Stay in here. The request was simple enough.

Little white blisters covered his arms and shoulders, he was sure they littered his back as well. He could feel them oozing clear, sticky fluid with each step. Every movement felt tight and restricted, as if his tunic were three sizes to small. Yet he wore no shirt, he hadn’t all day. It was his skin that had become so tight. All because he hadn’t listened to Master. "Stay in here" Master had said. He had disobeyed.

After ringing the bells he had made his way up to the top of the bell tower with breakfast, some wood and his carving tools. It was only a couple hours. Well, closer to four, maybe five. Or was it eight? He had left the tower’s summit to ring the bells periodically. Then returned to his carving. It was a beautiful summer day. Bright, sunny. He just had to leave the darkness of his tower, if only for a while. It had been a beautiful day. Watching the clouds as they drifted by.

Quasimodo had stared up into the early morning sky. White dogs transformed into rabbits, horses, snakes, then disappeared into fluffy white bits. An hour later, the clear blue sky melted into one of wispy white clouds, hazy and humid. The lead roof was beginning to get hot. Taking off his shirt, he lay it underneath him as protection from the metal of the roof. Having finished his first carving of a small child he set it onto the sheet metal. While admiring his work, a slight breeze toppled the little figure, which then proceeded to roll down the roof and toward the rainspout. Quickly rising, he tiptoed across the hot roof toward the figure, which sat on lodged between the safety of the roof and the abyss below. Reaching out with his thumb and forefinger he inched the figure toward him. The figure toppled down toward the city below; another lost.

Removing his shoes, he set each figure into them as he finished. No more would end up on the street below. Of course, what if those little figures survived their fall? If they happened to be found by one of those small, laughing children he had seen dancing among the crowds so many times. He smiled as he held up a fresh piece of wood. What would a child make of such a thing? Would they pass it off as a piece of kindling, or bring it home to keep as a cherished possession?

Six unpainted models now sat at his workbench, he had sang a few songs and thought of new ways to ring the Angelus. Master must never find out, but surely he would. He’s see it on his face, he never could hide much from him, however hard he tried. Mercy was his only hope from such an unforgiving master. Now it was evening, and he was paying dearly for having such a joyful day. It was not only the pain that was unbearable, but the itch. The thick purple scars on his back burned as if they had been freshly laid. He clawed at every reachable part of his upper body with his large fingertips. Unbearable. Tight and burning all over; every movement was agony.

Yet the bells still had to be rung. It was time to call the people to evening mass. People that had never seen him, people who may not even be aware of his existence; a service that he would never attend. Filling his ladle with water he poured it onto his burning skin. The relief was short. Donning a dark blue tunic, Quasimodo crawled slowly up the ladder toward his beloved bells. Less movement meant less pain. Thinking back to his early bell-ringing days, Quasimodo soon realized that the masses could be summoned with a simple, unadorned tolling if only for one night.

Finally, it was over. Leaving the ropes to swing freely on their own, he returned to his wooden village where six people awaited him. Carefully, and slowly, reaching amongst the freshly-carved figures, he took one of a young woman into his hand. She would be the gypsy girl with blonde hair, as he had seen walking about the square early that morning with the gypsy leader. Absent mindedly dipping the tip of his weathered brush into the light blue paint, he looked out towards the west. People were filing into the cathedral, a black-robed figure and two soldiers not far behind them. His hand let go of the brush, which then slid softly into the paint. Master would be here at any moment. Running his right hand over the red, sun-blistered skin of his left arm and shoulder, Quasimodo shuddered. If only he’d stayed in here.