“PUTAIN DE MERDE!” echoed harshly off the walls of the quaint Parisian apartment. François had spilled milk all over the breakfast table and his father, André, was not impressed. “16 years old and the only thing you’re good at is ruining my mornings” exclaimed André whilst attempting to drain the milk out of his newspaper in vain. A few moments previously, it had read ‘ALLIED TROOPS CLAIM NORMANDY’, and André had been devouring every word of the article, until his son mistakenly drowned out the only moment of the day the grumpy old Frenchman actually cherished.
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Martine, the boy’s mother, scolded André for using that kind of language in front of their boy and looked at François worriedly. He did not return her gaze, and instead stared at the letter he had just opened in despair. “Qu’est ce qui se passe mon fils?” she asked him, wanting to know why her son had reacted in such a way to what seemed like a mundane letter. Sure it was quite rare that François received post, but it was usually his grandma just asking how he was getting along in school and such. It clearly wasn’t from his Grandma this time.
“Bon je vais aller au boulot moi” sighed André, announcing that he was going to work. He brushed his hand lightly across his wife’s shoulder as he left the room, but nothing more. It was not a happy marriage, and hadn’t been for quite some time now. Even François knew this. Martine sighed and turned her attention back to the table, which needed clearing as well as a good scrub now. The plates clattered together as she stacked them in silence, having seemingly given up on caring about her son’s strange behaviour. He always overreacted anyway, it was surely nothing. Meanwhile, François got up and left the table to return to his room, where he usually spent most of his free time. However, this morning he had school so he quickly went to get his rucksack before brushing his teeth and heading back to the dining room to say goodbye to his mother.
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“Tu vas être en retard François, qu’est ce que tu veux maintenant?” Martine queried irritably, wondering what the boy wanted from her - he was going to be late for school. François opened his mouth to answer his mother but before he could vocalise any of his thoughts, she cut him off: “Tu sais quoi? Je m’en fous, j’ai pas le temps pour tes questions à la con”. She was sick of him asking her questions to put off going to school. François was about to insist, when he saw the look his mother was giving him and decided to keep his mouth shut. His back was still sore from the last punishment he had received. His parents seemed to think they could beat some character into him. Unfortunately, all this had managed to do was give him scars that the boys at school would tease him about. They said he had a back that looked like Frankenstein’s. When he naïvely corrected them by informing them that they meant to say Frankenstein’s Monster, his knowledge was beaten down by the violence of his classmates’ ignorance, adding to his bruises. This left François in a hopelessly paradoxical situation, where his options were to either go to school and get bullied, or try to avoid school, which would most likely end in a beating anyway.
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He sighed, turned around and left the room with his head hung low. He murmured “Je t’aime Maman” as he slowly exited. Martine turned her head to face her son, unsure if she’d heard him say something to her. She decided it probably wasn’t important and returned to her Gauloises cigarette pack, which was proving to be a struggle to open. The front door clicked shut quietly, barely audible over the sound of Martine cursing at her non-cooperative Gauloises pack, staying true to her morning routine.
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As François gently closed the door behind him, he turned to the twisty, narrow cobbled streets of Paris and set off to school. His rucksack was filled with books he cared little about, and they weighed down his slim legs. It was a 30 minute walk from his apartment to school, but they always seemed to go by fleetingly. The only thing François had to worry about when walking to school was looking both ways before crossing the road, and that was bliss for the scrawny teenager. No one was out to beat him for the way he looked or acted; he felt at home in the rippling sea of strangers going by their day. They didn’t care who he was, or what he looked like, or what his opinions were. This was good for François. Those who seemed to care about his appearance or his behaviour were also the ones who kept beating him.
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On his way to school, the boy would always stop at a florist’s to bathe in the smells and colours of the flora in the store. Although the owners of the shop weren’t necessarily over the moon about him coming in and never buying anything, they had begrudgingly accepted François’s almost pious ritual. The eclectic mix of odours was particularly pleasant this morning, and the youngster spent more time than usual taking in the summery perfumes wafting from the flowers.
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François reluctantly pulled himself out of the Les Fleurs de Michel and trudged his way on to school. It would only take him 15 more minutes until he reached his destination, and he was already dreading the two hours of physical education that started off his Tuesdays. The changing rooms were the bane of his life - that was where all the bullying happened since the teachers weren’t allowed to supervise children getting changed. This was due to an incident that had happened the previous year.
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François slid his hands into his coat pockets, and felt for the envelope that contained the letter he’d opened earlier on that morning. He pulled out the torn paper enclosure and plucked out the crinkled sheet of writing it contained. It hadn’t arrived crinkled, in fact it was pristine when he’d first read the letter. Shoving it in his pocket was probably what had caused the creases, he figured, before driving it back to where it came from. He didn’t want to read it again, he didn’t need to, it was hardly a complex letter to understand.
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By this time, François was already on the street his school was on, and his pace had considerably slowed. He was already a half-hour late, there was no hurry at this point. No doubt his parents would have already received a call from the school informing them of their son’s tardiness. The boy knew the consequences of what that meant. He knew what to expect should he come home.
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He stumbled along the cobbled pavements, and resented whoever thought cobblestones would make good walkways. He could now see his school down the road and was starting to get butterflies in his stomach, dreading what awaited him.
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He quickly stopped at the bakery next to his educational institution and used all the Francs he had managed to save up to buy himself all the pastries he’d dreamed of trying. He came out the shop with his bag devoid of money and his arms filled with pastries. He sat on the curb and enthusiastically devoured each one. He would need that sugar-fuelled energy to get through the day, he rationalised. Although even he knew that he was lying to himself in order to justify his freshly-baked purchases.
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François stood up and made his way to the entrance of his college, or lycée as they called it in France. Just before stepping through the gate, he sighed heavily, awkwardly removed the bag
from his tired shoulders, and set it at his feet. He kicked the tattered rucksack over the invisible line marked by the open gate and all his books spewed onto the ground. A pile of worthless, superficial knowledge as far as François was concerned.
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The boy turned away from the gates, and made his way further down the street, where a truck was parked on the inconvenient cobbled curb. A man was standing by the side of the truck, and François wandered towards him. No words were exchanged, the adolescent simply took out the letter from his pocket and after a brief look at it, the man motioned for him to climb into the rear of the truck.
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Shortly after he’d gotten in, François felt a jolt as the large road vehicle stuttered to a start, set off to transport him and the truckload of other young boys to the nearest covert military camp, where they would be made into soldiers to fight the enemy. The youngsters were all staring at the letter they had all received in the post that morning, summoning them to fight for the Résistance. As the truck bobbled down the cobbled streets of Paris, François gave little thought to what he was leaving behind, after all, he was leaving little behind. He was mainly concentrated on resenting the person who decided cobbled streets were a good idea.