The Greatest Showman #957 - Shine

The figure of Bishop Miliere remained motionless, but Jean Valjean, stunned, staggered backward in disbelief. He faltered, retreated further, and then fled in panic and shame.

The lights on stage gradually dimmed, leaving the two sides cloaked in darkness, with only a single bright spot remaining in the center. Bishop Miliere's figure slowly faded into the shadow on the left.

Jean Valjean's figure stumbled across most of the stage. The spotlight cast a stark outline of shock, shame, and fear. His strong shoulders and back quivered, as if the weight of the earth was pulling him down. His face, caught between light and shadow, revealed a trace of panic, disrupting the otherwise quiet, sacred atmosphere. Finally, he disappeared into the shadow on the right.

The stage was left empty, save for the warm glow of the lights, cascading softly like a waterfall.

A brief silence lingered in the Almeida Theater, the effect of just a single staggering figure. It revealed the depths of Jean Valjean's shock and panic, allowing the audience enough time to absorb Bishop Miliere's words. The tension simmered, quietly fermenting.

Marc-Lacante's eyes widened, fixated on the empty stage. His heartbeat quickened, his breathing slowed. A rebellious silence surged in his chest, and the taste of confusion and conflict, bitter and sweet, lingered in his mind. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists.

Even if he didn't understand why.

"What have I done?" A faint self-question in the shadows of the stage struck a chord deep in Marc's heart. It was a soul-searching torment, but also a moral reckoning. Everything that had transpired over the last thirty-five minutes replayed in his mind like a flashing light.

A wave of warmth covered Marc's eyes. He had witnessed Jean Valjean's fall, but he also saw the collapse of an entire era. Jean Valjean, a seemingly insignificant figure, encapsulated all the tragedies of the times and society.

With heavy steps, Jean Valjean reappeared, his shoulders slumped. The darkness that had weighed on him slowly dissipated, a faint light casting his figure in relief. His head was tilted upward, lost, as if seeking something in the heavens, but unable to see it. There was an unmistakable sense of confusion and helplessness.

He slowly approached the front of the stage, kneeling heavily. It seemed as if the weight of his entire body collapsed onto his knees. The theater fell into a profound stillness—no music, no lines, not even a breath. The sound of his kneeling echoed through the room like a thunderous beat on the heart, and the world seemed to listen.

Marc instinctively sat up straighter, drawn closer by the raw, unfiltered emotion pouring from the stage. The impact, though overwhelming, cut through all distractions. It felt as though nothing could shield him from the force of Jean Valjean's pain. He sat, stunned, unable to tear himself away from the baptism of emotion unfolding before him.

"Merciful Jesus, what have I done?" Jean Valjean's anguished cry trembled in the air, the panic in his eyes growing as he sank deeper into his own despair. It was as though he were drowning, unable to fight the rising tide, each wave threatening to engulf him entirely.

In that moment of desperation, Jean Valjean clenched his fists, his voice cracking with pain. "To be a shameless thief in the dark? A fugitive? Is this my fate? Has it all come to this? Am I lost forever? Only hatred roars in my heart!"

His fists trembled with the force of his inner turmoil, his body shaking as he tried to contain his emotions. He inhaled deeply, trying to regain control, and when his eyes opened again, they burned with a fierce anger. "In the darkness, no one hears my roar!"

With slow, deliberate movement, he stood up, shoulders shaking slightly from the weight of his own emotions. His gaze turned toward the sky as if searching for something—anything—to cling to. All the anger, fear, and frustration inside him erupted, "Now, I stand at a crossroads in my life, but had fate offered me another chance, I would have missed it twenty years ago!"

"My life is a battle already lost," he continued, his steps becoming more forceful, his voice full of raw emotion. "They gave me a glimpse of something familiar, only to take everything else away!" His anger surged as he approached the edge of the stage, standing on the precipice as if teetering between defiance and despair. "They chained me, waited for me to die, all because I stole a piece of bread!"

Anger, grief, injustice—all poured out of him, a torrent of emotions that dragged him down once more.

Marc watched, transfixed, unable to look away. He felt Jean Valjean's rage and his helplessness, his anger and despair, more acutely than ever before. The storm of emotions had been building for thirty-five minutes, and now it had all been unleashed in an explosive outburst that filled the entire theater.

Jean Valjean's retreat began, his steps faltering as the anger slowly drained from him, replaced by a weary sadness. His shoulders relaxed, his fists unclenched. He returned to the center of the stage, bathed in the light—now softer, almost tender, like an angel's wings brushing his wounds.

But that tenderness only made the pain more unbearable.

He wished he could keep the anger, the hate. It would be simpler that way. To hate the world, to reject help, and use his own strength to fight back against the cruelty of life. Without love and kindness, life might be easier in this dark age.

But now, as he stood, a faint glimmer of fragility showed in his posture. He raised his head, the soft light catching the tear in his eye, a reflection of the internal battle raging within him. Despite all his anger, his soul was torn.

"Why do I let this man touch my soul? Why does he teach me kindness?" Jean Valjean's steps faltered, as if he were approaching something he both feared and longed for. His heart was a mix of joy and terror, tenderness and suspicion. But, despite the inner conflict, he took another step forward. "He saw me as I am—a man, not a monster. He trusted me, called me 'brother,' and prayed for my soul. How is this possible?"

His pace slowed again, hesitation overtaking him. The battle between bitterness and the promise of redemption raged within him. He stepped back, the weight of his own inner conflict pulling him further into the shadows. "I've hated this world, and the world has always hated me in return," he muttered bitterly. "Eye for an eye! Heart of stone, cold and ruthless. This is how I've survived. This is what I've believed!"

The ferocity returned, his anger surging again. The savage bitterness in his eyes was unmistakable, his face contorted in a grimace of rage. His disheveled beard and the dirt on his face made him seem like a devil returning from hell, his expression consuming the entire stage.

Marc, too, was consumed by the raw power of Jean Valjean's fury. His own chest tightened as he felt the weight of it, a mixture of grief and frustration that he couldn't put into words. Tears welled in Marc's eyes as he watched this man, this lost soul, reach the depths of his torment.

Then Jean Valjean's eyes filled with tears again, not from fragility, but from confusion and fear. He had held it all in for so long, and now, in the face of kindness, it all began to unravel. "If he only spoke the words, I would return to hell," Jean Valjean whispered, his voice breaking. "He freed me, and now I am torn—ashamed and cut to the bone!"

Jean Valjean's hand clenched into a fist once more, but his strength faltered. Unable to contain the emotional storm, he fell to his knees, his face contorted with despair. His arms trembled as if he wanted to lash out, but in the end, he lowered them, his body wracked with pain.