Desperate Sacrifices

Paris, France. 1790

December 29, 1790. Paris, France. A young girl stumbled on a stone, her barefoot getting cut on its sharp edges. Her straggly brown hair slightly held back by a filth-covered bonnet flew up and her cheeks, covered in grime and tears stains and hollowed out like the rest of her slender figure, hit the cobblestone road. She tried to catch herself, but her arms were shaking too much and couldn't even support her own frail body. A sharp thud echoed on the street as the child's head slapped the pavement. Her eyes turned dull, and she let out one last breath as she crippled into a ball and left her unfair world.

Carriages and horses kept speeding past the corpse. After getting rained on and dirtied, a frantic woman saw the body and sped towards it, her slippered feet slapping and sliding on the road until she reached the dead child. An old man dressed in a coat with brass buttons and wool cloth peered out of an alley to gaze upon the sobbing woman over the carcass of the child. He shook his head and pulled his hat down as he walked across the road and entered a small building. A coat rack was empty until he dropped his own hat and coat on it.

I know this man very well. In fact, this man is me. Everyday, I saw horrible deaths of starvation and illness. Revolts against the justice system happened all the time, and I had took part in a few. It was the least I could do, but I hadn't much life left in me to help anymore.

My breath became steam when I exhaled, so I grabbed some wood and threw it in the fireplace. The logs shook the wall, and my matches fell from the mantel. I picked them up, lit one, and threw it on the wood. Flames burst up, and my skin tingled from the new warmth on it. I sat in a chair, and its wooden legs creaked as I leaned back.

Rain started to cover the sidewalk. I looked out my small window and saw some young men coming out of an inn. Their faces were sullen, and I was confused at first, but then saddened when I saw them holding muskets and swords. No. Not more pain.

I heard a knocking on my door. I rose to get it, and saw one of the men at my window. As I opened the door, I was almost certain I knew what was to come. They wanted to recruit me in their fight. A worthless, and pathetic fight that didn't benefit them in anyway. Just out of kindness. I peered out my open door at the makeshift soldiers.

"Monsieur, we have come to ask for service in the Revolution. Please. Help us fight for these bedraggled and starving people," one of the college boys said. I slowly nodded, and headed for my coat and hat. I opened a small closet and grabbed my revolver and musket. The young man's face was surprised that I obliged to his desperate offer so quickly. I joined the gathering of citizens on the street, everyone with stern faces and wet hair, glued to thin faces.

The boy that knocked on my door stood up on a soapbox, his vest dragging his shirt and his shoulders down to his sides. "Thank you for coming to fight. The army will be nothing if we become united against this tyranny of oppressing law and judgement!" he exalted. A chorus of cheers came up from the congregation. I tilted my head down, realizing these people knew not what their fate would most likely become. I could imagine the sight from the last time I stood in a crowd like this. Bodies, and blood covered the streets. But then I went back to my home, and spoke no more of that tragedy.

"The army is coming; get your weapons ready!" shouted the leader of the gathered students. I ran behind a group of boxes and cradled my musket on top. A silence covered the streets as everyone prepared their minds and bodies for a fight. Marching. Scattering of water. The army was coming to stop the poor's last chance of mercy and a new beginning.

Military coated men came down the street, and suddenly stopped when that young man, just a college student, stood proudly on his wooden crate and screamed, "Fire at will!" Shots ran through my ears and the smell of gunpowder filled my nose. Everything was muffled, and my head was ringing as I just sat there. My musket's barrel pointed at no soldier in particular. I have no notion of how long my stupor lasted, but finally I shot at one soldier, and he quickly fell to the ground. Why killing. Too much blood and death and pain. I thought. The gutters were filled will scarlet water, and I could almost taste the metallic eradication in my mouth, the air reeked of it so. I suddenly heard a cry of pain that brought me to my senses and glanced over my shoulder. A motionless body rolled off the crates. It was that school boy.

My visions seemed to focus on everything behind me. More than just that young man were dead. There were at least a dozen men crippled on the ground, some dead, and others fatally wounded. I realized that there was no need to waste lives like this.

The firing suddenly stopped as I climbed onto the wooden crates piled in front of me. I held my gun aloft my head, and spoke directly to the army. "Please stop this madness. Enough have been hurt. Leave us in peace, or go to your graves knowing you killed dozens of innocent people, just trying to help the poor you seem to think are the dirt of the street. We surrender."

The armies guns were lowered to the ground, and a man with an elaborated coat and a grim face looked me in the eye and proclaimed, "You may gather your dead and return to your homes. We have no sympathy for you. Your cause is weak, and you want to die for something so feeble. Leave, and return to your homes." He turned around and ordered his men to leave. It was late evening when we started fighting, but then the clouds left and revealed a sky, full of stars and a full moon. The poor, wet, and bloodied individuals were sitting down in the pools of blood and rainwater. I helped them get to their feet, and together we all took the bodies and put them in the alleyways. I saw so many of those young men dead, glimpses of my memory of that same situation, but other corpses haunted me once again.

After a little while, many young women came and started sobbing when they saw the dead men. I slowly walked past them, and headed back for my home, to forget about the situation. But a stern reminder came to me when I stepped in one of the puddles on the street. Fighting is not something to be wanted, but has to be had. You can't forget, but you can remember and help when you are given the chance. Maybe one day. Maybe one day this fighting could be worth something and not just cruel bloodshed. But I knew not when that day would come. I only hoped that I could be there to see it from my small windows. Maybe one day I could be part of this revolt and help.