Ghost Town
More of @eirenical‘s fantastic Muet verse. Victor Hugo made the characters, eirenical crafted the sandbox, and I just live here and cry and occasionally write fic.
Fuck. He just wanted them to shut up for a little bit, he didn’t want to turn this place into a ghost town, but maybe he’s the ghost here, holding on forever to something he has lost or forgotten. He screws his eyes shut until he sees stars on the dubious principle that blindness in one of the less important areas will make him feel better about the real blindness that lays him low. He can hardly count himself surprised that it doesn’t, when even the hope was a shadow of itself. He would howl if he thought it might do any good, but he already tried that once when he did believe it would help, and he’s tired of having tried.
He has a name; he used to have a name. He lost it, or he gave away his right to it. History means nothing, but if meaning did hist, it would tell a story of two fabled members of Patron-Minette. Babet lost track of his family like someone would forget a handkerchief, and maybe they were better off for it with his renown for selling anything he can grab hold of. And Claquesous, which is not his real name, oh his talent is masks inside of masks. If you tried to uncover your true self you’d soon find yourself in an impossible maze, screaming for a voice that’s not a mockery.
Thinking of those anecdotes, unable to think of anything else, this young man without a name knows without a doubt that he does not deserve a family and that what family he does have deserves better than him. And right now, he’d even settle for a mockery if it meant the puppet show could end. Say something, say something, he begs the faces that usually won’t stop their noise for love or for money.
