#c'est la fuckin' vie; | isms.

[ofthesepulchre]

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

Montparnasse jolted awake, chest heaving and sweat soaking his fringe so that the hair plastered itself to his forehead. In the darkness, his eyes struggled to adjust, searching around for a source of light as a reference of his surroundings. His hands reached up to push the hair out of his eyes, grasping to have something to hold onto while he stilled his hurried breathing. The cell was empty, just as it was before. His eyes had finally adjusted to the dark when he gazed around at the lonely grey stone, a single blue-white square on the wall opposite of him assuring him that there truly was a world outside the walls of the La Force.

“Just a few days, just a little vacation. You like that, don’t you?” Claquesous had mocked, laughing behind the mask as he- unlike Montparnasse- had disappeared into the night. The youth had often felt resentment towards the older man, but now it had grown into a dark hatred- imagine leaving one of your own there to be shackled and imprisoned? The betrayal felt sour, though Montparnasse had always had a sense that the masked one had no intention of staying loyal- no matter how much he bet his childish whims on it. He clenched his jaw- imagined himself sinking his knife into what he thought was flesh - though some part of him was still convinced he would stab into pure air instead. It was not the first time he had ended up here.

Montparnasse had spent many a day of his life within these walls, awaiting the release that would eventually come once one of his patrons had heard the news and managed to send a letter- assuring that he was just a wayward youth- he would improve and “oh you mustn’t be so cruel to him!”

A wayward youth- corrupted. After all, was he not just that? Was he not just a lazy idler, a beast of burden in the team of Hell, as the old man once had told him? The speech had lingered for longer than Montparnasse had thought it would, the words burnt into his head that he will enter young and rosy- yet come out broken bent and wrinkled - his vain desires for finery and luxury creating a path he was unlikely to break out of if he did not address the desires for idleness and comfort. “The hardest of all work is thieving.”

What did he know of that, anyway? Besides, Montparnasse’s desire for finery was only the product of yearning for what he had never had, the thrill of doing what was undesirable- an act of rebellion against a world that had cast him as unwanted. After all, he had never known his father, hardly knew his mother. Perhaps that is where it had gone wrong? It was never of his own doing that he had become this way, he had argued to himself- no, it must be the world that was wrong. Or perhaps he was wrong himself- though he found that his own philosophy of idleness had worked far better than anything he had been told by any priest. No, the resentment of the hypocrisy of the church fuelled him more than anything else. He fed into each of the seven heads of the sinful beast that resided within him, rebelling against the rigid systems that had decided for him how and what he should be.

Montparnasse held no conscience that came to gnaw on his roots, saw no fault within himself, rather felt the fiery burning passion of hatred and resentment that had been sown by the seeds of his position grow into vines that twisted and bound themselves to him. All his acts of rebellion were justified, for they were acts upon which he showed himself as Lucifer speaking up against a God that never truly loved him. His eyes cast up at the fine light shining in from the moonlight. His lips had curled into a snarl following his train of thought and his brows had furrowed.

Now he sat there, much like a sour child, gazing hatefully at the light which in his mind represented the higher power that had obviously cast him here.He had fallen. He had fallen yet he welcomed the fall, for it was his own doing- and Montparnasse always had control- he always had the upper hand (so he believed), so they could take their words and their rituals and shove them up where the sun didn’t shine. The shackles placed on his wrists before he was tossed into the cell had reminded him of the imprisonment that was him inside his own mind, trapped in the labyrinths of thoughts and consciousness. He was writhing and fighting against the shackles placed there by the morality and the consequences of his fall into idleness, the morality that held him in place and was there to make him compliant. He had rebelled against it- fought against the shackles and broken free- it was his own doing! All he did was himself, and nothing else - the choices made were for him- and him only. A virus preying upon society.

If they wanted him to be this- had branded him to be this- so be it. He knew that he would be back again - no matter how many times they tossed him in. The sound of footsteps broke him out the rush of resentment that had imprisoned his mind, and Montparnasse averted his gaze to the door. A rustling of keys, keys entering the lock, turning - and the door opened. One of the prison guards with the sour face of a man who’d clearly never known the pleasures of flesh unless it was paid for under the table looked at him for a second.

“They are letting you out. Again.”

A smirk broke out on the youth’s face. The cogs began moving again, churning, turn⁷ing, watching Montparnasse leave the prison with easy steps, sauntering down to the sewers with the moonlight tracing the brim of his hat. Something that Claquesous once had said to him echoed within his mind, lines from something he never had read himself, though the words had burned into his consciousness: “And, when night darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.”

[ofthesepulchre]

me looking at my dash and seeing all of your wonderful inspiring analysis posts about ur muses meanwhile im here thinking about how montparnasse would 1000% try to become either an influencer or just do a tinder scam in a modern au

[ofthesepulchre]

oh me? no im just thinking about a drabble i did many years ago where montparnasse after the barricade falls, comes to pick some loot and accidentally finds eponine and gavroche laid side by side.

and the onslaught of emotions hes gonna bottle up inside and dull with copious amounts of drink in the graveyard. and how he cant keep the nausea away. and that he in that moment wants nothing anymore bcus there is nothing to have. xoxo

[ofthesepulchre]

raised by a woman who had to do sex work to survive, no father present. alone most of the time - lack of warmth of any kind - learning to survive at a way too young age. developing self worth through vanity and a certain flavour of narcissism - life of crime.

[ofthesepulchre]

montparnasse voice: bon the fuck jour

[ofthesepulchre]

montparnasse has curated his persona to such a degree that anything that falls outside the realm of "montparnasse" becomes foreign, becomes something to shun. something to forget. but he does not forget his own name. the name before montparnasse- the name only the dead know. christophe.

but, no one wants christophe. christophe cannot do what he does. christophe belongs to the stones in the cemetery. christophe died the day that montparnasse was born. the day that the stain upon his heart became so big and so strong that it rubbed off on all that lies around it. he has embraced the darkness to survive-to be able to run away from who he is, or - simply out of sheer boredom.

so for now christophe lays there, asleep beneath the stones. perhaps this is why you may see montparnasse lingering around the graveyard, muttering to himself. speaking to no one in particular.

[ofthesepulchre]

If you care to know, I named my Montparnasse Christophe. That's his "civillian" name. :3c

[ofthesepulchre]

"Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard, and who was engaged in thought for the first time in his life, perceived nothing."

no thoughts just vibes, xoxo parnasse