In the Silence

I meant to be quiet, but the gate creaked.

The sound echoed, and a pigeon flew from the roof.

55 Rue Plumet. 55 Rue Plumet.

I remember you whispering the words, over and over again.

55 Rue Plumet. The Rue Plumet.

Tentatively, I stretch my hand out. It brushes a cobweb; I don't care, I'm used to such things. A cobweb doesn't make a person bleed, not like a broken window.

For a moment, I can almost see you, pressed up against the gate, peering past me. I feel your presence.

"Don't tell anyone, 'Zelma, or I'll kill you," you say, a fierce light in your eyes. For a moment, I am afraid.

"Tell 'em what, 'Ponine?"

"The Rue Plumet."

"What about it?"

You toss your hair back, square your shoulders. "Never mind. It's just a biscuit, at any rate."

Now, I suppose that is true. No one lives here. Even the old man's gone. I saw him, you know, with his bourgeois daughter.

"Where are you going?"

You look at me, shrug. "Don't worry."

"Papa'll be furious," I say, and you laugh, a hollow laugh.

"Papa! What do I care?" I hear you kick a pebble over the pavement; it clatters into the darkness.

Then you turn to me. "Look after yourself," you say, "I know you can't. You never had much sense."

I should have replied. I should have told you that you'd never had much sense yourself. You never did. If you had, you'd never have gone. Not here, not to the barricades. You could be alive.

But you died long before then. I bet you died when you first came here. Whenever you'd come back, you'd have this look in your eyes. You were always the wild one, but at the end, you almost became tame. I wanted to hate you for it, but I couldn't.

Maman promised us a prince when we were little. Neither of us got any prince. 'Ponine- I remember you had that Baron but he didn't love you, he never did. I told you so, and you hit me. I remember the mark on my cheek. It still hurts, just a little, when I put my hand there. Maman yelled at you then. I wanted to yell at you.

I didn't often, though. Not even when you came back late, with that tired look in your eyes. Not even when 'Parnasse paid you more attention and you ignored him.

I step through the garden. It feels almost wrong- it's too quiet, I shouldn't be here. But I wanted to come, and you can't stop me now.

55 Rue Plumet.

"What'd you see, 'Ponine?"

"Nothing, 'Zelma!"

Your wild laugh scared me.

"There's a bench in that garden."

"What?"

You toss me a piece of stale black bread. "Shove this in your mouth and stop asking questions."

I see a bench to the left. Triumphantly, I sit on it. For a moment, I don't feel ugly. For a moment, I almost feel beautiful.

Bet you wanted to be here, 'Ponine, didn't you? Well, you didn't get here. I did.

I'm going, 'Ponine. I didn't tell anyone 'bout this place, not even 'Parnasse.

Maman will never know, she's in St Lazare, I don't know if she'll ever come out. Papa'll just think I'm hanging 'round where the Barricade was. I did after I found you, even after Babet emptied Clasquesous' pocket. He'll tell me I was stupid, but he always does, anyway. Least he doesn't hit me, like he hit you.

I close the gate. I mean to be quiet, but it squeaks- just a little.

For a moment, I almost think I hear a rustle behind me. But I know that you're dead.

I'm going now, 'Ponine. Papa says he's going to take me to America. I don't want to go, but I didn't want to go to the Gorbeau House, either, and I went.

I take one last glance at the house as I leave.

See, 'Ponine? I want to say. I went, and nobody found out.

You'd probably hit me for being stupid.

I wish you were here.

-

A/N: Sorry if this is badly written, out of character, soppy, or purple. I saw the LMFFI prompt, "I meant to be quiet, but the gate creaked" and then this came to my mind. It was quite odd and unexpected. If you liked it, yay, if you didn't, I'm sorry.

Anyway. Just thought I'd post this...