Disclaimer: I literally own nothing,
AN- This is the first drabble I have ever posted on this site…it's a bad drabble though because it's way over a 100 words…. It's more like stream of consciousness I was supposed to "fix up" some of my Heap chapters but I ended up posting these Les Miserables snippets. I got home very late tonight and I am pretty much changing around the plot of my Heap fic (to make it better, I assure those of you who are reading it.) I am getting ready to start posting like a maniac as I was a week ago but it takes a second to change these things and I'm a busy girl…
May the Dust be Light
On your light limbs, oh loveliest! May the dust be light- On a Singing Girl-Rowen piece.
Actually, I was rather pleased she was dead. No, no, I don't mean to sound like a callous monster, but it was, I must admit, a relief. Do not place judgment on me, you don't even know how wretched it was to have her sad, wistful eyes follow me everywhere I went, to behold her miserable visage as a gazed upon another to hear her voice whisper with all the passion in her soul, "Monsieur Marius..". It was too much.
And now she is dead.
Oh, I did not pray for her death. I am not as cruel as that. But how many times did I wish, that just once, she would not be lurking behind me? When did I want, really want, to look into her hollow eyes and see her love there for me, taking up the emptiness, washing it away? I did not deserve such adoration. Not even from my dear Cosette.
Because I am only human.
I once believed I was immortal, that youth would never die. I believed in life, and friendship, and revolution. I believed in myself. Now I believe in nothing, although I have everything to live for. Nothing, however, is always good. It ups the ante, as they say.
After all, Eponine had something to live for, and just look what happened to her.
Sometimes I miss her- the way she laughed, the sweet quirk of her smile. I know she did things for me, in my name, when I was not there. I know she loved me, and made me her world. But it was out of desperation, and therefore, merde. Shit. I have no respect for shit. And even less for Eponine.
Such blind worship frightens me.
So rest, dear Eponine, in your patch of earth. Let the flowers grow over it, and comfort you in the way my arms could not, and never did. Cradled in the bosom of the dust, dear Eponine, cry out your agony. It no longer affects me here.
And remind me why, oh why, it is easier to pity than to despise you. For I am short on memory.
And you are dead.