Disclaimer: I do not own the subject of this piece (as much as I may wish to). I would be extremely rich and joyous right now if I did, instead of living my sad, miserable existence. There. Now you cannot harm me through the legal system.

A/N: This is my first exploration of the Les Misérables fandom (and my first post on the site). I may or may not write more, as I am an extremely slow writer and I do not fancy my writing skills to be anything spectacular (mediocre, at best). But I dobeg you to review if you read this! I need the feed-back so that I can improve my writing (my English teacher is retarded and never checks any of the essays he has us write, so no help there) orso that I'llknow that I should never again post anything that I have written on this site. Any type of review (flames included) would be greatly appreciated.

Travaux Démoniaques

There are demons in their eyes.

There always have been, and there always will be. And only I can see them. And night and day, they torment me.

The demons scream, they cry, they wail. Each of them claws frantically, frenetically, at the inside of my skull. They drive me mad. It does not take much for devils to enter my prison of a mind, and once they enter, they can never be expelled. All it takes for one of the little monsters to force their way in is the sight of pain. I cannot avoid pain; everywhere, it surrounds me. On street corners, in cafes, everywhere. Like the torture from the demons, there is no escape. There's never been an escape…

So everyday a new fiend takes his place among the hordes. Sometimes they rest, they lessen their incessant moans; others, they pound and torment me to no end. It matters little, as I feel them, sense them, regardless. And night and day, they torment me.

The most peculiar quality about this situation is that there are benefits, though they are few and far between. I have said before that the devils wail, and wail they do. But sometimes, for a few golden moments, they will whisper to me. They tell me things of such remarkable beauty, such incredible radiance, that I can scarcely believe the words can be traced to them. What people do not realize is that my speeches, my vision, my drive to ease the pain of Paris, come from the very minions and servants of pain themselves. There is nothing that I have done for the cause that has been done without their inspiration. Is it not ironic that the one so commonly referred to as a sort of god, a figure beyond the needs of mortals, should receive – no, depend upon – help from the embodiments of evil? The cycle, the torture, is horrible, with no way to get out, to stop it, to leave it all behind. The only reason I endure it, the only reason I continue to live, is for those moments, those shining, rare, glorious moments where I receive their gifts, and great words pour from my quill, and later from my mouth. For then, only then, will others listen, and someday – I feel it is not long now – action will be taken by those who have listened for so long and the demons will finally be appeased.

Perhaps, on that day, their cries, the cries of the suffering people, will cease, and I will be free. Perhaps they shall give me all of the knowledge, wisdom, and words they can and then leave me be, and my mind shall no longer be a prison. Perhaps…

But until that day, I will wait. I will fight, and never lay down that banner, for it is only when I hold it that the moans lessen. So I will, I must, wait until that day.

Until then, I have resigned myself to their torments. And the demons will torment me night and day.