Even on the most sweltering days there is an icy wind that only the wholly unfortunate and the truly empathetic can feel. It exhales from the lungs of men as they whistle on the streets, ignoring the deprived as they plead for help. It gives a chill even in summer, but is insufferable in the winter.
The beauty of privilege is that one can simply disregard suffering as if it were little more than a bothersome hum of voices in a café. The depraved and desperate are merely background noise to those who cannot be bothered to listen carefully.
The horror of poverty is that one cannot hope to be heard. Like a nightmare, where the dreamer longs to scream for help but cannot find a voice, life passes by with raspy words going unheeded by the waking world. The poor cannot awaken and be restored of their tongues.
A good day for the destitute is measured in negatives: how many passersby did not spit upon them, how much behavior was not seen by the police... The days are measured this way because to measure by positives would leave them nothing to measure at all.
For one girl, it was almost a good day.
The girl is young, but her face is lined. To look upon her is to witness years of hardship in a single moment. Misery is thrust upon the beholder in a defining burst. It is easier to look away.
It was almost a good day because only one man spit on her, and he still decided to take her up on her proposition. Most ignored her, but several people tossed her coins. Eponine knew her father would be pleased. Maybe he would be so pleased he would not notice that she and her sister had lost his letters... Maybe he would be so pleased that tonight she would fall asleep of her own accord, rather than going unconscious at the delivery of a slap or a punch... Those were always the best days.
..............................
Like all her days, the good day began with a shiver. The broken window above what passed her for bed let in the bitter February air. Azelma, curled up in the corner and dominating their ragged blanket, did not stir as Eponine shuddered and sat up. She had slept only briefly and was reluctant to acknowledge the morning. Gazing about her she saw that her father was already busy writing letters and her mother was busy watching him do so. Theirs was not an equal partnership.
Upon seeing his eldest daughter awake and alert, Thenardier exclaimed, "Well it looks like Sleeping Beauty has decided to wake up. Maybe now she'll get her lazy ass out of bed and earn her keep, the lousy slut."
Eponine, either unaware of or impervious to her father's verbal barbs, trudged across the room to poke at the cold ashes in the fireplace.
"We might have a fire if someone besides me bothered to lift a finger around here," grumbled Thenardier. "Oh my, the precious little princesses mustn't dirty their hands..."
Eponine gazed at her hands. They were brown and coarse, with dry patches and deep lines. Her fingernails were bitten down and her cuticles were caked with dirt and scabby hangnails.
"Princess my ass..." she muttered.
She continued to poke listlessly at the ashes. Azelma, awakened by her father's rumblings, took up her usual position next to her mother and sat staring blankly ahead. Eponine looked at her and wondered if the girl ever really looked at her life or if she merely looked through it.
While Eponine contemplated her sister Thenardier signed his last letter with flourish, and while doing so broke his pen.
"That's right! Break my pen! You've broken everything else! Is that what I get for trying to earn an honest living! A broken pen and two good-for-nothing daughters?!" he cursed to the sky, to a God he didn't believe in.
"Well no matter, at least these are written. Here. Take them, and don't go getting off track, either. You're carrying our livelihood- if you lose them I'll beat you raw, my darlings. You don't want to know how raw..."
Eponine took the letters from him and gave him a bored look. "Papa, is there any threat you haven't already made?"
Thenardier gave her a slap across the face, though not a terribly hard one. "You remember who does the work around here, little Mademoiselle."
Eponine shrugged and headed out the door, leaving Azelma behind. And not caring much at that.
In the street the familiarity of the worn out buildings and worn out people did nothing to comfort her. Her head throbbed from lack of rest, lack of food...an all around lack, really.
Her gait was listless, making her look dazed, perhaps a little lost. She had no desire to do her father's bidding nor to seek out something better to do. She trod wearily on, but only because there was no place to sit but the ground and it was covered in dirty snow. She felt nervous. She racked her mind for a reason to feel so, but could think of none.
"Becoming a lunatic as well," she thought. "I suppose it fits."
The beauty of privilege is that one can simply disregard suffering as if it were little more than a bothersome hum of voices in a café. The depraved and desperate are merely background noise to those who cannot be bothered to listen carefully.
The horror of poverty is that one cannot hope to be heard. Like a nightmare, where the dreamer longs to scream for help but cannot find a voice, life passes by with raspy words going unheeded by the waking world. The poor cannot awaken and be restored of their tongues.
A good day for the destitute is measured in negatives: how many passersby did not spit upon them, how much behavior was not seen by the police... The days are measured this way because to measure by positives would leave them nothing to measure at all.
For one girl, it was almost a good day.
The girl is young, but her face is lined. To look upon her is to witness years of hardship in a single moment. Misery is thrust upon the beholder in a defining burst. It is easier to look away.
It was almost a good day because only one man spit on her, and he still decided to take her up on her proposition. Most ignored her, but several people tossed her coins. Eponine knew her father would be pleased. Maybe he would be so pleased he would not notice that she and her sister had lost his letters... Maybe he would be so pleased that tonight she would fall asleep of her own accord, rather than going unconscious at the delivery of a slap or a punch... Those were always the best days.
..............................
Like all her days, the good day began with a shiver. The broken window above what passed her for bed let in the bitter February air. Azelma, curled up in the corner and dominating their ragged blanket, did not stir as Eponine shuddered and sat up. She had slept only briefly and was reluctant to acknowledge the morning. Gazing about her she saw that her father was already busy writing letters and her mother was busy watching him do so. Theirs was not an equal partnership.
Upon seeing his eldest daughter awake and alert, Thenardier exclaimed, "Well it looks like Sleeping Beauty has decided to wake up. Maybe now she'll get her lazy ass out of bed and earn her keep, the lousy slut."
Eponine, either unaware of or impervious to her father's verbal barbs, trudged across the room to poke at the cold ashes in the fireplace.
"We might have a fire if someone besides me bothered to lift a finger around here," grumbled Thenardier. "Oh my, the precious little princesses mustn't dirty their hands..."
Eponine gazed at her hands. They were brown and coarse, with dry patches and deep lines. Her fingernails were bitten down and her cuticles were caked with dirt and scabby hangnails.
"Princess my ass..." she muttered.
She continued to poke listlessly at the ashes. Azelma, awakened by her father's rumblings, took up her usual position next to her mother and sat staring blankly ahead. Eponine looked at her and wondered if the girl ever really looked at her life or if she merely looked through it.
While Eponine contemplated her sister Thenardier signed his last letter with flourish, and while doing so broke his pen.
"That's right! Break my pen! You've broken everything else! Is that what I get for trying to earn an honest living! A broken pen and two good-for-nothing daughters?!" he cursed to the sky, to a God he didn't believe in.
"Well no matter, at least these are written. Here. Take them, and don't go getting off track, either. You're carrying our livelihood- if you lose them I'll beat you raw, my darlings. You don't want to know how raw..."
Eponine took the letters from him and gave him a bored look. "Papa, is there any threat you haven't already made?"
Thenardier gave her a slap across the face, though not a terribly hard one. "You remember who does the work around here, little Mademoiselle."
Eponine shrugged and headed out the door, leaving Azelma behind. And not caring much at that.
In the street the familiarity of the worn out buildings and worn out people did nothing to comfort her. Her head throbbed from lack of rest, lack of food...an all around lack, really.
Her gait was listless, making her look dazed, perhaps a little lost. She had no desire to do her father's bidding nor to seek out something better to do. She trod wearily on, but only because there was no place to sit but the ground and it was covered in dirty snow. She felt nervous. She racked her mind for a reason to feel so, but could think of none.
"Becoming a lunatic as well," she thought. "I suppose it fits."