Misc.

the hunchback of notre dame 2

His engagements in pleasure were to ultimately be his downfall when the right day came.

For the most part he enjoyed it, the mystery of romance, playing the game, dressing up and renting a cheap hotel room for the night, indifferent to the amount of noise that was heard through the walls by the bastard who were fortunate enough to be in the rooms next to Clopin and his companion. 

On the other hand, nothing is perfect, and there were bad days. Days that made Esmerelda tell him to stop going out, to find another job, anything just please don't go out again. 

Clopin didn't listen. A man, yet still stubborn like an immature boy, he did as he pleased regardless of the consequences. 

---

It had been a good day. He'd slept in, and done the groceries, made himself lunch and gone to the library with Quasimodo for a bit. It had been a lazy and quiet afternoon with books piled up around that and a nap around three o'clock. He'd driven Quasi back to Esmerelda's and said hello to his dear friend before stopping for dinner and heading home briefly before work.

It was November, and the days were still just warm enough to walk around in a sweater, though the nights got cold and windy. It made work a little harder, but you could get by with draping your coat off the shoulder when someone passed you. It worked for Clopin anyways. 

Soon enough, there was a tall, stocky man looming over him in the shadows of the alleyway he was typically stationed in, with an arm outstretched next to his face, leaning on the brick wall behind him. 

"You do this regularly?" the stranger mumbled, and Clopin nodded. 

"Boy's gotta live." he reasoned, looking up at the man, wrapping his arms around his neck.

"So you're gay?" the stranger asked, and Clopin frowned in the dark, taking his arms back. He hesitated, but took the risk. It was like gambling, a little.

"Why else do you think I'm here?" he asked, smirking.

"Thank god, I was hoping to fuck up a fag tonight." the man said, stepping back before landing a punch square in Clopin's gut.

He lost all his money, a bad bet, a gamble gone wrong. 

He gripped the mans shoulder for support, as if the stranger would give him any at all, and he gasped for air, fear flooding his senses.

"No- please-" he got out, before the man shook him off like a bug.

"Get off of me dirty queer, should've chosen a different fucking job." he sneered, landing a knee into Clopin's chest, and it only got worse from there. From out of nowhere, more men showed up, and held him down, landing blows to his face, kicking his ribs, anywhere they knew it would hurt, spitting insults at him until he was nothing but a bloody ball, curled up and sobbing on the pavement. 

There was one last "faggot" thrown down before they ran away into the night laughing and jeering. 

Everything was dark, and his face felt painful and wet. He tasted something metallic in his mouth and lay still, hiccupping, smelling the dirt and asphalt on the pavement. Blood mingled with his tears and it dripped quietly onto the ground. It hurt to breathe and Clopin just lay there, unmoving, still curled up, not budging. 

Maybe his whole life was a mistake.

Maybe he should have given it all up.

Maybe Esmerelda was right.

Esmerelda.

Wincing, he pushed himself up and slumped against the cold, brick wall and felt into his jacket.