Courfeyrac sat down at a table in the Musain and sighed. It’s empty. It’s always empty now. Now that everyone’s gone. The light and warmth that had always radiated from Courfeyrac was long deceased now.
An old book lying on a table used to calm him, but now he only thinks of how Combeferre was reading until just before the end.
A piece of red fabric that he might have seen as a sign of hope he now sees as the fabric Enjolras was clinging to as he was executed.
Fiery red hair was once a sign of passion to him, now he remembers only the stark contrast between Feuilly’s red hair and white, lifeless face.
An empty wine bottle thrown on the floor once would have made him laugh, but is only a reminder of the one Grantaire had finished before joining Enjolras in his fate.
Once he would have had fun with a playful brawl, but all he can think of now is Bahorel’s fiery spirit up until the end.
The sight of a hospital used to induce compassion, while now he can think only of Joly’s fear of getting a cold on the barricade.
A spilled drink at one time made him pity, but now there are only memories of Bossuet’s mishaps even until his final one.
The happiness he once would have found in a sunflower reminds him only of the one Jehan was wearing when he died.
If all the things he once found joy in were dead and gone, what was the point of carrying on? If life is for the little things, and there is only hollow sadness in those, what is life for? There is nothing, Courfeyrac decided. And there’s really no point in life if you have no more joy. So why should I even try? Why not join my friends? Anything must be better than nothing.
Published
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