/lit/ - Literature

"Before the day ended, it was quite obvious that the house had belonged to a personage whose propriety was rather questionable. In having invited a man like Jacque inside, they had rather betrayed their lapse of judgment to their guests. His back had been turned around several times to a wall that echoed the chambermaids’ faults upon being repudiated once again. Their fault was simply mistaken for a rather unnecessary thing to him, when, having out-looked his promise, this ambassador simply fainted. Having been allowed to come freely in terms with being knocked out, by a puerile thing, a dispute between him and the other person, who had been his brother, time and time again, after catching up and again, the notion of time had somehow crossed him as being somewhat innate to him, he was found lying in his bed exhausted with a bottle of cherry, and mignon, and a pinch of biscuit dust. It was unnerving how pointless this whole debacle had been.

When allowed rumination, a man is often enough found at fault for many things he himself is unable to explain the reason behind, and would most likely not even come as cross as one would expect him to.

As for the utter incompetence of Palette, Jacque’s brother, he had returned one night, against the best wished of some servants, to finish what he had started, in order to put him out of commission. It was not, despite one’s expectations, a gentlemen’s duel, yet, as erroneous and incompetent as one might be, to recall what happened that night would be an act short of the will of god. For his righteousness alone guided the hand that stroke him down. The same hand which now and only now decided what fate would’ve come to trifle with if that were the case.

As for victor, whose spoils were spilled on the floor, as servants would attest, as an act in self-defense, the man could be crowned as none other than Jacque, whose reminded of his father now lay wasted in a pool of his own blood, carried by unworthy veins, spilled unevenly, despite having been elevated to those of a saint, as he would come to find out in the span of a few days. Since, to his knowledge there was nothing short of an infamy that through which his name was bedraggled.

By whose hand was it written? One might ask himself, but more than often, such questions end up showing up with no real answers, or some which would very much prove to be unsatisfactory to those degrading themselves with such little things of no consequence. While one might try proving the contrary, it’s rather obvious that there is some regret. A lot of it, not remorse, for the act that was carried off ruthlessly, if one might add, but because of some prior events that only now came to haunt him."

How bad is it?