The Poet and the Center

Jehan walked through the lonesome streets at around midnight. Crying to himself. He personally could not take anymore criticism. Grantaire always rambled about how feminine Jehan was when Grantaire was drunk. He would call him names like "Faggot" and "Gay" but the second one was actually quite true. It was Courfeyrac who first got Jehans attention when he went to his first meeting. He seemed so friendly and Jehan later found that he was the biggest flirt and socialite there.

A tear ran down Jeans face. He was walking aimlessly, toward his own house. He got home, finally. He took a look at his wrists. They were not the perfectly smooth ones he had two years ago. They were mangled and scratched. The scissors he used couldn't nearly do enough damage as a blade. But it did the deed. He grabbed them from the kitchen cabinet and kept hacking away. One for every bad name. That would be four for that day. 6 for the day before, and 9 for the day before that. It hurt like hell but it wasn't the real him acting this way. The depressed part of his brain went into overdrive and was continuing this harm. A tear fell down his cheek as he made his last cut.

He quickly washed the blood off in the sink. He saw the blood and became just a little dizzy. He was obviously the most squeamish of the group. He stumbled over to his bed and lay down before he fainted. He quickly regained his sight. He put on a large sweatshirt so no one could see. He lied down in bed and went to sleep.

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Jehan stayed like this for the next week and a half. He didn't go to class. He didn't go to the meetings. He only got out of bed when he absolutely needed to. He took a shower every other day. His cat, charlotte, was jehans only company. And if it weren't for Courfeyrac, these actions would have gone on for quite some time. The poet preferred it that way. He didn't need to go through the drama of dealing with Grantaire. He didn't like the way Taire talked to him. He always criticized about the flowers on his clothing and in his hair. That of which carefully woven into a braid usually by cosette and rarely Courfeyrac. Jehan managed to keep it in the loose braid through that whole lonely time.

He wore the oversized sweaters and pajama pants. They didn't match, but matching was never one of jehans priorities. It was more of courfeyracs specialty. The cold December days called for this type of clothing.

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"WHAT THE HELL R?" Courfeyrac yelled. Jehan had just left after the fight. R shrugged it off. Courf sat down in defeat. They sat in silence until Enjolras began a tirade over how they needed to stay together and keep going. "You know he cuts." Courfeyrac hissed while the others usual banter picked back up. Grantaire looked away as if to dismiss the fooling conversation. This made Courfeyac really angry. He added "And it's because of you." before pushing his chair back angrily, causing the others to look. He stormed out of the café. Grantaire tried to soak up that information. He just sat there, staring at the empty bottle that was filled with absinthe just a few minutes ago.

Courfeyrac knew better than to go straight to Jehans house. He thought that he would be at school. Courfeyrac was wrong. Prouvaire did not show up to his classes the next morning. Nor did he show at the meeting that night. It worried everyone, especially Courfeyrac and combeferre. Through that whole week and a half, Courfeyrac would slide cookies under jehans door. Each of them had an icing letter on them, spelling "D-O-N-T-C-U-T" but he felt like Jehan wouldn't notice. So he at the T and C so it spelled donut.

What really worried Courf was that he didn't even show up to the poetry classes.