The Bastille: I can feel the footsteps of the revolution on my back, they are coming to take us down. They will steal our weapons and free the prisoners I have held captive for so long. I can feel the dark and gloomy clouds rest on my shoulders. Many starving men writhe inside of my full stomach. They claw up my slippery throat toward their lost freedom. They struggle to escape my pit, searching for air and any glimmer of light within themselves. I can smell the red wine which they are thirsty for. Their stomachs rumble and shake inside me, they are hungry for justice. Little do they know, deep within my bowels lurks the hidden secrets of the Evremonde family. All of the aristocrats were killed inside of me. All of the secrets that once were only seen by my eyes, have been set free.
La Guillotine: The taste of the red wine tingles on my tongue, I can taste the innocence. They’re bringing me more and more of the deliciously satisfying wine. My jaw cuts through the thick, tasty skin and bone of those who deserve it. The cries of the people screech in my ears. I am hungry for more. The taste is sweet and savory. My jaw chops off the heads like a sharp knife. The corpses lay beside me, watching my every move.
The Chateau of Evremonde: The revolution is coming. Ghosts live inside of me, as knives penetrate through the souls of men. Flames appear on my skin, they burn as they make a crackling noise that hurts my ears. The heat is unbearable, the burns on my skin turn black and burnt like charcoal. The stone faces watch me as the fire rises up my side. I am becoming contained by the red, burning fire. The flames cleanse my walls from the hatred that I contained for so long. However, I will not fall, I will stand tall and brave.
Old Bailey: I can smell the sweat on the brow of those who walk on me, their nerves taking over their bodies. All who walk by fear the courthouse. They tremble at the thought of a trial. The feet shake above me, scared for their lives. Their pace quickens as they approach the dreaded courthouse, they rumble above me. The doorkeeper is like a guard dog, waiting for more victims to accuse. Mr. Cruncher fears the courthouse that sits peacefully on top of me. All that walk on my back an are carried on my shoulders quiver in fear of the thought of being accused.
