Niceandbrutal
Yes, but-
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2013
- Posts
- 2,816
Life was about to change for Francois Dumont. In his search for more knowledge of the occult he'd stumbled over an old tome in a bookstore. The proprietor had looked him over with a knowing smile as he paid an unusually low price for the book. "Best of luck!" the youthful proprietor had called after him as he left the shop. Luck? Why would he need luck with a beat up old grimoire? Oh well, eccentrics abounded in the used book stores, that much was certain.
As he walked along the banks of the Seine, Monsieur Dumont reflected on his life. He had a secure job and a few close friends. His two children had flown the coop just after his wife had succumbed to cancer. That was five years ago. His daughter Jeannine worked in London with interior design and his son Gaston was with the army doing God only knows what. They both led busy successful lives and Francois was immensely proud of them. Their busy faraway lives left him lonely from day to day however. After his wife had died he'd sold their home, not bearing the memories contained within. He'd moved into a building with cheap rental flats inhabited by students and odds and ends of the human race scraping by.
Not that Francois was in any dire economic straits. far from it. He'd earned a fair sum from selling his old home and his dreary soulsucking job as an accountant had one thing going for it: it paid well. It left him a man of some means, much the better for him to pursue his hobbies. His solitude on the other hand gave him ample opportunity to reflect on all the missed opportunities in life. His wife Paulette had almost forced herself on him, seeing something in the shy and timid Francois no other girl saw. He smiled fondly as he remembered her astonishment when she realised he was a virgin. He stopped his reverie there, the memory too bittersweet. He realised he'd missed quite a few opportunities in his youth. Too late for that now, he scolded himself.
He stopped at the Café Sorbonne across the street from the block of flats he lived in after a short ride on the metro. His charming and beautiful young neighbour Juliette was at work this afternoon, tending tables. She was from Switzerland, evident in her dialect for all parisians to hear. She was a nice neighbour, helpful, quiet, and mostly cheerful. Although the past few weeks had cast a pall on her otherwise happy features. As she approached his table he looked her over, admiring her youthful grace and beauty. If only... his brain chimed in. He smiled at her as he ordered a ratatouille, not wanting to spoil his evening with a heavy meal.
After eating and paying his bill (leaving more than the required 15% tip) he returned to his flat to crack open his newest book. Sleep never came to him that night. He called in sick for work the next day and set about buying ingredients for the elixir he'd found a recipe for in the old grimoire. He came home and set about concocting the draught of youth. After several hours it was ready. He had a moment of sobriety, wondering if he was just deluding himself. But the recipe and the handwritten recommendations in the margin had seemed so convincing and compelling he just HAD to try it.
After some agonising he finally plucked up enough courage to take a swig. Almost instantly his body was wracked with pain and he fell down as he convulsed with pain, screaming himself raw, almost certain he'd scare all of his neighbours. The pain was unbearable, but then it slowly started subsiding. He looked at his hands. The skin was smooth and unblemished. He staggered and stood and went for a mirror.
There, staring back at him, was the Francois of 20 years of age. He laughed, then cried, then laughed again. He was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door as a timid youthful voice asked if he was OK.
As he walked along the banks of the Seine, Monsieur Dumont reflected on his life. He had a secure job and a few close friends. His two children had flown the coop just after his wife had succumbed to cancer. That was five years ago. His daughter Jeannine worked in London with interior design and his son Gaston was with the army doing God only knows what. They both led busy successful lives and Francois was immensely proud of them. Their busy faraway lives left him lonely from day to day however. After his wife had died he'd sold their home, not bearing the memories contained within. He'd moved into a building with cheap rental flats inhabited by students and odds and ends of the human race scraping by.
Not that Francois was in any dire economic straits. far from it. He'd earned a fair sum from selling his old home and his dreary soulsucking job as an accountant had one thing going for it: it paid well. It left him a man of some means, much the better for him to pursue his hobbies. His solitude on the other hand gave him ample opportunity to reflect on all the missed opportunities in life. His wife Paulette had almost forced herself on him, seeing something in the shy and timid Francois no other girl saw. He smiled fondly as he remembered her astonishment when she realised he was a virgin. He stopped his reverie there, the memory too bittersweet. He realised he'd missed quite a few opportunities in his youth. Too late for that now, he scolded himself.
He stopped at the Café Sorbonne across the street from the block of flats he lived in after a short ride on the metro. His charming and beautiful young neighbour Juliette was at work this afternoon, tending tables. She was from Switzerland, evident in her dialect for all parisians to hear. She was a nice neighbour, helpful, quiet, and mostly cheerful. Although the past few weeks had cast a pall on her otherwise happy features. As she approached his table he looked her over, admiring her youthful grace and beauty. If only... his brain chimed in. He smiled at her as he ordered a ratatouille, not wanting to spoil his evening with a heavy meal.
After eating and paying his bill (leaving more than the required 15% tip) he returned to his flat to crack open his newest book. Sleep never came to him that night. He called in sick for work the next day and set about buying ingredients for the elixir he'd found a recipe for in the old grimoire. He came home and set about concocting the draught of youth. After several hours it was ready. He had a moment of sobriety, wondering if he was just deluding himself. But the recipe and the handwritten recommendations in the margin had seemed so convincing and compelling he just HAD to try it.
After some agonising he finally plucked up enough courage to take a swig. Almost instantly his body was wracked with pain and he fell down as he convulsed with pain, screaming himself raw, almost certain he'd scare all of his neighbours. The pain was unbearable, but then it slowly started subsiding. He looked at his hands. The skin was smooth and unblemished. He staggered and stood and went for a mirror.
There, staring back at him, was the Francois of 20 years of age. He laughed, then cried, then laughed again. He was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door as a timid youthful voice asked if he was OK.
