The room was empty bar for one shrunken figure that could be seen in the shadows of the once occupied Musain. The atmosphere was thick, the only noises able to be heard were the broken intakes of breath from the barely visible being. Everything about the situation screamed wrong. From the mangled furniture, to the sections of floor that had been tinted a horrific crimson colour. Bullet holes gawped at him from all around, decorating each section of wall, as if mocking the man, a blatant reminder of the trauma that had occurred the night before. This was not the way they had all planned it. Not at all.
Torn flags of the revolution decorated the floor, adding to the abundance of red that screamed at the lonesome man. The flags which were only yesterday hung with hopes of victory, of a better tomorrow. Hung by young men, practically boys, who viewed the world with a wise eye, but possessed the ambitions of a child. Tomorrow had come as they had left. He in the shadows, was the lone survivor.
He'd witnessed all of his friends fall victim to their brothers, to the people of his country. Though he could still feel them all around him, the memories still clear. Visions of them dancing between tables, preaching of a greater world. They fell victim to the revolution, whilst he fell victim to love. A love that saved his life, but ruined it in so many other ways. The thought of whom he loved made his heart thump with both an overwhelming sense of admiration, and the painful weight of grief. Deep in the stillness, he could still hear them, their songs of justice. Phantom faces at the window, ghosting past the door, by the stairs.
Who could say for certain that they where gone, when their presence still felt so genuine? Though of course, he knew the truth. He saw the group of women by the door as he entered, their eyes heavy and sad as they wiped up the blood of the near-heroes. Their deaths meant nothing at all. Soon enough, the boys of the barricade will be forgotten, but in the eyes of the shadow man, the blood, the tears, the trauma, will forever linger in the four walls of The Café Musain. He wondered if they thought of him as they died. If as they fell, memories of their loved ones flashing in their minds, if he was one of them figures.
The man doubted it, he was no more than a fool in a group of intellects. And now he sat alone, amongst a room of empty chairs, empty tables. All positivism created in this room, died that night. Now it was no happier then the funeral of a loved one. The room he felt at home in had turned into a morgue in a matter of hours. At the front of the room stood a slight podium where the leader of the Les Amis lit the fire of the revolution, where he fueled the flames for a better tomorrow, 20 feet away lay his body. The fire had grown out of control for a group of boys, the flails of reds and oranges, put to rest by the devils with the shotguns.
Despite all that I have stated above, our jaded survivor was yet to shed a tear. In-fact, a lopsided smile spread across his face. An empty bear bottle was raised in a solute, pointed directly towards the podium of Enjolras, before being dropped to the floor. Glass shards danced around his feet before coming to a halt. Grantaire's smile faulted as he exited the room.