The weather around Pierre was poetically fitting, rolling storm clouds as black as ink and hidden within them, powerful beings banging on drums as thunder and lightning cracked through the sky, illuminating all of Paris. People pushed past him, umbrellas shielding their faces from the heavy downpour, Pierre could've sworn that they could walk through him as if he were the ghost of a memory.
He approached the bridge's railing, its gothic wrought-iron bars - the only thing separating the soldier from the turbulent, dark waves below. He could feel the icy cold water lap at his gloved fingertips, seeping into the worn leather. He stood, gripping the bars momentarily as he thought back to all that had unraveled so quickly.
Before the War, Pierre was a notably charismatic and lively young man who loved to dance. He was to marry the Florist's only daughter, Magnolia, a fair-haired, blue-eyed beauty who had stolen the hearts of every man in Paris. Yet she'd chosen him, the eldest son of a glassmaker. But when he enlisted in the French army, those cornflower eyes swelled with tears and she bid him farewell.
When he'd returned, he was less a man, and more of an abominable creature. Something to be shunned, a pariah amongst civilians that avoided his gaze, as if he were to turn them to stone if they stared too long. He'd gone to see Magnolia, his bride-to-be, only to find out that she'd wed another. Pierre wanted to ask her, beg her, Why did you accept my fate, before I? I loved you, I showered you in all the luxuries I could afford--yet you act as if you've seen a ghost. Why? Why oh, why, do you stare at me with such horror and revolt? Am I no longer Man? But a beast among them? He wished to yell, yell as if his lungs were on fire, but all he could muster was a strangled cacophony of gurgles and groans.
Pierre stared down at the abyss below. Slowly, he straddled the railing, his boots slick with rain water. He climbed over, slipping his arms through and hooking them to the railing. In the back of his mind, he wished that a passerby would shout at him, begging and pleading with him not to jump. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket and produced a wooden Rosary. His uncle's Rosary. And he began to silently pray against the howling wind:
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'In Your hands, O Lord, we humbly entrust our brothers and sisters.132Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpEmY2hoaK9
In this life you embraced them with Your tender love; deliver them now132Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU1vXvOBjRX
from every evil and bid them eternal rest. The old order has passed away:132Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxfutVxO4BN
welcome them into paradise, where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or132Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHoMYutNaJs
pain, but fullness of peace and joy with Your Son and the Holy Spirit forever132Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFbxR0xHQcB
and ever.132Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDEW2doFzCJ
Amen.'
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At that, Pierre felt his arms slip from the iron bars, his body almost light against the howling winds. He felt his heart go into his throat as if for a moment he could fly. But then, a strong hand pulled Pierre's arm through the railing. The young woman held on with such might, her shoes scraped against stone and then a loud, terrified voice cried out, "Please! Someone help me! I beg of you!"
As more passers-by stopped to help, Pierre felt himself being hoisted back over the railing. He fell limply against a soft lap. He looked up, wiping both tears and rain from his blurry vision; he saw a young woman. Her face, bathed in light from the streetlamp, she looked worriedly at the young man as her soft, porcelain fingers carded through his hair. Her hazel eyes bore deeply into his as she began to murmur a prayer. She curled her fingers around his own, as he trembled, still clutching the Rosary beads tightly in his grip.
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He could tell she was praying in tongues, it made his mind swirl as the adrenaline rushed through him, his chest heaving as she rocked back and forth. If he could speak, Pierre would have cried out: "You saw me, thank you for seeing me." But, all that he could produce was a loud and hoarse sob as he turned to lay on his side, curling up as he buried his face into the scratchy fabric of her skirt.
His eyes half-lidded, Pierre fell into a dreamless slumber.
He awoke to the light weight of a cotton blanket against his skin, he rolled onto his side, the afternoon sun's rays warming his skin. Pierre blindly groped around for his mask on his bedside table. His hand meets nothing but air, which causes him to wake fully. He sat up immediately, the blanket falling off his scar-laden chest. He was in a hospital room, the pastel yellow walls surrounding him.
His hand hurriedly flew to the left side of his face, calloused fingers running over the marred flesh of what remained of his lower jaw. He looked around, the bed creaking underneath his weight as he shifted. His eyes caught a figure in a wooden chair. It was the woman, her head rest against the wall as she slept soundly, her red hair, so vibrant, hung over her face. Pierre carefully pulled himself from the bed and fell to the tiled floor on his knees as he rummaged through his damp clothing. He pulled his shirt out and begun to hastily button it, lest the poor young woman who saved him see him in such a state.
It wasn't until he heard a stifled yawn that he whipped his head around, she stretched out her arms, fingers flexed out high into the air. A tired grunt escaped her lips, her eyes then fluttered open to stare up at a disheveled Pierre. Her freckled face turned a deep shade of vermillion as she looked away shyly. The expression on her face wasn't one of disgust or fear, but of embarrassment. Pierre felt his eyes sting with tears as he realized that she didn't see him as a hideously deformed monster, but as a living, breathing human being.
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