Revolutionary

This is the first draft of my short story. You know? The one that I said was about street racing. Well, it's not anymore. It's set in the French Revolution in 1790. Main character is called Pierre De Leurs. But I won't give away any more. Here it is.



Revolutionary

By Matt


The four grey, stone walls enclosed Pierre De Lèurs. Candles softly lit the small interrogation room. Pierre watched the flickering shadows dance across the ceiling as they illuminated his hard features. There were no windows to the outside world, so he could not tell what time of day it was.

The year was 1790. France was in a state of turmoil, after King Louis XVI was thrown out of the palace, and a revolution had begun. Pierre was in the thick of it, fully supporting the king and rebelling against the new regime, along with a few other supporters.
Pierre had been captured and taken to the new government’s headquarters in Paris. Now he was awaiting interrogation by one of the leaders of the new administration, a man named Goustav.

Pierre was snapped out of his trance the sharp sound of a door opening and then slamming shut again. When he opened his dark green eyes he saw that Goustav, accompanied by two rough looking guards, had entered the room.
Goustav was strong, had a firm build, and was quite tall, which added to his frightening persona. If you saw him in a dark alley at night, you would run in the other direction. His appearance helped to make sure that no-one stood against him for long.
The guards took their place at the back of the room just behind the brae wooden chair where Pierre was tightly bound with thick rope. The guards, who each had a black powder musket, were just within striking distance of Pierre.
Goustav stood in front of Pierre and stared him down. Pierre blinked first, and Goustav let out a chuckle.
“Pierre, is it?” questioned Goustav. “So you are the one who has been causing all the trouble?”
Pierre said nothing. Goustav glared at him with his deep brown eyes, and then signalled to the guards. One of them strode forward and swung the butt of his musket into Pierre’s head. It made contact with a crack.
Lights danced and popped in front of Pierre’s eyes. His head felt like it had been split in two. Blood dripped down from the large cut now imprinted onto Pierre’s skull and made his black hair become matted with the crimson liquid.
“When I ask you a question, you answer me,” said Goustav. “Or there will be consequences. Now, let us try this again. Where is the headquarters of the rebellion?”
Pierre’s head throbbed with pain. “Don’t know. Couldn’t tell you,” he answered.
Immediately the guards acted. One of them twisted the chair holding Pierre around to face themselves, then the other one punched Pierre in the stomach, again and again, until Goustav signalled for them to stop. The guards stood to attention and moved back to their places.
Pierre tried to breathe, but couldn’t. The brutal blows had completely incapacitated him.
“Are you getting the picture now, young Pierre?” said Goustav menacingly. “You don’t talk, we hurt you. You do it enough, and we kill you.”
Pierre finally got his breath back and glowered at the vicious leader. He had no choice; he had to cooperate to some extent. But he was loyal to his other rebels, he would hopefully not succumb to the punishment and reveal where they were.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” said Goustav. “Where are the other radicals?”
“Places. Probably somewhere in France,” answered Pierre. His reply dripped with sarcasm.
Goustav tut-tutted. “Wrong answer.”
Once again the guards came forward; and this time they would not be gentle.



Pierre could hardly see. Both his eyes were now black, puffy and swollen. He thought he might have a broken elbow. Every part of his body was screaming in protest at the ruthless beating it had taken.
“Judging by your uncomfortable expression, you seem to be in pain.” Goustav’s observation was an understatement.
“I am going to make you an offer,” said Goustav. “And I would strongly advise that you accept it. You will accept it, or face death. And not by guillotine. Something slow, and painful. Very, very, painful.”
Pierre wasn’t in a position to argue. “What is it?”
“If you tell me everything, locations, people, records…I will let you go, and pretend that you were never part of the rebellion against this new regime.”
Pierre was torn. He was in a massive amount of pain, and wanted this to be over. But he didn’t want to betray his friends. He did not know what to do.
“You have thirty seconds to make up your mind.”




Four days later, Pierre walked down the concrete steps from the building he had been held in into a large courtyard. Many hundreds of people were gathered around a sort of wooden stage. Except instead of actors, there was only a guillotine.
There was a man standing on the scaffolding with his hands tied behind his back. He gave Pierre a pleading look. Pierre looked away with shame.
Suddenly the crowd went slient. Then he heard the shrill shriek of the blade falling towards the man’s neck. He was dead. A roar went up from the gathering. For them, this was entertainment.
Goustav clapped his hand onto Pierre’s shoulder. He flinched. He hadn’t heard him walk up.
“You did the right thing, you know. No-one could have stood up against us for long. You did him a favour by making the end quick.”
Goustav gave Pierre one final glance, then walked away. As the crowd slowly receded and left the courtyard, Pierre felt alone.
He did the right thing?
Pierre De Lèurs wasn’t so sure.





There you go. Did you like it? It's only a first draft, but I'm pretty happy with it. :)