Misc.

the hunchback of notre dame 13

It seemed that the last thing they were made of was stone, not with everything they'd given to the boy, all of the memories and treasures, the only thing that really separated them from being human was their appearance and unfortunately, that made all the difference. The lead had fallen onto the square, and the statues had watched with a mix of fascination and horror as the hunchback threw his master over the balustrade, an unspeakable and yet justifiable act. The saints and monsters watched as the boy shook the girl until she woke up, coughing and sputtering, wheezing on the inhale, but surely ultimately alright. They noticed the tears of happiness that streamed down the boys face when he realized she was still with them, still alive. The statues swelled with pride at the girl's affirmations that the hunchback was beautiful, and that she loved him no matter what. They watched as the soldier came upstairs and rejoiced with the two, hugging and kissing the boy on the head, thanking him for saving the life of his loved one, and they watched as the trio descended down the steps together, like a family. 

They waited for him to return.

He did not.

-

A collective wave of joy surged among the stone creatures when they heard the familiar creaking of wood and rusty metal hinges opening, but everyone froze when they saw that it wasn't their beloved bellringer, but an old, unfamiliar man, already deaf and unbothered by the noise of the bells. In the same moment, they all realized, saints and gargoyles alike, that the bells of Notre Dame would continue to ring no matter what. Nobody cared if it was Quasimodo or not, just as long as it was done. 

His table was cleared off, his wind chimes were taken down and the floor was swept of the wood shavings and cleaned of the paint stains that had almost seemed to be their chronically. The attic became empty, naked, devoid of personality. Then again, a bed is a bed, and there was no use letting a good one stay unused up in the attic where the wood would become damp and rot away if it wasn't slept on. 

The statues were only sad at how quickly everything disappeared. 

The old man did not speak to them, did not clean them, didn't even acknowledge them. They were just part of the architecture, and nothing more. Figures of stone, and everyone knew that stone was simply that. 

-

Hours upon hours of silence passed by, no more scraping sounds in the background, noises the boy would make he couldn't hear himself making, no more clinking of metal wind chimes. Some of the figures couldn't bear it. 

And so they began to speak to each other. Kind, gentle conversations, but not nearly as deep as the one's Quasimodo would bring to the table. No more stories, or ideas, no more talks about the people down below in the square. There were only brief conversations about biblical stories, one's that the statues didn't need help remembering or recalling for they had lived the history themselves, and they already knew from whence they came. The world became dull, boring, and grey like the colour of their own hands, there was no longer any joy or spark in their observing's doings, not like the kind the hunchback would meet the day with. 

Life was dull and monotone, and the bell tower began reverting back to the ironic muteness it had become so familiar with before the hunchback was ever in its conscious; before the golden age.

-

Hours of silence turned to days. Days turned to weeks. 

There was only the soft cooing of pigeons and the quiet whisper of wind humming against the bells and through the rafters. 

A young girl, stone and grey sat in the tower, speaking to one of the birds, asking about their day. 

The pigeon did not answer.

They only spoke to Quasimodo.

Crouched on her knees, she held the pigeon on her stone fingers, telling the bird how pretty it was, how beautiful it's shiny little back glimmered, how she wished she had some food to give it. 

Winter would be coming soon, the coldest time of the year. Of course, the statues never payed much mind, but they noticed how the birds would suffer, poor things. 

She sighed and looked around her, observing the stark and empty bell tower, hoping that the trap door would open and for once, in months, it wouldn't be the old man. 

The youth always had hope. 

Sometimes she felt like she was the only one who still had any, the older saints losing faith far too quickly, going into hibernation, and some hadn't moved since the hunchback had left the cathedral. 

The girl looked down along the balustrade and saw not a single creature moving, and a sort of feeling akin to anger sparked inside her. If she had the ability to cry, she would have broken down into upset, frustrated tears. The kind that make you want to smash something against the wall.

Perhaps they were all correct. The hunchback wasn't coming back. He'd abandoned them. What had he ever done for them anyways?

After all, they were only made of stone.

-

The bell tower was deserted and empty and nobody had been up in weeks.

The trapdoor had frozen shut in the winter cold and there was nothing to do but wait for some sort of fleeting warm day to thaw it open again. 

Even the pigeons had gone, sure that there was some warmer spot in town, on the roof of a tavern somewhere. 

There was only the wind that howled through the cracks in the roof, no longer gentle and whispering, for even it was tired of not being appreciated. It was cold and blew against the statues as hard as it could, but they too remained frozen like the frost on the tips of their ears and noses. 

The space was empty and dead, and where there had once been a small universe there was now a gaping black hole consisting entirely of nothing; an emptiness that crept into every square inch of the attic.

-

Spring brought new beginnings and the statues began to wake for the first time in a year when a sparrow took up a home on the head of one of the gargoyles, laying her eggs and protecting them as best she could. 

They cracked their stiff joints and moved their limbs to peak at the nest, fawning over the babies when they hatched. 

They said hello to each other for the first time in months, wondering why they might be awake.

Days later, their answer came in the creaking of the trap door, slamming open loudly.

Their prayers had been answered. 

The bell tower was empty but it was almost as though a million little happy bells went off somewhere in the backs of minds and thoughts, ringing and clanging softly, chiming and singing.

The soul of Notre Dame had returned.