Grantaire's Life
TheWriterToChangeThemAll
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
As a child, Grantaire was abused. He was beaten almost every day, either from not being obedient enough or not being the proper child like his sister was. She was always father's favorite. Mother, however, would constantly comfort Grantaire and heal his wounds with comforting words of love. He clung to his mother, earning him more violent outbursts from his father once he knew of their nightly ritual. Shortly after his mother learned this aggressive pattern of being hurt more than normal when she helped the boy, she left Grantaire without a parent. She drew away from him, a haunted look in her eyes. When Grantaire was eleven, he realized father was also beating mother for helping him heal.
The night mother died, he saw it. His father had gifted him with a rather forceful punch to the gut. (Gifted was the choice word used by M. Grantaire, although it was far from it.) Mother, knowing Grantaire could barely breathe at this point, yelled at father for almost killing the poor child. Father, a vein twitching in his jaw, had calmly asked mother to come with him to the bedroom. Grantaire followed, curious and naïve. He peered through the crack underneath the wooden door.
His mother was being hit all over. She laid on the floor and writhed in pain. Her eyes were shut and the tears she shed mixed with her blood that was on the floor. She let out a rather loud cry of anguish when father kicked her in the chest. She coughed and blood began spewing out of her mouth almost immediately. Father stepped back and admired his handiwork, a rather pleased grin on his face.
Mother opened her eyes once more, seeing Grantaire's own wide eyes staring back. He saw a ghost of a smile take over her mouth, and she moved no more. Grantaire ran from the door and into his room. Father had killed mother, and it was all his fault.
As a teenager, Grantaire was bullied. He had finally put on a façade that his father approved of, and the beatings began to dwindle to occasional slaps. He was finally enjoying a rather average life, with the exception of his absent mother. He and his sister would still quarrel over trivial matters, though, and father would chaste Grantaire for being rude to a lady.
Grantaire could obtain no peace at school, however. He was always teased for being the shortest, dumbest, or plainest child. When he finally filled out as a young teenager, he was teased for having no friends. When he finally made a friend in a girl named Marianne, she was also bullied for being his friend. She quickly withdrew from him.
The abuse extended to physical parameters, rather than just verbal assaults. The first time it happened, he had been walking home after school, books in hand. Alain, a boy in his class and the prime instigator of the assaults, had knocked them out of his hand and threw a punch at Grantaire's eye. The smaller boy fell to his knees and held the now throbbing area, whilst Alain walked behind him, kicked a foot into his posterior, and caused Grantaire to fall face first into mud. The other boys laughed uproariously.
He felt shamed that they had taken him down so easily. Grantaire swung his fist towards Alain's jaw, but Alain's two friends were quick to keep Grantaire to giving Alain what he deserved. They pinned him against the brick wall of the alley and pummeled his face until he was bloody and gasping for breath.
He went home that night and relayed the details to father. Father said that by not properly defending himself, Grantaire had disgraced their surname. He was beaten that night.
As a young adult, Grantaire was an alcoholic. He had finally found a place where he belonged, even if certain people didn't approve of his presence. He stayed, drinking away the nights he went to bed bruised. He drank away mother's cry. He used absinth and brandy to calm the fear that one day father might find him. He knew this fear was unwarranted. What could father do to him anyway? He was a grown man. but he still feared his father. He was beginning to think he really was a worthless as everyone said he was.
The alcohol Grantaire consumed was definitely a dangerous amount. He downed several bottles of wine, usually two glasses of brandy, and a bottle of absinth every day. The drunkenness kept him away from the possibility of coherent thoughts, and Grantaire found that to be synonymous to his mother. He drank to keep away his mother's face as she died. Alain's fist. Her dead eyes. His pleased expression. Her smile.
The sickness that followed a night of alcohol wasn't pleasant. Grantaire usually had to cure it with more alcohol, which caused people to think he was pathetic and pointless to keep around the Café Musain. Grantaire agreed with them.
As a man, Grantaire died. He had went to the barricade, despite the feeling in his gut that he shouldn't. He had to help, though. He wanted to help Enjolras, Combeferre, and everyone else. Truthfully, he also wanted to redeem himself to them. So he went, and now he would die with them. Truly honorable.
He stumbled towards Enjolras, completely sober. Visions of mother flashed behind his eyelids. He had been asleep, having a nightmare, but the cruel silence woke him. Now, Enjolras and he faced their deaths.
"Finish both of us at one blow," Grantaire said stonily, facing the men with their muskets raised. He turned to Enjolras, "Do you permit it?"
They smiled at one another. Grantaire felt Enjolras' hand on his, then he was no more.
AN: Tears? Sobs? Emotions? I'm glad you're in the same boat as me.
This killed me. I just sat down and wrote it. I wanted to analyze his drinking, and this happened.
I have a sick obsession with Grantaire and all things Grantaire... And I'm also big into dark stuff. Viola!
Thanks for reading! All feedback is appreciated!