PART II

The Child

When she hurried into the room, Jacques as slumped upon the couch, a hideous expression upon his red face, smoldering fury in his bloodshot eyes, a close-to-empty bottle clinched tightly in his hand. He was, as usual, drunk. His intoxication and his anger would make him now even more than usual dangerous and wild, possessed and crazed, reckless and furious. She knew this, but she did not care. Without hesitating another moment, she went across the room to approach him.

"Where is he?" she demanded, at once her voice, cold and stern, grave and urgent, anxious and fearful. As she strode toward him, she went bold and brave as if she had no fear of this man, at all. As if she was not afraid of what he could do to her. This woman was terrified but also courageous, a slave but also a warrior, a prisoner but also leader, a wife but also a mother. As soon as she reached Jacques, and he was turning irately to look at her, she asked him, "Where is my son?"

Turning up his face that was twisting with anger, wild with drunkenness, red from fury and from the consumption of too much alcohol, smeared with dirt and with grim, unshaven and unclean, Jacques was made several times more repulsive and more terrifying than he was on usual occasions. If that were possible. "Woman!" he snarled at her in disgust. "I do not know where that rebellious bastard of yours has gotten off to! Run off, again, has he!? Woman, why can you not keep the wretch under control!?"

Now, Jacques was rising unsteadily to his feet, clutching his bottle tightly in one hand and with the other hand pointing a furious and accusing figure at his wife. She, however, did not recoil. Planting her feet firmly upon the floor, she stood before him, raised his voice, and snapped, "Did you hurt him, Jacques? Did you hurt him!?"

"Woman, I never touched your brat!" Jacques roared.

At once, her face changed with disbelief and with disgust, and she cried out in anger, yelling back at him, "You except me to believe you!? Jacques, I see you hitting him everyday! He's not your slave; he's your son! You better stop it! Stop hitting my son!"

Now this woman and her husband were standing before each other, both of them standing at their full heights trying to be stronger than the other. They were both as strong and unwavering as a statue of stone, as brave and bold as a soldier. When his wife declared these words, speaking out against her husband, rebelling against him just as her son rebelled against him, Jacque's face contorted into a hideous disfigurement of wild rage, and he took a furious step toward her, as if her were ready to strike her… or to kill her. "Do not speak to me, woman!" he thundered. "Unless you want to be out on the street along with your rebel of a child, you will respect me and obey me! Do you understand!?"

At this man's words, this mother's heart seemed to suddenly empty and become hallow, and then dread and fear filled this emptiness, as she thought of being forced to live out on the street with her son, unable to provide for him or to give him the protection of a home. She knew that if she could not object to Jacques, again. It would do not good. It would only make matters worse for her and for her son. But even as she thought these things, she was thinking of her son and of the injustice that her husband put him through, and she was unable to stop herself from clinching her teeth and hissing at him, "You do not respect either of us, why should we respect you!?"

She had barely finished saying these words when Jacque's fist made contact with her face. The blow hit her so suddenly that for a moment she could do nothing but stumbled backward, clutching at her face, and gasping for breath. Jacques did not even give her a moment to recover when he came at her again, charging her like a madman. This time, the woman recoiled and quickly backed away. Jacques opened his mouth to yell at her and raised his hand to strike her again, but then another voice spoke out instead.

In the midst of a battle, terrifying, treacherous, terrible, guns are firing, bullets flying, cannons blasting, men shouting, crying, screaming, people falling, blood bursting into the sky with each explosion, turning the rivers red, running down the pavement, and sinking into the earth, the air itself suffocates a man, as it is impossible to breathe, because it is poisoned by thick black smoke and the sickening stench of death, men are falling, bleeding, screaming, and dying. In the midst of all of this, the leader of the army must remain calm and give orders to his followers, tell them to stay strong, not to lose hope, to push forward, to continue to fight. This man must remain strong even in the face of danger, of blood, of suffering, and of death. He raises his voice over the gunfire, the cannons, the screams of the dying men, and he shouts out to his people in a voice that is strong and unwavering, as if he was unaffected by all of the horrors that he is witnessing around him. Such was the nature of the voice that cried out now. It seemed calm but powerful at the same time, even but strong, perhaps afraid but courageous all the while. This was the voice of a man—a boy—who was not afraid to stand in the face of danger, who would not remain silent in the face of injustice, who was not afraid to challenge a tyrant even if the consequences were terrible, who was willing to make sacrifices for something that he loved.

"Jacques!"

Upon hearing this voice, Jacques and the woman turned their heads. A third person had entered the room. A young man with flowing hair of gold, fair skin, beautiful blue eyes, and a handsome but stone-like, hard and cold, face was now standing just beyond the entrance of the doorway. He seemed young, but there was a certain knowing in his eye that would make one think, rather, that this boy was already a man. A child's eyes are bright, happy, carefree, and youthful; they do not know pain, or hardship, or suffering. The eyes of this boy were dark, joyless, cold, and hard; they were the eyes of a man who had already seen the cruelty of the world. This boy was twelve years of age.

As soon as this mother saw her son, her heart warmed in relief and dropped in fear at the same time. She looked at Enjolras for a moment, her mouth gaped slightly, and she looked back at Jacques, now knowing without doubt that her husband had been hurting her son. Enjolras's face had been badly beaten, and the bruises left behind were proof of this. Around his left eye was swollen and blackened, his cheekbone under this eye bruised, and the inter part around the blue color was red as if a corner of his eye was filled with blood.

Suddenly forgetting Jacques, the woman turned away from him and went to her son. As soon as she got to Enjolras, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close to her, embracing him tightly and holding him as she used to when he was a small child. Now, however, Enjolras did not cling to her for protection and comfort but continued to stand stiffly like a soldier, only weakly raising his arms to return his mother's embrace. "Where have you been?" his mother cried in a strained whisper as she held her son firmly, refusing to loosen her grip on him or let him go. "Are you alright? Baby, you are hurt! Why didn't you—"

"Where have you been!?" Enjolras and his mother, who was reluctantly releasing her son, turned to face Jacques, who was now standing before them, furious and wrathful, glaring with murderous eyes at the boy. "Do you hear me, boy!?" he roared when Enjolras did not answer at once. "Answer me when I speak to you! Where have you been!?"

At this point in his life, Enjolras was nearly as tall as him mother, but his father continued to tower over him as the giant Goliath towered over the shepherd boy David. Indeed, Jacques was the huge, powerful, strong, reckless, raging warrior Goliath, and Enjolras was the young, innocent, untrained, small, weak shepherd boy David. Yet, this shepherd boy was brave and he was not afraid. David was capable of doing great and terrible things. This innocent child became a great man of war. In the end, David best Goliath.

Jacques was several times taller, larger, and perhaps stronger than his son. He was hateful, brutal, merciless, and unrepentant. He hit Enjolras nearly every time he saw him. Because of his father, Enjolras's fair and pure skin was almost always bruised in more than one place. Even still, Enjolras was not afraid of Jacques. Now, as his father stood before him, screaming at him, threatening him, raising a hand to strike him, Enjolras did not recoil. He did not flinch. He did not seem even to notice the hand that was about to strike him.

Enjolras looked at his father for a moment, his eyes dark and cold but smoldering with hatred: the burning anger that he had been forced to keep caged inside of him for so long, for if he let it out it would only make things worse for him and for his mother. Enjolras did not fear for himself. Only for his mother. He hesitated a moment for this reason but the replied anyway, "What does it matter where I have been? You do not care about me."

Even as he was speaking these words, Enjolras expected a heavy blow from his father's fist to follow them. He was right. As soon as Jacques had perceived what the boy had just said to him, Enjolras felt his father's hand slap him hard and violently across his already-injured face. The strike hurt, and then stung, and then throbbed. Enjolras could feel his heart pounding in his temples and his wounded flesh, bringing a new wave of pain with every beat. The mother let out a panicked cry, but Enjolras did not cry out. He did not flinch. He did not recoil. He stood silently before his father for a moment, only his face turned away from him, and his eyes closed as the pain hit him, coursed through him, and then faded. A moment later, without even a word, he opened his eyes, turned his face forward, and looked up at his father, once more.

As Jacques raised a hand again, probably to strike the boy a second time, the mother attempted to throw herself between this man and her son. Enjolras, however, would not permit such a thing. He would not allow his mother to take a blow in his place, the way she did when he was a child. He would not let her protect him anymore. He would take a beating for his mother, but he would not allow her to take one for him. Now, he was the protector. So when his mother tried to step in front of him, Enjolras, never taking his eyes off of Jacques, stepped forward also, keeping his body in front of his mother and easily but firmly using his arm to push her back behind him.

At once, Jacques was in his face, screaming at him again, "You wretched little bastard! Never talk to me like that, do you understand!? This is my house, and if you want to live in it then you will respect me, do you understand!? Answer me when I ask you a question! Now answer me: where have you been!?"

Even as this man roared at him, his face, red and deformed in his anger, only inches away from Enjolras's own, his eyes possessed and crazed in his hatred, his breath vile, reeking of alcohol, and hitting the boy's face like a violent, hot, and disgusting wind, Enjolras stood before Jacques like a stone statue, still and unyielding, unwavering, unafraid, never once recoiling, never once flinching, never once looking away from the blazing eyes that glared straight back into his own. Even with this new series of abuse and threats thrust upon him, Enjolras hardly appeared concerned and much less did he appear afraid. He hesitated a moment and did not say anything, and it was apparent in his eyes that he was deciding whether or not to answer.

This made Jacques even more furious, and before Enjolras even had a chance to see it coming, his father struck him again, this time punching him in that same wounded eye with a powerful hand that was clinched tightly into fist, a fist that was so hard and strong as stone. Enjolras, caught off guard, did stumble a few short steps backward, but he did not cry out. It was his mother, again, who let out a cry of fear and pain, as if this blow had hurt her and not only Enjolras, and again, she attempted to throw herself between the man and the boy, but again, Enjolras still recovering from the assault held her back. Enjolras had not, in fact, recovered fully even when Jacques seized him by the collar of his shirt, seemingly effortlessly, recklessly, and madly threw the young boy across the room with one swing of his arm, and slammed him up against a wall.

Enjolras felt his head hit into the wall; his jaw smashed together, rattling his skull; he felt the pain crush through his head like waves brutally rolling over and breaking upon rocks on the cost of a stormy beach; for a moment a black void blinded his eyes, and he could not see; he tasted blood in his mouth; and when he opened his eyes, Jacques was only inches away from him, towering over him, still gripping the front of his shirt and pulling it up around his neck so that it would choke him with one, pinning him against the wall with his other hand, and screaming in his face with toxic breath and lethal words. Enjolras, however, did not bother to listen to any of the degrading names that his father spat out at him or any of the words that were pronounced, at all, until the man shouted, "You have been out with those scum, again, haven't you!? With those traitors!" Anger and volume rising in his voice, he continued to yell like a man crazed with madness or possessed by the Devil, "You go out and continue to betray this nation! You rally with the traitors of France! You are a traitor, and a rebel, and a disgrace to us all! You have deliberately disobeyed me! Have I not told you to stay away from them! Have I not forbidden you to take any part in this nonsense! I have made it very clear that anyone bearing the name Enjolras does not believe in the Revolution!"

As Enjolras watched his father raging like a storm before him, listened to him yell at him in a voice like thunder, felt the pain coursing through his body like the strikes of lightning, tasted the blood in his mouth like the poisoned rain, he could not feel fear but only anger, only hatred. There was another storm brewing inside of Enjolras's own soul. The skies had been darkening ever since Enjolras came into the room and saw Jacques yelling at his mother. The winds had quickened, the rain began to fall, the lightning was beginning to spark in behind the clouds. Now, Enjolras could hold it back no more. The storm was about to erupt and burst forth. It would be treacherous, and it would be terrible. Enjolras's mother had taught him to love, but his father had taught him to hate. Yes, Enjolras knew how to hate. A child the age of twelve, there was far too much hatred in this boy's heart. His mother had taught him to be good, but because of his father, he was capable of being terrible.

He felt his hand clinching into a fist, and he was about to strike back, to hit this moster, to hurt this man for all of the times that he had hurt his mother. But then his mother stepped in the way, and Enjolras forced his hand to relax. As much as he wanted to do it, he cous not. Jarques angrily pushed his mother behind him again and Enjolras glared at his father.

He knew that he had to remain silent, for his own sake and, only of importance, for the sake of his mother. He knew it. But he could not do it. He could not remain silent in the face of such injustice. Before he could restrain his own tongue, Enjolras glared at his father, fire and fury in his eyes, darkness and hatred in his soul, and he cried out in outrage, "Then, what am I supposed to believe in!? Do you want me only to believe in the things that you believe in!? You do not believe in anything!"

"That is enough!" Enjolras heard his mother's panicked voice shout, as she stood behind Jacques and struggled and failed to pull him away from her son.

Even as much as he disliked to disobey his mother, Enjolras would have ignored her and continued to speak… if Jacques's fist had not silenced him instead.