(This is the first part of a possibly longer story. I don't have time to write more today, but if there's interest, I'll probably add something. Thanks to @cheeri1yfrancis for inspiration.)
Three days after the execution of the Dantonists, Saint-Just entered my room as if nothing had happened and asked such useless questions. As if he didn't know that there was a deep, unhealable hole in my heart, as if I hadn't bled from it for days.
Ever since I heard the carts carrying the condemned pass by… Ever since I knew I would never see him again. My dear Camille was dead. I closed my eyes tightly. I wanted to be dead too. It was our fault. Mine, because I had let it happen, because I had failed to convince him to… but that didn't matter now. And his, because he had sought Camille's death, even though he knew it would kill me.
For the republic. To save it, What more must I do? What more must I sacrifice?
“Go away, Antoine,” I whispered without looking at him.
He didn't listen. Instead, I felt him sit down on my bed. I could imagine the uncertain look on his face. How could he not understand me at all?
“What’s wrong, Maxime?” he placed his hand on my arm and squeezed gently, as if to force me to open my eyes.
“I don’t want to see you. Not now,” I pulled away and turned to the wall.
Saint-Just didn’t move for a moment, just looking at me in confusion, but then he slowly got up. He took a few hesitant steps toward the door and then stopped.
“Did I do something wrong? Did I offend you in any way?” he asked quietly.
“Please leave me alone,” I said again, waiting motionless until I heard the door slam.
I could no longer hold back the tears that now rolled freely and unstoppably down my cheeks.
dededos
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
titsay
origamiaround
