Chain Gang

[Jean Valjean]

The chain gang moaned in sadness, anger, grief. All the things that afflicted man and all the things that bound him to a ground far from the heavens of a destiny mot divine. Their lives had been robbed of happiness, hope, and joy, all the things that made humanity worth its existence. Yet, in a most cruel twist of fate, happiness was not entirely out of their reach, and hope was not all that irrational, yet these truths were kept from them, depleting them of their ability to see the light. There was hope. There was light. If only they knew of its presence.The angriest of these men, a slave by the name of Jean Valjean, had no idea of what sort of man he would become many years later. He would go on to know true happiness, to touch the face of God, so his life, while not altogether a tragedy but in fact the exact opposite, was in the present the darkest possible of lives. He was a stranger to all the goodness that waited just on the doorstep of his heart. He did not know of a better future, only the torment of the present. The crime of his condition was unforgivable.His head felt light. The sun was as hot as a brand against his skin. It would go up, shine upon his temple for twelve hours without relenting, and then go down, only to come back again and shine for twelve more hours. He couldn't take it. His strength was great; his resolve like iron, but he was human and with his limits. He collapsed against the ground, near the end of his rope. Mud soaked its way into the scruff of his beard.For a time, he felt that his angel had left him, and that he had ceased his journey in this world with all the haste that a shooting star hit the Earth, fallen out of their place. He was nothing. He was dead.A gloved hand grabbed him by the chin and lifted him up like a fish at the end of a hook. It hurt his neck and strained his patience."Is this prisoner 24601?" said the man."My name is Jean Valjean!" he replied. His iron resolve returned to him, his strength remembered. He was not a number, not some impersonal mass like the rocks of the Earth. He was a human being."Your time is up and your parole's begun," said the man. "Go free."Valjean did not believe him. He did not believe he would ever have true freedom. If only he had known then. Maybe his redemption would have come a few days sooner, which while inconsequential would have still been even better. Yet, it is here where we, the readers, must recall that it didn't matter when it came, but that it came nevertheless to pass that a sad man found peace.

24601