Another remarkable phonograph in the Charles Cros Collection. It’s a combination phonograph and phonautograph custom built by Henri Lioret for the University of Paris Institute of Phonetics. It would allow the operator to make a recording on a cylinder and transcribe it to paper upon playback for visual study. It’s essentially the same purpose for which Bell made the ear phonautograph decades earlier. Neat! Browse the collection.
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Volunteer whump, guilt, remorse, stoic whumpee, compliant whumpee, medieval whump, emotional whump, public whump. More physical whump is yet to come.
Disclaimer: this wasn't meant to be seen by anyone but me, and I wanted to justify all this crazy shit done to the character, so I had him commit a crime worthy of prolonged whump.
And by prolonged I mean 20 years of daydreaming and fantasizing since I was around 16 till today as I'm 36 and just recently discovered that whump is a legitimate thing and maybe it didn't need justification other than "it's whump" . So he's done an actually bad thing.
You have been warned, he's not a good guy.
He met the villagers halfway to the woods. They walked fueled by rage, their faces grim. Many carried axes, scythes, hay pitchforks. A sight that sent a chill down Lioret's neck—those forks were meant for his teacher.
"Going to the blacksmith's?" he asked as they approached.
"Mind your business!" their leader said. He was a redhead, sun-kissed. Like her. Could this be her brother?
Lioret exhaled sharply, dug deep for courage, and said, "It wasn't him."
The redhead paused mid-step. "What?"
"It's not the blacksmith you need. It wasn't him who did this."
The villager stopped. "Who, then?"
Lioret closed his eyes for a moment. Scythe or fork? Which would pierce him first? Or would it be an axe? He silenced his reflexes. Do not fight back.
"I. It was I." He turned to face the crowd. His eyes met the redhead's—blazing with fury—with his own, dark with guilt. He thought it right to meet each of their gazes.
A heavy fist slammed into Lioret's face, sending him stumbling back a few feet. He took it without resistance. A second punch—to the stomach—folded him in half. A third—to the ear—threw him to the ground. The others closed in, showering him with kicks and punches. Lioret tried not to cover up, though he couldn't be sure he managed.
Someone grabbed him by the collar, yanked him up, and slammed his back against a tree, a pitchfork pressing into his stomach. The villageman holding it must never have killed anyone—he froze, hesitating.
Lioret instinctively reached for the fork, then forced his hands down, pressing them against the tree. He relaxed his tense stomach, and the pitchfork pressed harder, almost breaking the skin. He looked the villager in the eye.
Fork it is, then. A quick trial...
"Wait," the redhead said reluctantly. "I think ol’ Tod and Malika should see him."
"Her parents?" Lioret asked quietly, and was immediately punched in the face for it.
"You've got no right to talk about them!"
The pitchfork pulled back, though.
"Anyone got a rope?"
"I've got my belt..."
"Won't be necessary. I'll walk myself." Lioret said firmly, stepping away from the tree and toward the redhead. "Lead the way."
And that was how he entered the village—a pitchfork prodding at his back. Unnecessary, but the villagers couldn't hold their rage.
They reached the central square by the well, a crowd buzzing around them.
Death.
That was the sound of it, waiting for Lioret. They wouldn't spare him—that much was certain. For what he'd done, he wouldn't spare himself either, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. Still, he kept walking, never letting fear slow his steps.
He spotted another redhead—a middle-aged man, standing apart in the shadow of a wooden house. He wasn't joining the crowd. That had to be Marienne's father.
"I have to face him," Lioret said to his escort, his heart growing heavier. They let him go.
He walked to the doorstep, flowers blooming all around him, and felt like he didn't belong in this beautiful place. He had played this moment in his mind a hundred times, and still, he couldn't find a single word.
So he just met his eyes.
A woman stepped out of the doorway—dry as a mummy, her hair grey. Lioret turned to look at her, and that was harder than taking the pitchfork without resistance. Her eyes—two burning coals, brimming with absolute hatred—seared a pitch-black wound into his soul. He dropped his head, his eyes stinging. Then bowed, then knelt, then went down on all fours, and lower still—until his forehead touched the ground. And then he wept silently.
There was nothing to say. He didn't ask for forgiveness, because he didn't seek it, and because he couldn't even bring himself to imagine Marienne's parents finding it in their hearts to grant him any. He had returned to this village seeking justice, not absolution.
"I curse you," the woman's voice came, lifeless. "However long you have yet to live, may it never be easy, and may it never be happy."
Two pairs of footsteps retreated into the house. The door closed softly.
Lioret stayed there for a long moment, pinned to the ground by remorse. Then he stood, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and gathered the shattered pieces of his composure. When he turned back to the bloodthirsty crowd, his face was hard again.
Il mare se ne frega è pieno di se, la pioggia lo sfiora appena.. questo mare se ne frega, è grande e pieno di se, la pioggia lo sfiora appena.. mica è come me, il mare se ne frega.. mica è come me che morirei per te... #snapshot #drama #movie #Welcome #2009 #Lioret #Lindon #rap #ilmaresenefrega #Onemic #Raige
