Paul Verlaine

It was already light outside and the sun was shining, but Verlaine didn't care; all he wanted was to get home. His vision was dark and swimming, which for the blond was merely a continuation of the merciless darkness that had begun his life. His steps up the old wooden steps of their little house in the French countryside were heavy, each one echoing with unbearable pain in his chest. Even normal walking was torture now. The light sand-colored coat usually draped over his shoulders was now torn and soaked in Paul's scarlet blood. The sleeves of his black shirt, usually rolled up, were now down, concealing a multitude of abrasions, bruises, and hematomas. His blond hair was disheveled, some strands escaping from his ponytail and sticky with blood. His dark brown eyes were clouded with excruciating pain. Verlaine fumbled for the key in his pocket, his fingers trembling with pain. Inserting the key into the lock and turning it a couple of times, he opened the door. As soon as Paul stepped inside, the pain surged again. Breathing became almost impossible, a sharp, piercing sensation in his chest signaled broken ribs. His left arm hung like a dead weight. He took a step inside, but his legs wouldn't obey. His vision darkened, and Paul's body collapsed to the hallway floor.