𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃, joseph descamps

𝟎𝟎𝟖. cold on the skin, fire in the heart

LIKE EVERY MORNING, Joseph wakes up to the shrill sound of his alarm. He groans and painfully sits up in bed, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. Automatically, he reaches for the eye patch on his bedside table and places it over his eye — a habit that has become second nature since the accident.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking his head in his hands. A throbbing migraine pounds at his temples, likely due to the strain on his functioning eye, which constantly compensates. Even the slightest visual effort seems to worsen the pain, and he knows today won't be easy. Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to get up and start getting ready.

His mother, an early riser as always, is already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. "Good morning, my angel," she says with a warm smile.

"Morning', Mom," he replies, sitting down at the table. He grabs a buttered slice of bread and starts eating without much enthusiasm.

His mother notices his lack of appetite and tired appearance right away. "Another migraine ?" she asks, a hint of concern in her voice.

"Yeah," he answers simply, avoiding lingering on the subject. He knows she worries about him, and he doesn't want to add to her concerns.

"Maybe you should stay home today. Get some rest," she suggests, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"No, I'll be fine. I don't want to miss class."

She nods, respecting his decision, but the anxiety in her eyes is obvious. "Alright, but take some painkillers with you, just in case."

Once he's ready, he leaves the house, his eye patch firmly in place and his bag slung over his shoulder. The morning air is crisp, but he knows the migraine won't fade that easily. As he walks towards school, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket, hoping it might help him relax a bit.

Just as he's about to light it, he spots a familiar head of red hair in the distance. There's something captivating about her hair, something unique that inevitably draws attention. He puts the cigarette back in his pocket and quickens his pace to catch up with her.

"Hey, redhead," he calls out as he reaches her side, hoping to surprise her.

She jumps slightly and turns to face him. "You scared me."

He smiles, satisfied with his effect. "So, have you made up your mind ?"

"Not yet," she responds coolly. She hasn't forgotten the words he said to her the day before, far from it.

Joseph feels a twinge of irritation beneath his persistent headache. He had hoped for a more direct answer, maybe even a sign of reconciliation after their tense exchange the previous day. "You still don't know ?" he insists, trying to mask his growing frustration.

She shrugs lightly. "I'm taking my time to think."

Joseph sighs, feeling his patience wearing thin. "Of course, you always take your time, don't you ?"

She narrows her eyes, detecting the hint of sarcasm in his voice. "And you ? Always in a rush to control everything ?"

Her remark stings more than he cares to admit. "That's not what I mean."

She crosses her arms, her green eyes piercing into his. "Then what exactly do you mean ?"

Joseph bites his lower lip, searching for the right words. He knows he hurt her with his words yesterday, but his pride keeps him from openly apologizing. "I mean that—"

She cuts him off, shaking her head slightly. "You're so full of yourself, Descamps. That's what annoys me the most."

"I don't want you to think I'm arrogant."

"You know, sometimes you seem so focused on your own ambitions that you forget about everyone else."

He lowers his gaze, realizing the truth in her words. "I didn't mean to—"

She interrupts softly. "It's okay. We don't need to settle everything right now."

He wants to tell her that he's willing to change, to be different, but the words seem to get stuck in his throat.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "I have to go."

In the afternoon, after a morning where tensions lingered between them like dark clouds, Aimée walks into the classroom where Madame Giraud is already waiting for the students. Joseph watches her from his desk.

She stands before the class, her red hair glowing under the soft afternoon light, her gaze sweeping over the attentive faces. "After careful consideration, I've made my decision. I choose Henri Pichon to be our class representative this year."

A slight murmur of approval ripples through the classroom, some students nodding in satisfaction. Joseph feels a surge of pent-up anger. He had hoped Aimée would place her trust in him despite everything, but she had made a decision that seemed final.

Madame Giraud steps forward. "Thank you, Aimée, for your choice. I'm sure Pichon will make an excellent class representative."

She nods with a faint smile, then turns to return to her seat. As she passes by Joseph's desk, she glances in his direction. Their eyes meet briefly.

Why him ? Why didn't she choose me ? These questions spin through his mind, fueling his growing irritation. He knows his emotions are heightened by his lingering migraine, but that only adds to his frustration.

He recalls their exchange the previous day, the words exchanged under the weight of accumulated fatigue and tension. He had said things he now regretted, but his pride keeps him from making the first move to apologize.

He clenches his fists, feeling the migraine throb behind his eye patch. Why does this matter so much to him ? Why can't he just let it go and focus on his own things ? The answer eludes him, buried beneath layers of pride.

At the end of the day, he can no longer hold back his frustration. As the other students leave the classroom, chatting excitedly about their weekend plans, he rushes over to Aimée, who is gathering her things.

She turns slowly, a slight sigh of resignation escaping her lips. Her eyes meet his, and she immediately senses his anger. "What now, Descamps ?" she asks in a calm tone, though her eyes reveal a hint of annoyance.

"Why Pichon ?" he snaps, his voice laden with frustration.

Aimée frowns, bracing herself for the confrontation. "I don't see why that's a problem for you."

He steps closer to her, his hands clenching into tight fists. "Because you should've chosen someone better, someone more competent. Not that—"

"That what ?" she interrupts, her tone rising slightly. "That fat guy ? Is that the word you're looking for ?"

Joseph stifles a sigh of frustration. His persistent migraine and the bitterness of feeling rejected have worn down his patience.

She shakes her head slowly. "I didn't choose Henri because he's perfect or because he's my friend. I chose him because I believe he has the potential to make a difference, even if he doesn't meet your standards."

He feels a mountain of frustration building inside him. "And what about me ? Don't you think I could be a good class representative ?"

Aimée sighs, her expression softening slightly. "It's not personal, Joseph. It's just... different."

"You really don't get it, do you ?"

She looks down for a moment before answering softly. "Maybe I understand more than you think. But you never let me see that side of you."

The silence between them is heavy with unresolved tension. Finally, Joseph turns abruptly and walks away without another word.