Grégoire woke in the early morning to a loud thud -something had fallen from his desk. He stood up to check and saw his journal lying on the floor, its once elegant brown cover now worn and scratched from years of use.
As the sleepiness faded, he remembered his father telling him the day before to put the laundry out today.
He pulled on his simple clothes, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder with soaps and supplies, and tucked his journal inside so he could write during breaks and not get bored while waiting for the clothes to dry.
He carried the basket of clothes outside to start cleaning them, heading to his aunt's house to use her bucket for washing.
The streets were crowded as Grégoire walked through them.
Then the sudden sound of muskets firing rang out.
The streets erupted into panic. Screams of civilians running and scattering filled the air. Grégoire, too weak to run, decided to hide inside the basket of clothes he was carrying.
But as the musket fire continued, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest.
He checked the spot. It was blood.
His own blood.
As the pain grew worse, his body instinctively curled in on itself, clutching his stomach.
Moments later, the noise stopped.
His beating heart was the only sound he could hear. Tears swelled in his eyes as his vision-and all his other senses-began to fade.
He thought.
"Je ne veux point mourir. Je ne veux point disparaître. Je veux rentrer chez moi. Je hais ceci. Je ne veux point mourir, je ne veux point mourir, je ne veux point mourir, je ne veux point mourir. Est-ce donc ainsi que je dois mourir ? Quand viendra ma mort?"
He stopped clutching his stomach. His consciousness faded.