Chapter IV: The Notebook
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“My precious poetry…”
Poéte whispered to himself, the soggy pages of his notebook spread out on the floor around him to dry, jagged rips and tears cutting across them, another page crumbling in his shaking hands.
He was kneeling on the wooden floor of his bedroom, his drenched clothes sticking to his body, as the storm raging outside, thunder clapping in the distance and rain drummed on the window panes.
The leather cover and binding of the notebook had bite marks embedded in and scar-likescuff marks across the front.
“I-I’m sure I can fix it… somehow.”
He murmured, wiping his left cheek with the back of his hand, unconsciously smudging blood and dirt across his face.
His chest ached and he held his breath, noticing that the ink was running down the pages in small black streams, almost like tears.
He became aware of the earthy scent of muddy parchment and the cool smell of rain.
A feeling like radio static crept up his legs as he struggled to put the fading pages back in order, the ink bleeding through the parchment and onto the floor boards.
The curtains by the window fluttered slightly, breaking his concentration.
He looked up for a moment, expecting the window to be cracked open slightly.
The curtains were still as if they had never made a sound.
He turned back to what was left of his notebook, inspecting the binding of the book.
“A needle and thread will fix it.”
He murmured to himself, his copper eyes flicking over the small room.
He stood up, careful to not step on any of the pages spread out on the floor, and prodded over to his desk.
He opened a small, shallow drawer in the front of the desk and pulled out a nearly finished spool of thread and a slightly bent sewing needle he took from his mother’s sewing supplies.
He set them down next to the notebook along with an ink pot that was three quarters of the way full.
The candle in the lantern on the wall flickered, the light in the room disappearing for a moment, as he knelt back down on the floor.
The silver needle glinted gold in the candlelight as he ran the golden brown thread through the small hole in the head of the needle, wiping the red dripping down his forehead.
“Somehow…”
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