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Stolen Heart
By : angelgirl1242
Category: Individual Celebrities > Arthur Rimbaud
Views: 1295 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: This is pure fiction. I do not know Paul Verlaine or Arthur Rimbaud (they are dead now anyway) and I make no money from this writing. - Chapter List
- 1
Disclaimer: I wrote this after reading “The Stolen Heart” by Arthur Rimbaud. This story is real person fan fiction; however, the people involved are long dead. The story itself is fiction. Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud were romantically involved and Arthur was either gang raped (the position this story takes) or witnessed the gang rape that the poem and story are based on. Unfortunately, not having been alive about a hundred and some odd years ago, all the dialogue and such have been made up by yours truly. The story is from Arthur’s point of view.
The cobblestones under my bare skin are cold and unforgiving. I focus on those stones, my eyes tracing the various curves and paths between the rocks. The pathways sometimes doubled, sometimes blurred as tears filled my eyes. I didn’t fight, even when they switched places or called me a pig. Too tired to put up even token resistance, I endure all.
When they finished, I pick up my damaged trousers and wounded pride. I walk home. My heart is left on the cobblestones where they had smashed it.
***
He watches me. I could feel his eyes on my legs, on my ass. I rejoice in this, wiggling my ass slightly as I walk past him. He looks shocked and I know that he knows that I saw him staring at me. I wink before tossing back my head. My eyes now looking towards the roads and streets in front of me, I walk. I never look behind me, but I know that he’s following.
He fucks me in an alley. My face is smashed against the filthy bricks of a Persian bar as he pounds into my behind. When he finishes, he tries to kiss me. I turn my head away and pull up my trousers. I never see him again.
I never ask his name.
***
He lies next to me, sleeping. His face is smooth and untroubled in sleep. I trace my fingers over the curves and lines of his face. His name is on my tongue. I repeat it over and over again (“Paul Verlaine, Paul Verlaine, Paul Verlaine). His name rolls around my mouth like sweet wine. The taste makes me ill to my stomach and I want to smash the baby skin under my fingertips.
“What are you thinking?” his eyes are open and staring up at me. I hadn’t realized when he woke up.
“Nothing.”
“Come, dear heart. Tell me. Are you thinking of how much you love me?”
My eyes meet his, “I don’t love you.”
“Then why are you with me?”
I leave the bed, the cheap mattress protesting my absence. Trousers, overcoat; all thrown on in quick semi-angry movements. He watches me; I can feel his eyes burn my clothed skin. I don’t have to look to know the insecurity and accusation in those eyes. I can feel that too.
***
“I love your legs,” he strokes my right thigh. “I love the way they look wrapped around my waist…our cocks trapped between us.”
“God, I am so fucking sick of you saying that,” I hit him hard on the left shoulder and he laughs.
“You’re such a heathen, you know.”
It’s my turn to laugh, “Than why do you always say that you love me.”
His smile fades, “I do. Christ, I left my wife for you.”
“You’re an asshole. She would have stayed with you forever. I won’t do that.”
I roll over so that I’m not facing him anymore.
***
He hates me.
***
I hate him.
***
There’s pain as the bullet buries itself in my flesh. I stare at it, fascinated by the blood already seeping around the bullet and flowing slowly down my arm.
“You shot me, you asshole,” my voice sounds faint even to my ears.
He’s crying. His lips are moving, but I can’t make out any of the words. The world around me starts to fade and I can feel my body start to fall. I don’t know when I hit the ground.
***
He wrote me once, in a dream. The words on the page said, “Forgive me. Love me. Come back to me.” I toss the page into the fireplace as my mother silently watches. Her eyes are empty as are mine.
***
Years pass in a silent flurry. The dream never comes back. I think of him, as I’m sure he does me; yet, he is distant and no more real than other memories.
***
Once I held a heart in my hands and I smashed it on the cobblestones. He would have done the same if I could have given him mine…- 1
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