Sorry for all of you Some Nights readers, as this plot bunny has been dragging me about for the past few weeks. I shall update that fic, though. By Friday. I promise.
Reviews are pleasant.
~Fai
In death, Éponine almost looked asleep, though more peaceful than anyone could ever imagine her. Fingers lay unclenched by her side, and eyes were no longer shut tight, demons attempting to tear her apart from the inside out. Perhaps she was an angel, fallen to earth. Maybe it was not her who had been the murderer, as well as the murdered. Asleep. That's all she was. Asleep.
His hand touched her dark curls, feeling the soft locks beneath his worn skin. He had loved to play with those sweet things, twirl him within his own palm as she pressed a kiss to his nose, than another to his lips. When they were wet, sopping wet, he loved the way she whipped against his skin. Though droplets would dance across his face, they meant nothing more than love.
Sometimes, she would go to sleep with her hair caressing his face, the sweet scent of honey wafting up his nose for the remainder of the night.
Sleep. Oh, what he would give to see her asleep once more.
Now that he looked at her, she appeared to be nothing more than a shell. A broken, discarded shell. There was a lack of smile upon her lips, which held such a lovely hue of purple that caused shivers to trace down his back. And, to add to that, she was just as they had left her. Slender, skeletal arms crossed, touching a rose. Nose lifted high, brows arched perfectly.
But she was lifeless, too. Empty.
You could not see her personality, not through the lavender dress pulled over her perfect body. There was a lack of spirit, a distinctly missing puzzle piece. He could do nothing to change that, though, no matter what he had said to her.
The man settled in the metal chair beside her hospital bed, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips, lips that should have been covered with hers. There was a deep thought forming in his brow, escaping his thoughts, but was masked by the softer statement of, "What would I do without your smart mouth, 'Ponine? Drawing me in… Kicking me out…"
He shifted slightly, and hands touched the rough fabric of the sheets, trying not to tear out the strands. They had done nothing to him.
She had. She had done everything, had ruined his life with her happy little- No, no. That was wrong. This woman, his love, she had done nothing more than gaze upon him. He had fallen, and she had caught him. Éponine had gotten his head spinning, diving in and out of the fabric of his mind. To put it simply, he could not figure her out. For the life of him, he could not!
"What was going on in that beautiful mind of yours?" he pleaded, next, begging for a response. Oh, how he wished this was a trick of hers, and she would pop up, giggling. The woman did no such thing. If anything, her body looked more ghastly, waiting to be covered with a sheet, ready to be taken away.
There were tears slipping steadily down his face, tipping into the usually smiling regions of his mouth. He knew exactly what was going on in her thoughts, having been attached to her side for so long. And he believed none of it.
Fat, she called herself. Fat and lazy. Every day, she'd stare at herself in the mirror, and proclaim her cheeks to be 'too wide', or thighs 'too big'. Every day, he'd stare at her beautiful body, and press kisses to the hurt spots. 'Perfect', he would say to her, and ignore whatever else she said in protest. His girlfriend was anything but fat, or lazy. She was gorgeous, having a personality too match that.
Apart from her distressed thoughts, nights with Éponine were both magical and mysterious. Though they had been together for perhaps a year, they had only taken part in physical acts of love twice. Why? For one, she wouldn't risk it. A career, to her, was the first start to having children. And with a barely steady income, that was something the young woman wasn't about to start.
"One day, you'll end up careless, you monkey, and I'll be knocked up and poor."
He remembered smiling at that, and promising that he would stay, just for her. She had laughed at that, and spoke of her parents (for the first time), speaking of how that's what her father had said. Oh, had he stayed. A few scars were able to prove that, and although she expected him to grimace, and pity her, they only became another pathway towards her heart, his lips gently exploring them.
Those weren't her only cuts, though. Some were created on her own, when she heard the sounds of happiness escaping from her soul. For some reason, Éponine did not feel she deserved happiness. A blade became her restraint, the knife her only way of remembering who she was.
He didn't understand, no more than he ever did.
She was an enigma.
She was his enigma.
Now she was dead.
His head was underwater, now, as her body was being removed from his grasp, a nurse attempting to keep him back. She was his knife, now, his one statement of fact. And unlike his dead girlfriend, he didn't desire the blade.
"No! Éponine!"
You're crazy, she whispered to him, her flopping hands lifelessly dangling off the gurney. And I'm out of my mind.
At the funeral, he could barely stand up. It took Grantaire and Enjolras to hold him above her grave, with his head bowed down. The ring, the silly, silly ring lay hanging on a string, the matching one pressed upon his finger. One day more. That's all he needed.
And she only needed one hour.
Apparently, starving herself hadn't made as much of an impact. He always found out, her love. He always knew. Something would give it away (the toilet seat, the pills), and she would be back to the drawing board. He would spoon feed her, pamper her. The cuts did nothing, too. All blades were removed from her site, and he was always by her side.
Sleep did her in.
She claimed to be having nightmares, frightening ones that were killing her from the inside. Of course he had purchased a box of over-the-counter medicine, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
If only he had gotten home earlier.
If only he had asked her to marry him one day earlier.
"I love you, 'Ponine. All of you."
All your curves and all your edges. All those perfect imperfections that you find.
He could list them, though it would take ages. Every single thing that she found incorrect, though they were shinning upon his list of things that he adored, he could announce to the crowd. But he didn't, to spare her irritation. Instead, he found himself trying not to cry, reaching for the bottom of his soul.
Why couldn't he go with her?
"Even when you cried, you were beautiful. Your smile lit up my day… I…"
His voice cracked, and the usually-grinning man collapsed onto the ground, trembling. Though his friends tried to pull him up, he had collapsed, murmuring in a soft, pleading voice, "All of you… All of you…"