Hello. My name is Iris, and I am scum for not updating my stories. MOVING ON. Anyhow, this chapter contains some pretty graphic stuff, so I'm just putting a violence/rape trigger warning here.

XXX

She wasn't insane. She wasn't insane. Of course she wasn't insane. She was too good to be mad. Too sweet and demure and lovely and kind. She had long, soft yellow hair and eyes the color of the sea. Insane people had hair that had faded to gray and eyes that had turned watery, muddy brown. See? See? She had beautiful, flowing dresses in every color imaginable. Madwomen had garish orange frocks stained with their own dribble. She had a sprawling house and loyal servants and fun friends and a doting Papa. Insane people had none of that. She had everything a perfectly sane person could want to be happy. And she was happy.

But most importantly, she was perfectly, wonderfully, indisputably sane.

"See, Papa?" Cosette begged, grabbing her father's hands and kneeling before the old man. "Don't you see? I have everything sane people have. So that means I'm sane!" She squeezed her father's hands harder and harder, as if she could somehow wring all of his wrongness out and replace it with her conviction.

Jean Valjean looked down on his daughter and sighed, removing his hands from her vice grip. He took her chin in one hand and ran the other through her hair. "Look at me closely, child," he commanded wearily. "Look into my eyes. Do you think I haven't tried everything I could think of? I have, Cosette, I swear to you. I've tried so hard."

"So have I," Cosette sighed, tugging her face away from her father. "I've tried to make you see. But you just…won't." She stood slowly, shaking her head and sighing again, her previous begging forgotten. "I've tried everything I could," she said resignedly. "I'm truly sorry to have to do this, Papa." She turned her face towards the direction of her brother's bedroom. "Enjolras!" she called. "Nox tanox un ler-truie der ah!"

Her brother was named Julien Enjolras (his mother's last name); the strange tongue she was speaking with him was a language the two had made when they were five and twelve. Julien was Valjean's son, but not his wife, Fantine's, son. He had met Fantine when Cosette was two and Julien was nine. They were married within six months, and Julien and Cosette had referred to each other as siblings ever since. When Cosette was about three, Julien became obsessed with "teaching" her. He taught her strange languages that didn't exist, showed her pictures of dead and decomposing bodies in books, and had her listen to songs that had disturbing and graphic lyrics.

As she grew older, Cosette had seemed to be two people. The first person was her sweet side, where she acted like a perfectly normal teenage girl with her whims and giggles. The second person was sadistic and sociopathic, oddly cruel at random times and detached from feelings. Valjean thought that Julien's odd lessons had something to do with it.

Both of them spent hours hidden away from Fantine and Valjean, plotting vicious things. Julien's motive was a need to free people from a "tyrannical" government. Cosette's was loyalty to her brother.

Julien came from his bedroom clutching a butcher knife and handed it to Cosette.

"Dertu, ioi wret," Cosette said, flashing a smile in his direction. She turned back to Valjean. "Papa, you've never understood us. When I tried to share our songs with you, I could see the confusion and revulsion in your eyes. You thought my dear brother was corrupting me. When we put on productions in Wrinnish, I could see behind your smiles a deep disgust." Wrinnish was what she and Enjolras called their language.

"Cosette, darling, put the knife down," Valjean said, eyeing the shining blade in his daughter's hand. This wasn't the first time this had happened.

"I'm afraid I can't, Papa," Cosette sighed. "Enj and I have discussed this for many an hour, you see. We believe that your insistence on sending us off to an insane asylum is…ridiculous."

"And moreover," Enjolras said with a sick grin, "a sign of fear."

"Utterly," Cosette agreed, smiling at Enjolras again. "Did you know, Papa, that when animals in the forest show signs of fear, other animals kill them? They rip them to pieces."

"This isn't the wild, darling," Valjean insisted, sweat dripping down his brow. "This is a civilized town."

Cosette ignored him. "Dear Enj said that I might try to appeal to your more paternal side by begging you not to send me to the asylum. I will admit, I wasn't fond of the idea at first, but the more and more I thought of the hideous stone walls of the Abaissés, I began to feel fear. But then I thought of the animals ripped to shreds in the wild. I felt sick with myself for being afraid. And I thought to myself: Cosette, why not utilize your fear? You see, Papa, we are different from animals in only one way: our brains. And I used my brain."

"She did," Enjolras agreed. "She talked to me of her fear. She could have kept it inside herself, but she talked to me. And I told her what to do!" There was a childish excitement in his voice.

"I did as Enjolras said, but you didn't listen to me. And now that you won't listen to your own daughter, I doubt that there is anything we can do but make you pay." Cosette sighed again. "Papa, what kind of father sends his own children off to a sanitarium? We are perfectly sane." There was a tiny flash of fear in her glazed blue eyes. "We have everything that sane people have," she repeated for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "So that means we must be sane."

Enjolras clasped his hands behind his back. "Father, I agree with my dear sister. Look into her eyes! Do you see madness in them?"

"She is a child!" Valjean shouted, jumping to his feet and wrapping his hands around the wolf skull the top of the cane depicted. "She is a sick, sick child! And you, Julien, are to blame for her sickness! You passed your own illness on to my dear Cosette! And look at what it has made both of you: sadistic and mad!"

"Father," Enjolras said, unfazed, "I am neither mad nor sadistic. I care for the greater good, and I will kill whomever I have to, to get there." He shrugged. "Cosette is my protégé. I have taught her everything I know. And now she cares for the people they way I do. How can you interpret that as madness?"

"You tore the wings off of birds as a child and made her watch!" Valjean roared. "She drowned the kittens we got her for her birthday! You are both insane!"

"For science, Papa," Cosette answered. "Now, enough chatter. This is where we shall say goodbye." She advanced towards him, holding the knife out in front of her.

Valjean backed up until he was against the wall, and Cosette lunged for him. With one deft, practiced stroke, he sliced his cane through the air and knocked the knife from her fist. It skittered across the room and rolled under a large side table. Cosette backed away and snapped her fingers at Enjolras, who leapt at Valjean with a roar, his fists at the ready. Valjean swung his cane up in front of his face and cracked Enjolras directly in the center of his forehead. There was a sickening echo from it. The blonde boy staggered back, glared, and dropped. Valjean walked over to Cosette. "Darling, you are going to the asylum. Pack yourself a suitcase. Do your brother a favor and pack him one as well." He turned his daughter around and shoved her down the hall. She walked away laughing to herself.

[123]

She thought it was because she didn't speak their language. She could understand some of it, of course – it was hard not to pick up at least a bit of a language after hearing it for years – but when she'd come to their country, she hadn't spoken a word of it. She'd tried to get a job at a local factory that employed hundreds of women, if she remembered correctly. Sadly, though, the foreman had gotten very angry that she didn't understand what he was saying to her. Or maybe it was because she'd slashed her fingernails down his face when his hand had started creeping up her skirt.

Musichetta was foreign, maybe, but she could hold her own when a licentious man thought he could take advantage of her just because she couldn't speak his language.

It had felt good to teach the lecherous old man a lesson, but when he'd thrown her to the floor and nearly bashed her head in on the chipped tiles, she'd wondered if it was worth it. Especially when she'd blacked out and the next thing she knew, men in white uniforms were dragging her away to a place for insane people.

She had no idea what the foreman had said to the official men, but he'd convinced them that she was a loon somehow. And so…here she was. Because Musichetta had no family in this country, no one could claim her, so she was stuck at the Abaissés Asylum. It wasn't all bad, she supposed, because there were other perfectly sane women there for her to talk to. Because they couldn't speak el inglés, they'd been locked away as she had, presumed insane.

Twisted as it was, it was how things were, and Musichetta wouldn't waste time with needless self-pity.

"Up, up, up!" a voice called from the hall. "Time to get up, ladies!"

It was the plump, friendly redheaded nurse named Miss Brun who was in charge of helping the patients get ready for each day. Musichetta liked Miss Brun quite a bit, though admittedly most of what the kind woman said was lost in translation. Still, though, it was her smile that counted. A smile was the same in each language. She thought she'd heard Abuelita say that a long time ago, when she was a child.

Musichetta rose from her lumpy cot and smoothed down the covers. Most of the immigrant women and less-severe cases of madness were housed in this particular wing of the large, depressing building, so at least she was kept away from the loons. Musichetta had an inkling that the asylum staff knew that these foreign women weren't insane, and that was the exact reason they didn't house them with the mad folks. That smacked of injustice.… Shaking her head to rid herself of those thoughts, she shuffled over to Miss Brun and smiled.

"Good morning, Miss Musichetta," Miss Brun said with a kind nod.

"La mañana es hermosa, ¿no?" Musichetta responded. It was mostly sarcastic, she would admit. She understood that the orderly had wished her a good morning, but her response declaring it was a beautiful one wasn't entirely truthful. She supposed it could have been truthful if she really thought about it, but she had no way of knowing. There were no windows in the large room where the foreign women slept.

Miss Brunn gave Musichetta a mildly exasperated smile and nodded, pretending to understand her. She roused the other women, who rose grumpily from their cots. Eventually, when everyone was dressed in the hospital's custom long white nightdresses, the line of dull-eyed women shuffled out of the room.

It was breakfast time, and Musichetta was determined to enjoy it. That was her philosophy: If you cannot enjoy something, just pretend you're having a grand time. Eventually you'll start to enjoy it…at some point. She sat at the long, wooden table on a bench next to Isabel, a woman whose mother was American and whose father was African. Isabel had been committed because she frequently starved herself and screamed whenever someone tried to feed her. Isabel was from a far-off, hot place called Texas. Musichetta had traveled through Texas on her way to Oregon – where the asylum was – for her job.

"Mornin', senorita," Isabel said with a shy smile. The girl looked especially skeletal this morning.

"Buenos días, Isabel," Musichetta said. "Gracias."

"For what?" Isabel asked. The girl spoke a bit of Spanish, but tried to speak English whenever she was around Musichetta. It helped, for the most part.

"Hablando mi lengua," Musichetta explained carefully, digging into the tasteless oatmeal they ate every morning. "Talk my lengua," she attempted.

"I get it," Isabel said quietly, staring into the oatmeal. "Yo entiendo."

Musichetta sipped the glass of tepid water they were allowed and patted Isabel's hand. She wanted to ask Isabel to eat, but knew it was a bad idea. When Musichetta was done with her oatmeal, Isabel switched their bowls so that the empty one was in front of her, and chugged down the water. She thought that if she gave the illusion that she ate her oatmeal, the staff would eventually let her leave. She wasn't fooling anyone, of course. "Eat," she pleaded, gesturing to the full bowl in front of Musichetta. "Por favor."

I do hate this part of the morning. Musichetta sighed a great sigh, wishing she could just say, "No! Eat your own damn oatmeal!" Instead, she nodded and quickly downed the cold, soggy oatmeal before the orderlies came by to check that their meals were eaten. The desperate glint in Isabel's eyes dissipated to a content one.

"Thank you," Isabel said, relief creeping into her voice. Her stomach growled sharply and the desperate glow came right back. "No, no, no," she began to murmur to herself, slowly drawing her knees to her chest. She began to rock back and forth, wrapping her skeletal arms tight around her knees. "No," she whispered. "No, no."

Musichetta heaved a sigh and patted Isabel's back sympathetically. Because of the language barrier, there wasn't much she could say to the cadaverous girl. Isabel was now starting to cry. It was because her stomach had growled audibly, of course. "Why?" Musichetta asked quickly, hoping to distract her friend. "Why –?" She mimed Isabel's rocking and whimpering, hoping to convey her message.

"Stomach!" Isabel screamed. That sent the orderlies running. Dammit. They tried to calm her, but it didn't work. Eventually, they dragged her off to the Private Rooms.

Musichetta knew what would happen next: they would force-feed her. Shoving food down the throat of an innocent young woman who starved herself, watching as she gagged and tried to wretch it back up…it sounded like some disgusting horror novel. Even thought Musichetta knew she was proud, strong, and capable, it was moments like this that truly broke her heart.

[123]

Growing up, Eponine had raised the younger members of her family almost solely alone. As the eldest, it was her duty to watch out for the little ones, earn money for rent and booze, and somehow stay alive in their harsh little world. She lived with her family in a tiny street-level garret in a perilous part of their city, though she just barely "lived." At sixteen, Eponine had seen horrors unimaginable; most of them had happened close to home. Rapes, murders, you name it. These horrible sights had hardened Eponine's heart into something bitter and black, like a piece of coal. The little bit of lightness she had left in her heart was for her four younger siblings – a fourteen-year-old named Azelma, a twelve-year-old named Gavroche, and her two youngest brothers, aged seven and five. The little brothers had somehow entered this life without names, so they were given the options to choose their own names. The seven-year-old, being a boyish, playful child, chose to be called Lightening. The five-year-old, who was soft and sweet, chose Bunny, after a pet he'd adopted that their father had killed in a drunken fit.

The five siblings were bound by hardship. They didn't long for an easier life, because that was a useless thing to do. Secretly, though, the second-eldest, Azelma, would think back to a better a time – a warm, blurry memory when she'd been Bunny's age. A time where she wore Sunday dresses every day, when her parents drank less and laughed more, when they hadn't lived in their horrible house. Oh, yes, Azelma remembered it. Maybe not well, but she remembered it. Eponine had been eight – and not all hard angles and downturned frowns. She'd been childishly chubby and smiley-cheerful. And Gavroche! Oh! Little Gav had been only three. He was so happy, so lovable, tottering around. They had all been so happy. Life hadn't been perfect, no, but…it had been better.

And life now? Well…it wasn't the worst thing in the world. They were healthy, fed (most of the time), and had a roof over their heads. Yes, they were alright. Alright because they had each other.

How fast that changed.

It was in the middle of the night when Eponine woke up to screams. Guttural, primal, terrified screams. She shot up in bed and glanced over to Azelma's spot next to her. Whenever the siblings awoke to screams or shouts, they all did a quick check to make sure every sibling was there.

And oh, God. Azelma was gone.

Eponine shot out of her bed – a sagging, stained mattress on the floor and stumbled across the darkened room to Gav's hammock. He let the two youngest brothers share a bed, and had fashioned himself a nice little hammock. "Let the little bedwetters sleep together," he'd said. "I'll make my own bed!"

"Gavroche!" Eponine shouted. "Wake up!"

He bolted up, the makeshift hammock rocking haphazardly. "'Ponine?" the boy said sleepily. "What's the trouble, I –" Another scream tore from the throat of some poor soul. "Oh," he said darkly, and glanced down. "The kids are safe. What's wrong?"

"Azelma's gone," Eponine cried.

It was then that the screams became words. "HELP! HELP ME! EPONINE!"

"No!" Eponine and Gavroche cried at the same time. They scrambled over each other in the darkness, any regard for their own safety quickly forgotten. Gav tossed a quick, "Stay here!" to the youngest boys as they raced through their tiny garret to get to the heavy front door, the only entrance. They tripped over heaped bottles and sharp edges of worn-down furniture, and still they kept running. Eponine unbolted the many locks on the door while Gavroche screamed, "HURRY!" over and over at her.

Finally, the door was unlocked. The next scream led them to the alleyway – It's always the alleyway, Eponine thought – where they found her. Azelma was on the ground, on her back, bleeding from just about every place imaginable. Three big men knelt over her, grinning with bloody teeth and scarred fists. Gavroche tensed, ready to confront the men, but Eponine put an arm across his chest, barring him from moving.

"The knives," she whispered, and Gavroche nodded, then sprinted back to their house for the big knives they kept at their bedsides. They could not face the men without weapons. It would just get them all killed.

Azelma screamed again, but anyone could see that her screams were losing fire. One of the large men gave her a sharp kick. "Shut up," he snarled.

"NEVER!" Azelma howled. She took a deep breath, wincing, and gave another wild shriek. The men laughed and said vile things, kicking Azelma into silence.

Hurry, Gav, Eponine prayed. Oh, she should have known something like this would happen one day. She'd pondered it, of course. That maybe one day one of the siblings would slip up and end up at the mercy of men like these. But now that day had come. Now Eponine was utterly helpless.

"Now what should we do with you now that we've got you where we want you, little whore?" one of the men asked, his voice mockingly sweet. "Should we kill you?"

"No!" Azelma cried.

"Should we sell you?" the second man added, joining in on their cruel game.

NO! Eponine though. Oh, God. Azelma secreted away into the whorehouses on the other side of the harbor…no. Please, no. She wouldn't survive a day if the men kidnapped and sold her.

"I think," the third man said gruffly, "we should fuck you."

Eponine's blood ran cold.

"No!" Azelma wailed. "No! Please, please! SOMEONE HELP!" she screamed.

What's taking Gavroche so long?! Eponine wanted to go find him, but she didn't dare leave.

The other two men voiced their disgusting approval, laughing darkly. The third man, the one who had suggested the rape, he would go first. He would "fuck her." The man stalked towards Azelma, who tried to scuttle away, but slipped in her own blood. She screamed, oh, she screamed like a banshee. But the man shoved her down, he straddled her, her unzipped his pants, he shoved her dress aside, he –

And that was when Eponine screamed. Oh, she screamed. She wailed. She caterwauled. Because she couldn't take it anymore. NO ONE would take Azelma's innocence. NO ONE. Her sweet baby sister had seen enough horror in this life. And so. She charged down the alleyway towards the men with no weapon to speak of. She howled as she ran, her wide eyes lit up with a mad fire. She leapt on to the man who was going to hurt her sister. She caught him by surprise and took him down, beating upon him with her fists. She slashed her nails down his face and jabbed him in the eyes. He screamed, blinded for a moment. And since he was blind, Eponine took that moment to bring her fist down between his legs over and over.

"HOW?!" she screamed. "HOW DO YOU LIKE IT NOW?!" She tore at the man's flesh and ripped his clothing. She brought her knee between his legs fast and hard over and over and over. She jabbed him in the eyes until her fingers were coated with something sticky and bloody. She stomped on the man's ribs until she heard cracks. She punched and kicked and screamed and jabbed and scratched until the man stopped howling.

And then she turned, her fists bloody and knuckles broken, to the other two men. She smiled at them. And she knew she had won.

But then.

Oh, how fast things change.

The two men jumped her. And they began to beat her, and yes, they raped her. Over and over and over. And they did the same to Azelma.

But this time, Azelma did not scream. She cried.

Eponine didn't scream either. She laughed.

[123]

Musichetta watched them bring in the newest arrivals. Because her behavior was exemplary, she was allowed to sit in front of the building and watch – with an orderly armed with a nightstick, of course.

The first one was a young woman in trousers – no, that was a man. How strange. His hair was long and braided. He would probably be quite sad when they made him shear his locks the way they made all of the men in the asylum. He was carrying a suitcase that looked like a little drum, and he looked quite nervous. His eyes – beautiful eyes – had no glint of madness in them. This young boy, he was beautiful, his looks akin to a fairy. Poor child. They will break him.

The next two came in the same carriage. Another beautiful boy, this one with long, blonde hair. The girl who stepped out was young – only a child. Fifteen, maybe. She had hair as long as the boy's – her brother, probably. The two held hands and didn't look scared. They looked proud, indignant, and angry. When one of the orderlies attempted to help the girl carry her suitcase, she batted his hands away and snapped at him loudly.

"Senorita?" Musichetta said to the orderly, and pointed at the blonde siblings. "Por que? Ella es…" She couldn't think of what to end her sentence with. She is…what? Rude? Not insane? She waved a hand. "Ni importa," she said.

They just kept coming, the new patients. Some looked terrified, others looked excited. Some were nervous, and one boy – he was sleeping! The one boy who caught Musichetta's attention the most was a black boy who was snapping at nothing. He was handsome, and it broke Musichetta's heart to see him put away like a criminal.

Finally, when the last one – a set of sisters, one silent and one cackling, were herded inside, the orderly tapped Musichetta's shoulder. "Time to go in" she said.

Musichetta nodded. "Yes," she said in English. "Time to go in."

She wondered what was to come.