It's raining outside and she has a fever. The candle in her room is about to go out and she can't bear the thought that the room will soon be plunged into darkness.
Come think about it, why is she afraid of the dark? She has often slept in it. Before she can think it through, lightning strikes somewhere in the horizon, and seconds later, thunder explodes, making her start violently out of her thoughts. As if on cue, the candle's fire agonizes and finally dies out, leaving her in the dark. A small whimper escapes her lips and she all but curls up on the bed, covering her head with the covers. She had never been afraid of thunder before, either. What was wrong with her? Had her illness really left her that weak in the head?
She doesn't even realize when she drifts off to sleep, still shivering.
She dreams of the streets, but not the friendly ones she walked as a child, when her naked feet danced on the stones gracefully. She dreams of a cold, unmerciful pavement, and even colder people, gazing at her with disgust painted on their features. She can't blame them…she is disgusted of herself too. She dreams herself, in her night dress, walking the streets with flowers in her hair and despair in tow, walking into the deep, deep darkness, and being engulfed by it.
There are monsters there.
She dreams of greedy hands that touch her, and grab her, and hold her to the ground or to the walls, rummaging in her clothes. She dreams of hungry eyes that set on her frame as though she were nothing but a piece of meat, fierce mouths that bite and suck on her skin, sickening heat that threatens to drown her and overwhelming shame that nauseates her; the tinkle of coins that fall on her hand when everything's said and done echoes like the toll of a church's bell. In her dream, she remains in the dark, her back against a wall that oozes a sticky dampness, her body limp as a doll's, her mind empty, then, suddenly, thunderbolt strikes over her head, momentarily lightening her. She can see everything, everything she's been reduced to; it appears before her eyes, bright as the sun, and she would like to avert her eyes, but she can't. From the back of her throat, from the bottom of her heart, a single scream makes way to her lips, exploding.
There are hands too, as she wakes up. She stirs and twists away from them, shrieking, trashing and punching at them, feeling her fists hitting a face and a body until someone grabs her wrists, immobilizing them.
'Don't make me go back', she thinks, and maybe she cries it out too 'Please don't make me go back, please, please…'
"Fantine!"
She freezes, recognizing the voice. The hands that grab her wrists are big, warm and reassuring. The face looking up at her from the edge of the bed is a dear one, and his gaze is comprehensive under the light of a newly lit candle. Tears swell in her eyes, and she feels her face contract as sobs escape her lips.
"Monsieur le Maire!" she cries, as he releases her wrists, and she realizes that if he was the one holding them, he must have been the one she hit. Her sobbing doubles. He panics.
"Please don't cry" he rushes, reaching for her, but not daring to touch her.
"B-but I hit y-y-you!" she sobs covering her eyes with her fists.
"It didn't hurt"
"But I h-h-hit you!"
"Fantine—" he reaches out for her again, but she scrambles away.
"Don't touch me!" she cries, burying her face in her hands. He freezes where he is, and though she can't see him, she knows she's hurt him "…I'm filthy" she adds, her voice quivery, while her tears slide down her face and through her fingers.
Her dream appears vividly in her mind, so much that her stomach turns and for a terrible moment, she's sure that she will vomit. Because it wasn't a dream, it was a memory; one among dozens of snippets that spoke of scum, heat and shame. That's why darkness now frightens her, that's why loud noises or movements stir her. She is afraid someone will come (Javert, or maybe her attacker from the last night she spent on the street) and drag her back to the slime and the mud, where she truly belongs. She cannot fool herself, although she now is among white sheets and kind, pure, clean people.
"I'm filthy" she repeats "I'm…filth"
She hears him let out a sigh and the bed sinks as he sits on the edge and uncovers the corner of her eye to see him. He rubs his forehead, the bridge of his nose and then his moustache, with a tired face, and a loud and terrifying thought crosses her mind. Maybe he's tired of this, of her, of having to take care of the sick, disgusting person she has become, of having to cope with her hysteria and vague mind. Fear fills her entire being as she freezes mid-sob, realizing there is but one thing she fears more than going back to what she used to be.
Being hated by him.
But he speaks, and his words throw her off so much that she forgets what she was thinking for a moment.
"You are beautiful"
She stares at him, her tears forgotten in surprise, wondering whether she has heard wrong or this is yet another dream. She is holding her breath, but she barely notices. He turns to look at her, his eyes warm and kind. Usually, his stare calms her for a reason she cannot quite grasp, but this time she feels heat climbing up her face under those eyes.
"You truly are" he whispers, moving closer to her.
The thought that he surely is just saying it to appease her calms her a little.
"N-nonsense!" she nervously laughs as he takes one of her hand on both his, and she even has time to wonder at how big they are before continuing "When I was in good health…when I was honest and happy, I could be considered pretty, but now—"
A tickling kiss touches her forehead, leaving her wordless. She looks up at him to find his face filled with nervousness, but unflinching.
"You truly are" he insists quietly, and then continues, as if afraid his courage will vanish before he is done "Recently, I read an old saying that goes 'The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all' -back then, I could not really understand! How could anything created in pain and hardship be beautiful...?" he made a pause and stared at her, and she found one of the reasons why his kind eyes calm her. Because she feels cleansed by them; because despise and disgust that she is used to seeing into the eyes of everyone else is not there. Because those eyes seem to look past all the filth, right through the darkness she's buried herself into and see her. The real her. One of his big, powerful looking, yet ever so gentle hands rises and gingerly touches the pale skin of her cheek.
"But then I saw you" he whispers. And she realizes he truly thinks her beautiful. And that he is her light; as long as he is near her, she has nothing to fear of the dark.
This time, as she bows her head and allows him to caress her hair, the tears falling from her eyes are happy.
C.C (A) the Author here.
Sooo...not sure if you know, but I love Les Miserables. Wrote this a while back, decided to edit it a bit and transfer it here.
Comments are very welcome.