious to the attention.

He, on the other hand, had to work hard to get a girl to look at him twice.

Antoine had everything come easy to him, yet didn't want it.

He resented him for it.

When Antoine left for the University, and he for training to join the National Guard, their friendship that had already been fraying with time, broke completely. He had heard of Antoine's revolutionary ideas and knew that from then on, they were on opposite sides of the impending war.

He walked away from the window and looked down at the other men, lying dead on the floor. He briefly wondered if these boys had replaced him in Antoine's life; if these boys were Antoine's friends, his brothers, the way he himself once was.

He clenched his jaw as he felt his stomach turn.

He descended the stairs walking past more bodies, realizing for the first time how young these boys were.

He himself was one of the younger National Guard officers, but could not let the others know that his stomach was weak.

As he walked through the entrance of the café, the red flag brushed against his shoulder, giving him chills.

He paused once more to look at Antoine… No, at Enjolras. He could not allow himself to associate the rebel with Antoine, his former best friend. To him, they seemed to be almost completely different people.

He wondered how two people who had grown up together had ended up in such different situations. He wondered if Madame Enjolras had heard the news yet. He wondered if he might have to be the one to tell her the news. That her son was a traitor. That he was dead.

That it was he who killed him.

When he was finally relieved of duty, he rushed home, shut the door behind him, stripped out of his uniform, and began packing.

He wrote a hasty note to be sent out in the morning. He needed to take a few days off from duty.

He needed to clear his mind and soul of these plaguing thoughts.

He needed to go back to his childhood home.

To his and Antoine's home.