Self Paragraph. Contemplation.
Contemplation.
The word on its own had such a large comprehension, how one could decide to even when they didn't fully understand it themselves, how each moment he took was one step closer to deciding the fate of the people he cared for. He was a bodyguard, blessed and cursed with the gift of protecting those around him and yet, those decisions had come down to such menial things in the past, watching others die as he decided who to throw himself in front of. Of course, he’d always choose Delphine, but if she wasn’t around; he had to protect those that were important. He’d made mistakes in the past, had allowed his judgement to be clouded by his emotions.
Regardless, people still died. Shouldn't there have been some kind of big grandeur moment that got him here? A single moment of clarity that allowed him to really understand the decisions he had to make under pressure. The lives he’d had to forfit in the past.
Not a single mistake. One moment of madness, an accident. It was that sick churning in his gut that reminded him of when he was a youngling, one of Evelyns. They were different, and he happened to be close to the woman. That had never done him favours. People liked to talk when they saw someone such as himself climb to higher positions.
But was this the job he wanted in the organization anymore? Maybe that death had seeped into his own blood, watching people constantly die had an effect. And now, deep within him, he wondered if he should bring death.
If he was the man that could do the unthinkable. Watch the lights go out.
With shaking hands, he reaches up to shift the blonde locks from his vision; before him, an old oak table with years of wear and tare etched into the surface, items scattered, a cigarette burning in the ashtray with smoke billowing around him, sunlight gleaming through, threatening to blind him as the afternoon grew later. And their photos; two smiling women who took his breath away every time he walked into a room. One, his mother, her aging lines and graying hair, and then the other was Evelyn; a photo of them when he’d passed his training. One of the most proud moments he’d ever had in his life.
Where he hadn’t felt worthless.
Snapping his head away, peaking up to the corner of the room, Olivier watched with memorized eyes as the smoke danced into perfect swirls, creating a piece of art he'd never really taken the time to appreciate before.
He couldn't do this, he thought.
''Forgive me.'' The words were simple, but begging; he knew that the bible that lay on the other side of the room held no justice for what he was about to do. The life he was going to ask to have. He wasn’t even sure if they’d allow him too, if they’d see him as too weak. Useless. No god would bring him into their heaven. Hell would wait for him. In reaching a decision in the coming moments, Olivier knew that one of two things would follow. He would betray his morals, to save a part of himself he hadn’t even known exsisted until recently.
Was this evil? Real evil? He'd never wanted to play god before, and yet, here he stood with what felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders and more power than he'd ever wanted. Picking up the pen in hand, the paper lay blank with nothing but the faint dull grey lines that shot from one side of the paper to the other, just begging for words to spill from the ink. But nothing seemed to come, just silence.
Defeaning.
It wouldn't be long before that day came, destroying and pulling his life apart. Before he let it consume him whole. He was that kind of person, he became consumed with the things in his life. As he had with Lisette, and briefly those twinkling feelings he’d felt for another, and would never speak of. Olivier Fontaine wanted to be of assistance, and he knew it was in everyone’s best interest if he followed through with this.
So he penned the letter.
It was a request for a meeting. To speak to those in the French Organization that would allow him to bring his case forward, to shift out of his position and see if he had what it takes. It was a thought at this moment, until he heard back. But it was a thought he hoped would come to fruition.
Scratching the gruff of his beard, sat in that chair by the window; there were so many questions that swirled through his mind, infecting his thought process.
It seemed impossible. The ticking of the clock only seemed to goad him more.
''What do I do.'' He muttered to himself, rubbing harshly at this face. Three deep breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
And with that he wrote the letter, pen in hand. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow he’d sent it.