Psychotic French Peasants

“Dina, hurry up! We don’t have all day, you know” I hear my best friend Lolitta call in agitation. We’re going to the Valley Fair mall today and Lolitta is looking antsy. That girl does not like to be kept waiting. “Just one more minute. I only have a few lines left, and then my masterpiece will be complete! Please?” I beg, doing my version of the sad puppy-dog eyes. I know, I know, very immature for a girl of 16, not to mention overdramatic, but what can I say? Blame it on the psychotic, French peasants. That’s right, psychotic. French. Peasants. The reason I’m such a drama queen isn’t my fault either. It’s part of my character. What do you expect from an opera singer? Well, I was an opera singer in my past life. The way I see it, you can’t be a successful entertainer without a hint of drama in the mix. Singing and looking cute alone simply aren’t enough. What’s really sad though is that ever since I was reborn into, well, me; I haven’t been much of a performer. In fact, I have an immense case of stage fright. You would too, if you were killed right after your last performance. It all started with the French Revolution…

My name was Claris Rouge, and I was a young, 17-year old girl with a dream. I wanted to be rich and famous, and I was willing to do almost anything to achieve that dream. I had a beautiful voice and quite an impressive stage presence, but what I lacked was money. It’s ironic that in order to get rich, one must have some money to begin with. I had a passion for music and a deep love for the stage, but I couldn’t just show up and start singing. I had to look professional, and that meant I needed one of those expensive-yet-exquisite dresses. The ones with the tight bodice and the enormous skirts that flared out at the waist and looked like there was a hoola-hoop stuck in them. Now, as a peasant’s daughter, my family didn’t have much money, and those dresses were completely out of the question. So, it seemed, my dreams were never to be fulfilled.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, with the classic clear, blue sky and a light wind blowing about. The aromas of the town were intoxicating: the sweet smell of chocolate cakes and other pastries wafting from the bakery, the smell of flowers and freshly cut grass coming from the nearby park, and the general atmosphere of my town was so inviting and comforting that it made me smile. I was just wondering around when I decided that although I could not afford to buy one of those fancy dresses, I could look at them. I walked into the dress shop and started browsing through its ample supply of dresses. It was a busy day at the store, so no one noticed me, and I had the freedom to look around without being bothered. It was then that I met my soon-to-be husband, although I obviously did not know that then.

His name was Françoise de Lión, and he was quite handsome for a man of his age. Forty-three to be exact. This might seem repulsive to you, because in our day and age, it is considered wrong, not to mention illegal, for a man in his forties to marry a 17-year old girl, but such age differences were very commonplace in the 1700s. He saw me leaving the store with a frown on my face, and approached me. He said, “A beautiful lady such as yourself should not be frowning. She should be rejoicing for not all women have her magnificent looks. So tell me, Angel, why are you so glum?” I know, that is such a cheesy line, but this was Paris. Frenchmen…go figure… So, despite the fact that the man in front of me was more than twice my age, and despite the fact that his idea of flirting was using the cheesiest lines imaginable, we ended up falling in love, and got married two months later, on April 15, 1788.

About a year later, we were starting to realize the difficulties of marriage. We bickered over the dumbest things. Something as insignificant as misplaced shoes or a plate could cause an argument. I think it was the separation. Françoise was one of the most successful merchants of his time, working not only for the wealthy, but for royalty as well. This was good for my career – due to his money and connections I quickly made a name for myself as a talented opera singer. I performed in the best concert halls all over France. This is what caused the problems in our marriage though. The traveling I had to do to keep up my career, and the traveling he had to do for his business were just… unavoidable. We barely spent any time together, and when we were together, instead of making the most of it, we fought. This was a very stressful time in my life. Unfortunately, things were about to get much, much worse.

Things in Paris, in France in general, were not going well. People were starving and had to resort to things such as robbery to get a morsel of bread. The prices kept rising, and the higher the prices got, the more the “commoners”, formally known as the Third Estate, became angry. King Louis XVI wasn’t making things any better. He took poor care of the people’s hard-earned money, and when he started charging the peasants higher taxes, while lowering the barely-existent taxes on the rich… that was the last straw. The peasants revolted, and after Louis was guillotined, the Reign of Terror began. Anyone who had any relation to the King or a nobleman was killed. Well, there was usually a hearing first, but the judge and the jury was flagrantly biased, so it is an understatement to say that the hearings were pointless and unfair. I was scared for my life because, not only did my husband associate with nobles, he worked for the King. That’s an indisputable death sentence. Forget the hearing, I knew I was lucky if I wasn’t killed on the spot. Then again, that could have been a blessing, considering the conditions of the run down, filthy, infested jail cells.

I knew my time was running out, but I didn’t realize just how close I was to death. It was March 20, 1794, and I was in the middle of the living room, practicing one of my songs for a show I hoped to live long enough to perform in. The show would take place in London, which was one of the main reasons why I was so anxious to perform there. Anywhere outside of France would have been heavenly. So there I was, singing my little heart out, when I heard someone banging on the door. Françoise was out of town at the moment, so I was all alone, and I swear my stomach dropped all the way to my toes when I heard that knocking. BANG. BANG. BANG. I knew what was coming, but I thought to myself, “Well if I’m going to die anyway, I might as well at least finish my song.” As I finished the last words of my song, the door burst open and a group of four men and two women sauntered in. They sneered at me and asked, “Ready to die, Madame?” I probably shouldn’t have said, “No. Are you?” but I did. I was never very good at keeping my mouth shut. Oh well, they were going to kill me anyway. They got angry, and literally dragged me outside. They shoved me onto the smelly cart that was carrying all the other prisoners, and walked away, laughing. I sat in the corner of the cart, trying to calm my furiously beating heart.

The next thing I knew, I was in front of the courtroom doors. The hearing was a blur. All I remember was the word ‘Guilty’ being shouted and once again, being dragged away, but this time to my own little hell hole, otherwise known as the jail cell. The next morning a guard led me to the stand with the guillotine and shoved me toward it. “Any last words, sweetie?” he asked. “Just that I’d appreciate it if you removed your greasy claws off my arm,” I replied. He didn’t seem very pleased at my response, but I didn’t care. This guy was about to kill me; I didn’t see the need for pleasantries. I can’t remember what happened afterward, but it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to guess that I was beheaded by the guillotine. That was how I died.

I was reborn almost 200 years later on October 13, 1988, in Russia. Russia is still Europe, but at least I wasn’t reborn in France. Currently, I live in the U.S. with my little sister Sasha, my mom, and my dad. While I do live in a completely different time period and a different country, some things haven’t changed since my last life. I still love the arts, except this time around I draw instead of sing. I love music, and if I didn’t have such a horrible voice, I would probably still be a singer. However, since in my last life my larynx was crushed when I was beheaded, some damage must have remained because I tend to scare children away when I attempt singing. Also, my neck gets red splotches on it sometimes for no reason. I assume that’s because that is where the guillotine blade went through when I died. To this day, I still don’t know when to shut up, and I continue to write songs. Mostly though, I write poetry. The words are confined to paper so it isn’t the same as singing, but it’s a step in the right direction. Someday, I might get professional voice training and thereby reconnect even more with my past life. Either way, whether it is 1788 or 2005, I am still me, just with a few “modifications”.