Lost
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girl who had no one but this one man whom she was about to lose to the beautiful Fabienne Laglacée! Dear Reader, if you could understand the agony and loss that she felt upon hearing his words; if you could feel what she felt when her heart shattered into tiny fragments that could never be pieced back together; if you knew what it was like for your only hope, your only dream to be crushed, ripped from you, to feel her desolation and brokenness; if you only knew then perhaps you would, like Clarice, also begin to pray for the sweet bliss that came with death.
“Clarice? Clarice, are you okay? Are you in pain?” Antoine asked worriedly.
“I'm fine...” She said, forcing her voice to be strong. “That's wonderful news, Antoine. I'm really happy for you. Congratulations...”
“Thank you.” Antoine said, grinning brightly. The ignorant fool! He could not see that the girl sitting next to him, the one he called his best friend, was so deeply and irrevocably in love with him. Oh how she longed to tell him! Alas, she could not. It would only provide her with more heartbreak; he would not feel as she did. The unfortunate wretch! The miserable child! What ever had she done to deserve such anguish!? She had been born in the streets, but she could not help that; she had been abandoned by her parents, but she could not help that. What wrong had she done? She hadn't. She had done no wrong and now she was suffering. How cruel!
“I think I should like to sleep right now.” Clarice said, turning away from him so that he would not see the tears falling from her eyes.
“Alright. Sleep well, I'll return in the morning.” he promised her. He touched her shoulder lightly and then left.
Clarice cried quietly. Her one hope in life–that Antoine would love her–had been crushed. She loved him so! Her heart was shattered, broken beyond all repair. As we have already discussed, the wretch wished for death. She pulled out the diary she kept in her pocket and hastily scribbled into it. She wrote everything in that diary of hers and, even if she was going to die, she would write down her thoughts and the events of the day. It gave her a feeling of completion, of finality.
She stood, wincing as she did so, and she quietly left the hospital. She knew where she was heading this time, Reader, and that was the Pont Neuf– the oldest bridge that crosses the river Seine. She ran down the Rue du Colombier, turned left onto the Rue de l'Échaudé, then to the Rue de Seine. She hurried down the Rue de Jacques-Callot, onto the Quai de Conti, and, finally, she walked to stand in the centre of the Pont Neuf. She walked to the rail and then stood up on the parapet, thinking of all of the misfortunes in her life. She had always lived alone, in the streets; she had but one friend whom she loved dearly, but who loved another; she was often thought to be a prostitute, an insult to her morality; and she'd been attacked by a gang, though she'd done nothing to provoke them. There were more, naturally; but these were the ones passing through her mind as she prepared herself to jump. For a moment, she paused. She tried to think of the reasons that she should live, but she thought of none. She considered, albeit very briefly, living for the sake of Antoine. He'll be fine without me. He has Fabienne. He doesn't need me. She told herself. There's no reason to go on living. I'll always be poor, Antoine will never love me, and I'll never go anywhere in life. These thoughts tortured her, but she found them to be truths. She made one last entry in her diary and then, Dear Reader, she jumped.
For the briefest moment, she felt suspended in the air. Then she came plummeting down and who knows what her very last thoughts were? Perhaps she regretted her decision. Things could get better, couldn't they? Maybe she could have met someone new and fall in love, maybe she would finally find a job. Of course, it was too late now. She was far past the point of no return. She had already jumped.
Clarice Dupont died the moment her body hit the water. The impact was too great and her heart stopped. At least, that was what the autopsy report said. Maybe she did struggle for air as the merciless depths of the Seine engulfed her. We can never know. She was only 16 years old, Reader. Only 16 and her life was over. Her body was found the next morning and she was marked as a suicide. No one mourned for her. No one, except for a young boy that had always called her his best friend.
Antoine was given the soggy diary they had found in the girl's pocket– the diary he had so often seen her writing in. It was her one, prized possession. Upon reading it, he finally understood that Clarice had loved him. He regretted being so blind to her love, Reader, and he repented. He felt that he had brought about her death. If only he had known... Then, perhaps, he could have loved her. Perhaps in another world, they could have been happy together; but he hadn't known and she had never told him. He wept tears of immense sorrow. His best friend was gone and all because he had never noticed what was always right in front of him. She had loved him and now she was gone, lost to the world.
Clarice Dupont was many things, Reader. Clarice was kind, Clarice was loyal; she was beautiful and free-spirited; she was smart and intuitive; Clarice was brave, Clarice had no fears; but lastly, and perhaps most-importantly, Clarice Dupont was my best friend. My name is Antoine Duc?ur and my best friend has been dead for ten years to this day. I think I may have loved her.
I am miserable without her.
I am lost.
The End