A Letter

To Alexander

Dearest, Alexander,

I am afraid my country has made a grave mistake, though, grave may not be the most appropriate of words at this time. We have unleashed something terrible.
I have previously informed you that since helping the colonies gain independence, France has fallen into a state of turmoil. Though, I do not believe I ever told you of The Bastille. This prison, despite only holding seven prisoners, has long acted as a symbol of abused, tyrannical power.

Today, we gathered around the prison mid-morning. We initially asked for the surrender of the facility. But, after two negators were sent in and hours passed, the crowd became restless. Events escalated. We surged, taking the prison. If only we had known the true secrets inside, perhaps we would not have been so eager to gain entrance.
Gunfire began and even though the majority of us had never fired a gun in our lives, we seemed to be coming out on top due to number alone.

That is when it truly began.

We should have turned back. We should have heeded the guards' desperate warnings. But, in moments such as that, the only thoughts in your head are of your goal and how alive you feel.

I heard the screams first.

Fellow raiders were turning back by then. They tried to warn us as well, calling us fools for not listening. We took them as cowards.

How right they were.

Next, came the smell. This awful, putrid smell that invades your nostrils and will not be evicted.

It smelled of rotten meat, blood, and excretion. That was when more of us began to run. My naivety could have gotten me killed...or worse. Oh, how lucky I am to be alive right now.

I was wrestling with a fat fellow for a gun that a companion had dropped when I spotted one of them. A grotesque sight that I am afraid will scar my brain for the rest of my life, however long that may be.

It was a hobbled man with a crooked back first. Open sores and boils covered his pale skin. I remember one of the boils popping. The yellow pus, filled with odd lumps, rolled down his skin, oddly reminding me of cream you would place in a dessert. This occurred after a bullet struck him while he tore off the arm of an older gentleman.

I can still hear his screams.

This...sickness.....it does not exactly kill their minds, however. It would be better, easier, if they were mindless. They continue, with tears turning the blood on their faces pink, to beg and plead for forgiveness while they rip out your neck and feast on your flesh.

They got Jean. How I wish now for those dreadful mornings in the bakery with him, making bread and complaining that I could be doing more.

I could not do it.

He apologized while I watched him rip out a young man's throat; he always did have excellent manners, that boy.

The awful thing is: we knew the young man that he slaughtered as easily as a pig. We use to play with him behind our father's bakery. I do wish making bread with those boys, even if it was at the crack of dawn.

We had sat with this young man's family for dinner; been there for the death of his mother and infant daughter. Jean had even been the one to introduce the young man to his wife. She is a lovely thing. I do hope that he had said goodbye before leaving his home this morning.

Over and over I heard Jean cry that he was sorry. His anguish brought my own tears to the surface.bI had never seen my brother cry before, and I wish now that I never had.

What have I helped to unleash?

I managed a few good shots on other abominations. Yet, when it is someone you love... when it is their eyes, their voice crying out... you cannot shoot. You run.

At least, that is what I did.

I do not know what was really going on inside those chambers or why they had such a large vicinity for only seven. I do know, however, that whatever was happening was an abomination against God.

I write this letter now, though I may never send it, cowering as is appropriate for me.
I never was much of a fighter.

I hear them coming. Not only the screams they cause, but also their begging. Their terrible, terrible begging.

If I do not survive, I pray at least that this sickness never makes it to your young country across the sea.

Be safe.

Forever yours,
- H. Allou