Revolutionary

Somehow, he knew he would he would die like this. No fanfare, no ceremony. He wouldn’t die the hero, the martyr, the leader. A gunshot to the chest and it was over.

He could only watch the clouds overhead float merrily on, blissfully unaware of the tragedy going on below. Around him, the war continued without him. A revolution that would change history. What was his part in it? A number, a statistic. He was nothing, just another body in the street.

Catholicism had always been his belief. He grew up on the Bible and believing in the love of God. Yet now he wondered, where was God when they needed him? Where was the justice in so many dying with no one knowing their names? Why did the city suffer for the mistakes of those in power?

The city… How beautiful it had been. The glimmering cobblestone streets now painted red and brown with blood and dirt. Cracked and shattered windows. Walls and roofs with pieces missing due to stray bullets. Over a once-bustling inn, the glorious blue, white, and red of the French flag hung in tatters.

He remembered it so different than how it was. He remembered walking down those streets as a child with his sister. His sister. He was glad she wasn’t here to see it this way. She had always loved the way the city looked and she often had commented on its beauty.

He closed his eyes, remembering. The sunset painting the brick buildings with warm oranges and pinks. He remembered the chatter of the streets, the soft music from the performers on the corners, and the bells in the distance from nearby churches. That was how France should always be, not the decrepit wasteland that human violence had turned it into.

What was the point in all of this? Why had he gone so far to only watch his home was torn apart and his death so meaningless? Why had he not run away? Why had he not lived?

He opened his eyes. He did live. He lived even now, as he felt the blood seep from his chest and the dark cloud in his vision. He remembered the pain, the sorrow, the loss. He also remembered the conviction. He remembered his promise to his mother and father. He remembered his promise to her. To those who were waiting and to those who had passed, he had promised a new beginning for France. He had promised a world which would live and prosper and ring with joy.

He saw the streets again. This time, he didn’t see them as empty and broken. He saw them once again filled with people, but even more beautiful than before. He saw them radiating with a glow that had never been there: the glow of freedom. He saw the French flag raised high, fluttering over a land that had grown through repression and was now blooming with life.

He looked up, the sky still as serene as ever. He knew it would end this way. He knew he wouldn’t die the hero, the martyr, the leader. He didn’t care. He had been a part of something beautiful. Even if he didn’t live to see it, it would still be there. The sun would set and the world would go dark. Then, eventually, it would rise once more.

He had taken a gun and fought alongside those like him. He had taken lives and given his own. He had doubted, but he knew why. He remembered his reason.

On his last breath of air, he spoke the words that no one heard, his final conviction to the land he fought to save…

“Tomorrow will always come.”