Armand St. Just, friend of the Scarlet Pimpernel (iwanttohelp) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2013-10-22 16:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | armand st.just |
Who: Armand
What: Everything is kind of hitting him at once
Where: His old apartment at the Complex
When: October 22nd, somewhere around noon
Rating: Mild
Status: Complete narrative
Life simply wasn't fair, but he already knew that. If life was fair Marguerite and Percy would still be there. If life was fair the Complex would still be standing, and there would be no need for all of those residing in Lawrence to figure out what to do about the outside world. If life was fair Lucifer would be gone and those that wanted the life here could stay and those that wanted to return could go home.
He had gone to the apartment his sister and brother-in-law had shared before he went to his own, just to see if there were any tokens left of them, but there were none. When the seal took someone back it really did wipe out their existence, he realized. Yes, people who knew them would miss them, would remember them, but there would be no physical tokens left for those who stayed to hold onto. So he had then gone to his own home to see what there was to salvage.
His apartment had not been as hard hit as the others. He'd bought two large bags to take what he could back with him to the inn, and soon enough they were filled. The art he would have to carry down in a separate trip, but very few of his belongings were damaged beyond repair. He supposed he had God to thank for being luckier than most. He had reaffirmed his belief in God just as much as he had reaffirmed his belief in Lucifer since he had been here, and he wondered if others did the same.
He was giving the ruins of his home one more glance when his eyes fell on the book. He had gone to the library once he was more sure of himself, when he felt he would not make a fool of himself, and he looked at all the old newspapers. He printed out all the articles of his sister's plays that he could find and put them in this book. Then he had gone to the theatre and had been given the programs for each of her plays and put them in the book as well. This was the only real link he had to her now, he thought to himself. Everything else was gone.
He opened up the book and saw the picture of her as herself, in the clothing he recognized from his own past, included in Lois's article. It hurt to see her. He had not grieved, not really. He had not cried for his losses, because he had been trying to busy himself, trying not to think. He didn't want to think about the gaping hole in his heart now that his family was gone. His friends tried to help, but they could not do as well as he needed. And as a tear hit the plastic covering the photograph, then another, he felt that, perhaps, now was the time to grieve.