Shattered Sanctuary

Shattered Sanctuary
It was the eve of François fourth birthday, and by his standards, it was one of his best days ever. No one he saw that day had given him anything but smiles. And they weren’t the ones he usually got, hollow and full of pity; these were true, happy smiles. Even though it was just a few of his mother’s best friends, none of his schoolmates, he still felt as if they were his friends. They had willingly come all the way out here for him! No one had ever cared that much about him before. Well, besides his mother. She loved him like no one else ever would, and he knew it. “Happy Birthday François.” A tall blonde man said. His father reached down and ruffled his hair affectionately. A hint of regret flashed in his eyes and François heart fell. François turned and walked out of the room slowly. His father turned back to his desk, still wearing his smile. He picked the revolver up from the desk, and held it up to his head. At the sound of the gunshot, François whipped around, only to be greeted by a terrible sight. He ran back to his father’s side. He was dead where he sat. François eyes widened in shock. Blood. There was so much, it was everywhere! Splashes of crimson dotted his father’s once immaculate clothing, and stained his precious papers. It covered his face, his hands… François tugged on his sleeve, hoping to awaken his father, but it was all in vain. His father’s corpse, instead of stirring, pitched forward off it’s chair, and would have toppled onto his son if not for a quick scramble backwards. François mother by this time had reached the study and rushed forward to embrace her son, crushing him to her protectively. “Shh… It’s all right darling. I’m still here…” She cooed, carrying him away from the body without so much as a backwards glance. “It’s alright… Your mother will never leave you. I’ll never let anything hurt you my sweet. It will be just us now, okay darling? We won’t need anyone else…Just us…” His mother’s words did little to assuage his fears. But she was right. He let her soothing words, now barely whispers, wraps themselves around him and carry him into blessed sleep. His mother carried him away, resting him down upon his own bed, before walking back to lock the room that had once held her husband, but now only held his lifeless corpse. She would never open it again.

Now a man of 25, François had grown considerably taller and handsome. He stood a little over 6ft and was skinny due to the fact that he continuously forgot to eat. He had inherited his French mothers black hair and his German fathers brilliant blue eyes. He walked slowly with a bit of a slouch under a large black trench coat and white scarf. Passing by a shop window in a narrow street, he noticed it was a studio of a old man. He was working, quietly focusing on minute details of his painting. The fact he was there, not minding the people passing by, or time impressed him. The colors reflected the feeling he got from the man, his studio and the whole moment. A world on its own, a world of old dusty books with yellowing pages, photos of forgotten people and places... it was a place in which time had been running on its own. Or walking, rather. Accurately enough, the man was painting time. Once out of the ally he looked around. The streets and houses and shops were decorated for Noël. Huge trees were set up with red ribbons and white candles all over them. Life size Crèche’s sat in shop windows. Everyone of them was different from the others. He crossed the street and entered one of the extravigent little shops. “Magasin d'art” read a small wooden sign. A bell rang as he opened the door. The store was as decorated as the streets. He picked up some black and blue chalk. Since there were sales he got a couple more pieces and went to pay the man at the register. “Joyeux Noël.” “You too sir.” he said with a forced smile. Walking back into the street a group of mines were acting out some holiday play, and handing out cookies to the children.

Back at his apartment, he pulled out the keys. He could hear soft music playing inside. No doubt it was Jacques playing his cello. The music was slow and sad, yet beautiful. Every change made his heart skip. His chest swelled and he felt as if he could break down. François hands were shaking. He knew everything about that man, except for the reason for his lover’s pain. Then it suddenly stopped. “Whose there?” asked a shaking and clearly terrified voice. “It’s just me, amour” He heard a sigh of relief. François walked in and kissed him. “ I missed you..” he whispered after he broke the kiss. He took him by his hand and led him to the bedroom. There were bags under his eyes. ‘He was really worried’ “Go to sleep” François commanded. “Wait.. Have you eaten?” Jacques questioned. “No…I forgot again…” François answered truthfully. Jacques frowned. “Ill go eat if you’ll get some sleep.” Jacques laid down and pulled his knees up to his chest. “Go eat.” François stood there until Jacques breathing had regulated and he was sure he was asleep. Then he walked to his studio.