From Riches to Rags
Mercy Valentine, The Girl

Government gives nothing. It is not a merciful system run on love of people, but a system based on deceit and love of material gain. The poor remain impoverished, while the rich remain wealthy. There is no such thing as rags to riches, only the occasional riches to rags, and most often deserved, riches to rags. No, life is not a fairy tale and I shan't pamper your mind with twaddle, though many a narrator does. I've seen everything this world has to offer a woman. I want you to see my journey for yourself.

In my childhood, I enjoyed luxurious things like scented baths, silk stockings, and shiny jewelry. My father was an English gentleman and my mother was his English lady. Our home was large, sitting near Buckingham Palace, our rooms were bright with light from many producers of new, and our furnishings were delightful, expensive and delicate little things one felt would break under their very weight. Our position in society was of good proportions, I suppose one might say in order to make it short and sweet. Being the only child of the family, I found it extremely difficult to understand a world other than the one I knew. All that I knew of the outside world, I knew from my parents. I was aware of a poorer class that decorated Mother's hats and polished Father's shoes, but in my feeble mind I did not think of them as anything different than myself.

I basically grew up innocently immaculate and greatly guarded from reality. I never thought outside of the aristocratic circle, which had delimited me since birth. I could not see over the tall top hats of the gentlemen or under the fluffed gowns of their ladies. Life was unclear; so many things were unknown.

Please do not get me wrong! Nay, I was not an ungrateful or stupid child, but I was of course, inexperienced, confused, and very much alone. I knew the way of life for any young lady growing up in a civil household dominated by severe gents and their equally pert wives; it was branded into my mind by the time I reached thirteen. To be good mannered and silent, to listen to my elders, and to keep my appearance prim and proper were my lot in life. There was never anything too difficult about saying nothing to my parents anyway. I did not truly know them as I knew my nanny, and I was certain they did not know me. And besides, it was easy just being beautiful; I watched my mother be so all of the time.

But things changed for me as my coming of age crept closer and closer from the shadows of my life. When I was merely eighteen years of age, my father gave his consent to an unwanted marriage. I was to wed the son of his wealthiest and most prominent friend, whom, I might add, was a duke.

The young man who asked for my hand was not the least bit striking in appearance, ugly actually, and I was indifferent to him practically all of my life. He had never seemed to take interest in me before, but we were married off nonetheless. It was my "duty to the family", urged my father. I would "grow to love him" said my mother. Unfortunately, I did not give it a second thought and my innocence was shattered by the blows of sin.

I suffered in silence, behind closed doors, which I feared to open to the world. My husband grew ruthless, more so after the first month of our marriage. I began to feel isolated and deprived of God's light, like a wilting rose being kept in a dark room without water. My days were spent in deep obscurity and my nights were filled with overflowing crimson. I often thought of how simple life was back home, how my parents deceived me, how perhaps ending my life would end my pain, but I could not shove the dagger into my chest, I could not hang from the noose, nor could I drink the vile of eternal rest. I hardly had any strength left of my own to grant myself that mercy.

I became weak, scrawny, and pallid with every obscene act that my husband did upon me. He endlessly defiled me, screwing my brains into spasms of insanity. He hit me constantly, throwing tantrums if I ever complained of his injustice toward me. He drank like a horse, he ate like a hog, and when he was not on top of me, he was underneath another. Purity as I knew it was a lost memory, a faded painting, and a paradise far from my wearied view. Life was a ceaseless and nauseating fire that burned deep between my bruised thighs. My heart sobbed salty tears, and the blood boiled in my veins. A cake was baking in my oven. I was pregnant at the age of nineteen.

My family had no idea of my wretched husband's cruelty, and I could not bring myself forward to confess. Besides, even if I could have told them, they would have never believed their darling son-in-law was capable of hurting me both physically and mentally. Once I told my parents that I was with child, their eyes glittered with joy. Mother expressed her elation by buying a cradle and other baby things, while Father put money down for the child's schooling. Everything seemed to go well with my family, save for my husband; he was not very amused.

I had meant to tell him of our expectancy the evening after my second doctor's appointment, but he found out before my arrival. He had bumped into the physician on his afternoon walk, and just as I entered the foyer of our house, I was up against the wall with my husband's hands closed around my neck, and one of his knees jabbing me in the abdomen. I felt that surely I was going to die, but he soon let go of my throat, slapped me across the face, and sent me to the floor in his heartless temper.



He called me a whore, a cunt, a bitch. He called our unborn child a bastard and spit at the thought of its birth. I could not breathe; I felt his hatred eating away at my very entrails. He kicked me in the stomach and I let out a gasp for air. I perceived the bitterness of blood in my esophagus; I tasted the salt of tears on my quivering lips.

A week later I went back to the doctor's. My baby was dead. I was crushed. From that day on, Mother gave me nasty looks and secretly accused me of killing it on purpose. Father said nothing; he was too busy complaining about the doctor's bills and the loss of money towards baby items. My spouse smiled upon me in disgusting triumph.

"Oh, sly little devil" I thought, cursing in his name (I do not reveal his identity out of pure respect for myself. The name would only instigate more pain to my retelling of the past). That night, for the first time in my life, I let the devil enter my soul, willfully that is, and not in the form of flesh. I prepared a dish of roast beast with a side of potatoes and greens for our supper at home. A red wine from Bordeaux went well with the meal; it was a wine almost thick as blood, oozing with a taste that I knew my husband could not resist. He ate hungrily, engulfing his whole plate to put it bluntly, and he finished it off with seven glasses of the alcohol I had given him special. I smiled unusually content from my end of the table. I ate in peace.

A little after nine o'clock PM, he began to feel an unsettling in his stomach and I led him to the sofa in his den. Within three hours of the lout's moaning and groaning with bowel pains, he laid stiff and cold, not breathing. I had taken his life by poisoning his drink. My crime went unknown for I told people that he merely had a heart attack. And the lot of them believed me! I did not have the heart to rain on their parade anyhow; doing so would have been rather selfish, I think.

I was twenty when I left England. I pardoned myself with just enough money to survive for at least a year without a source of income. It seemed the perfect plan at the time, for Paris appeared to be much cleaner and nicer than London when I arrived there in 1880. Indeed I considered Paris to be a better place, for I knew that I would never have to see my god-awful family for the rest of my life, unless necessary, and I would never have to think of being caught for my wrong-doing. I wished to start over on a clean slate; I wanted to begin an entirely different life in the city of light.

I lived in comfort for about seven months, until money became as scarce as to force me to move into a small one-room flat, which had only one window and unreliable heating, and introduced me to the landlord, Alain, who was one of the most perverse and awkward men I had ever encountered, my husband being the worst. In the wintry nights, the room was never warm enough; it always smelled of Jack Frost. In the summer it was never cool enough and always reeked of vile odors of life near the butcher-shop.

My days reared on in dreary and lonesome swirls. I finally understood how it felt to go unemployed, starving, and hating all those refined souls that happened to pass me on the streets. I had very few friends, but if any at all, they were usually younger than I was; they were the urchins of the city. Many of those children that I found comfort in were like myself; they were alone, hungry, and desperate. By winter's end, many of them were dead though, due to pneumonia or malnutrition. Hearing of their deaths was always hard for me to bear, but tears never escaped from my ill heart. I felt that God had spared them from turning into tramps and sluts. To be honest, I was somewhat envious that they were able to die as immaculate as baby lambs, while I could never. But, after awhile, I did learn to accept that I could never die unsullied because of my fallen marriage and my murdering of my spouse. I felt like I had no one to pray to since I left my childhood; my belief in God had disappeared in the alleys of the night, and I figured that if there were such a thing as God, he would never condone me without more penance.

I searched the city for work, first taking up a job as a seamstress, but being fired for lack of talent. Then I found a job at the tile and brick factory, but I was soon turned from there as well for lack of strength. I had no food, no heat, my rent was due, and I had hardly a sou to my name. I had just enough of nothing to sell myself for a franc or two.

I became a prostitute and I was known about the streets as Monique, instead of Mercy. No one needed to know the real me anyhow; they only spent one night in my bed most of the time. It was not like we were to marry and raise a goddamn family in a cottage with a picket fence! Besides, Monique was a pretty and seductive name in my opinion. I heard somewhere that it meant 'wisdom', which made me laugh all the more. Who would've thought of a wise and cultured whore when only the sheets on her bed lingered with the scents of cultured men who sought pleasure that their wives could not give without the birth of another mouth to feed?

My most frequent clients were of the higher class of society. They came to me especially for my looks: my fiery auburn hair, my milky-white skin, and my eyes like sapphires. I lured them in with sultry pouts in the pubs and innocent giggles from the streets. I didn't need to work for a pimp; I did well on my own. I was pretty enough to be seen in a twinkle of the eye, and I was to be had in no more than a heartbeat in the groin.

My promiscuity took its toll though, for in no more than two years as a fallen woman, I had been pregnant twice, hardly surviving on my ration of two handfuls of bread and three cups of wine a day. The winter was extremely harsh in the gutter; there was never a time there where I felt full or happy with my life choices and myself. Indeed there was nothing to be proud about, and some nights I even dreamt of going back home to my mother and father, just to end my misery! Thrice, I had contracted pneumonia, and somehow, through pure misfortune, it seemed the wretched babe within me was much too tenacious to die. I was soon determined to believe its surviving to be my own fault. Because I wished it to die was one thing; that it did not pass was another. My retribution was obviously to see it live in my motherly embrace, to care for and grow to love it, then to have it pass away in order to grant me agony and desolation for the rest of my days.

Months passed on, I became more hopeless, but as I reminisce, one night stands out among the rest. It was the night that changed my life forever. I had just returned home from a horrible brawl in the streets, my body ached with fatigue and hunger, and my countenance looked equally beastly. I had been caught between two men and acquired quite a bloody lip in my efforts to break free from their clutches. I had given myself to them both, but they tried to leave me in an alley, partially naked and penniless. I tried sweet- talking the men into a franc or two for dinner, but in the end I received only snow down my bloomers, mud in my face, and my hideously bloody kisser.

The one-room flat I lived in was not any better than the windy Parisian streets. I tried to kindle myself a fire, but in vain and to no avail. The stupid thing just smoldered and smoked back into my already teary eyes. Eventually the room got so cold as to force me to lie in bed underneath all of my blankets and every scrap of clothing I owned. The covering was thick, but useless. Jack Frost still jumped into bed beside me, piercing my skin, causing my pulse to quicken, and my breath to thicken. My stomach grumbled with starvation while the baby added to my despair by continuously kicking at my ribcage; it grew like a painful bean-sprout in my languid womb.

My unborn child worked against me to make me miserable in a cold sweat of shattered dreams. Whenever I ate, my child ate, yet in the end of it all, the baby benefited more than I did. It stole my resources without remorse, or any thought to it, but I could do nothing to prevent it from trying to stay alive. With the New Year just three hours away, I decided that although we were worthless to the world, I still had to find us proper shelter, warmth, and possibly even some food to ring in the coldest night of that already hateful year.

The snow fell merrily upon the ground in crystalline flakes. The dampening weather powdered over my auburn hair, which was already mangled with ice and dirt from the dispute earlier. Seeing nothing but a blur ahead of me, I inhaled the cold air, wrapped my shawl around myself, and began my solitary journey in search of a friendly place of warmth. The frost nipped at my dirty face as I bounded forward; the wind caused tears to sting at the rims of my eyes. None of the shops around me were open. Everyone had closed early, eager to ring in the New Year with the ones that they loved. I loved no one. Cursing at the thought of their intimate elation, I trudged on.

I hiked almost everywhere in town, but soon stopped to take a breather on l'Ave de l'Opéra. The coldness was burning my lungs, burning my thighs, and burning my arms. My shawl was a flimsy covering in the dark-outdoors, and my hands, bare, were frostbitten. I could not feel them wipe away the tears that accumulated at my eyes or the nasal mucus dripping from my nose, nor could they massage my stomach as the baby kicked and jolted about my insides. This certainly had to be worse than staying at home! Now I was practically killing at my own will!

"Oi, have mercy for the unborn, Jesus Christ!" I wept bitterly, gazing toward the dark sky, while hope seemed to deteriorate in the evil obscurity all around me. Of course there was no God in my mind. I used the Lord's name, but only in vain.

Only as I looked up from my sobbing did I gain a faint smile at the sight of the structure just yonder. The mammoth Empress was lit-up as if the sun was being held captive within. I had long since thought of the Palais Garnier as nothing but a building for the wealthy. It had always been so dreadfully unfeeling, so towering, and gaudy; yet in that desperate moment of my life, I only saw its radiance beckoning to me from every direction I dared to turn. What had I to lose in order to be granted the Opéra's most comforting pity? Absolutely nothing.

People had long since gathered into the foyer and auditorium for the annual New Year's masque ball. I could see their costumes glittering with jewels and I could see their velvety masks smiling upon me in sentimental tidings. How much I longed to be a part of the festivities, how I longed to be elegantly dressed and adored by that particular crowd within the building. Without thinking of my own appearance among such godly creatures, I gathered my skirts high above my ankles and scampered down the lamp-lit street. My black leather boots beat against the cobblestone as I hurried. My dear heart thumped loudly in my throat and breast. I reached the main entrance completely breathless.

The masqueraders! Oh, I could hear their laughing! I could hear their gay singing nigh as I pushed open the entrance door with impatience twitching in my face. I took a deep breath, absorbing the happiness about me, thirsting to dance and sing with the mysterious masked beings. Nay alas, just before I could cross the threshold, a strong hand grabbed me by the wrist and escorted me out onto the stone steps.

"What's a pretty little lass like you doing trying to get into the Opéra without an invite?" I was turned on my heel and stood vis-à-vis with a tall and muscular masked-man dressed as an archbishop of some sort. His eyes twisted so crookedly upon me that they made me quiver. I stepped back and nearly fell down the steps, but caught myself just as the man began to laugh at me.

"Please, Monsieur!" I begged suddenly. "Please help me. Just let me stand by the entrance here and warm myself from this bitter cold." I held up my hands in front of my face, thrusting them in his direction. "Look at my hands, Monsieur they are quite iced-over…stiff…frostbitten!"

He leaned forward, looking at my face, his rancid breath overwhelming me with nausea. I pushed him away, and covered my mouth.

"You must be quite mad! There's no place in the Opéra for a whore to gain her immoral profit." He then grabbed for my stomach, but I turned my back to him and hid my front from his view. "Nor is there place for her to release her bastard child! I know these to be your intentions! The men in this building are of high society; they don't want your dirty soul! Get out of here, you mangy SLUT!"

At his cruel remarks, my eyes went wild in their sockets, but I had not a chance for vengeance, for he soon slammed the door back in my wretched face. I winced

"Those men are the only people who can afford to sleep with a stranger!" I screamed with anger rising from beneath the ruins of my soul. I peered into the windows, squinting as splinters of snow clung to my lashes. I longed for that warmth, and that warmth alone. I longed for that world that I could not hold in my grasp; I wanted my childhood back. "Oh fuck, am I to die on these ridiculous Parisian streets on a night that so many others are celebrating? Where is MY new beginning? Where is MY new life? In no more than three hours it will be 1883! Can't I at least live until the years anew? It's so cold; I need to find a way to get in there if it is the last thing that I do…Oh, God.. I must rest."

My head was pounding as I quickened down the stone slabs and to the back of the Opéra. I had seen the many entrances once before, for I had screwed someone in the darkness that shrouded those doors just 10 weeks past. I tried several doors, but without success. The wind began to pick up and snow began to fly at me, but I kept on searching. A rat scurried from behind one of the crates, causing my anxiety to worsen and my stomach to churn. I could perceive the music starting up from the auditorium; I could sense the warmth of the Opéra rushing underneath all the doors in my presence.

"The music!" I wept hysterically, reaching out and feeling my way through the oblivion behind some large hoppers and a refuse heap of broken props and damp, ratty costumes. I did not give a care to where my feverish search would end; I was already familiar with the dirty chill of the outside world. In my desperation for inner comfort, I was blinded yet could have done almost anything; I could have even conquered the world and all of its untold evils just for a bit of heat.

Finally, after a struggle with numerous other knobs, I found an unlocked door. It seemed almost intentionally hidden, as if it had not been used in years, but its being without lock signified that it had indeed been in use and quite well-known.

At that moment in time, I did not find anything peculiar about the mysteriously unlocked door; my frailty prevented me from any sensibly intelligent thoughts. All I knew was that I actually had a chance to find warmth. Relief swept over my face as I stepped into a world much different than the one I was parting from. I wondered if I had entered some sort of secret dimension as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, but I was just as content to find my surroundings to be not of a new dimension, but of an underground world. I made my way down numerous winding stone-platforms until it all ended at a vast area of stone walls and floor.

There was much darkness and I assumed, after moments of daft gawking, that I must have been in one of the cellars of the Opéra. I had heard once that it had about five cellars, how strange it was to hear of such a tale and then experience it for myself. It was moist but warmer than outside, quiet, and untouched, but that did not bother me nearly as much as one would expect. When the hopeless find a solitary place such as that, they are rejuvenated with just a tad of elation. To me, that dank cellar of cold stone was like a sanctuary for the living-dead. I knew almost immediately that no matter what the case, I, and my child-yet-to-be would be accepted.

As I ventured deeper into that labyrinth of endless proportions, the sound of rushing water made me nearly jump out of my skin. There was a sort of eerie wave of green light lingering now on the granite stones around me. I rounded the bend smiling with the hopes of washing myself and having a drink before I should sleep. Indeed, I had heard correctly: there, just yonder, dwelled a sort of vast and glassy man-made reservoir. The water sparkled as if it lived and I knew from its crystal clarity, as well as its lack of vile odor, that it was definitely not of the sewage. It was merely the liquid that was employed in the operation of hydraulic stage machinery. Certainly it was clean and safe for the child I would eventually be cursed to bear, but also trustworthy for myself.

I gave a large stride closer toward the lake, but stopped dead in my tracks as I saw the object before my very eyes. Just upon the surface there bobbed a small wooden boat, fastened to a rope, which clung to a jag of rock at the shore. It definitely struck me as being unusual but with my fatigue weighing me down, I hopped into the wooden entity and curled into a fetal position on its planked floor.

"How unreal." I muttered, listening to the calm water's soothing flow, and how it beat against its stone barriers. Nothing in the world could have been like it! Once I had set foot in the boat, I had been comforted: comforted by the omnipresent silence, darkness, and above all, its seclusion from the real world.

No longer had I dreams of cleansing myself, just a yearning to stay in that boat on the lake. The rocking of the boat was much too gentle and sweet miss, and soon, after I had sung a little tune to the melody of the lake and closed my eyes, I felt myself drift off into a deep sleep.