The sun's rays beat heavy upon the crowd that morning. It was a Saturday, the same day of the week that all of this had begun. Only a few months ago had those gunshots shattered his life and mine, but it seemed like two different lives now.
There was a decently large crowd, but I did not seem to belong among them. They were dressed in their everyday attire, waiting impatiently to get a view of him where I was dressed in black; the color seemed more than appropriate for what was going to come. As I stood I could hear people chatting among themselves. Many were speaking of him, talking about the 'horrific' crime he committed.
"He's a heartless bastard! Someone who doesn't even feel sorrow for his mother's death or even the slightest bit of remorse for killing someone deserves worse than this. He shall rot in hell for what he's done!"The hatred from the crowd radiated around me, which made me feel out of place because I felt nothing but sorrow and pity.
Albert Camus' tombstone in Lourmarin
Drawing
Convention crowd, Chicago (LOC)Meursault wasn't a horrible person, he just made a mistake.
Time passed and the sun grew higher in the sky. The crowd was becoming more and more impatient. Every few minutes someone else would yell something that stung me; something about him, the man I had once loved or maybe still did love. Even though everyone around me was shouting for the guards to bring him out, I was hoping they never would, hoping that maybe- by some miracle- that they would release him; that maybe someone would say he didn't deserve this. It was a false hope that had been with me since the day I had heard of his sentence, a hope that was like poison. If I allowed myself to think...