* DISLCLAIMER * I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters.
Chapter 2
As I start my journey home I begin to cringe at the thought of Thenardier's drunken fury. Whenever I'm late like this he lashes out. If only Marius knew, then he would not ask me to run so many late night errands. My father doesn't beat me because he's worried, he claims he is worried but that's really just an excuse so my mother won't get at him. I wish I could run away and never return home, never return to Paris but two things hold me back; the fact that my father is sure to find me, and Marius.
My life did not used to be like this. My mother and father used to worship me when I was little, about six or seven. That was before Cosette left with that man. In Cosette's absence I had taken on her burden. As said before, my clothes faded after days of work and my once beautiful dresses tore at the bottoms. Until then, I never realized how terrifying it was to go into the woods alone at night, and how bitter the cold air was. Just as long as Thenardier isn't doing the chores, he doesn't care about the conditions outside. I'm still haunted by memories of being forced to work through sickness so horrible I could hardly stand up, and I got sick often from trudging through thick snow and wandering the woods during heavy rainfall.
Relentless. That is one word to describe my father, if he even earns that name. He didn't care then and he certainly doesn't care now.
I walk into our home—or at least what's left of it—to see Thenardier sitting at the poorly crafted wooden table, a large mug next to him. The room smells of fermented excrement. The dazed look in his eyes along with his uneasy demeanor suggests any moment, he could fall over. Obviously, he is drunk.
"Yer late." He could barely formulate coherent words.
"Yes I know I was running an errand."
"Did yer mother send you?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
"I ran it for a friend. Marius."
"Marius? That ignorant schoolboy? Why are you wasting your time with him?"
"He is not ignorant and he is not a waste of my time."
"Your just as pathetic as he is. I can't believe my own daughter, my own flesh, is aiding foolish boys who have never lifted a finger in their life. And without asking for anything in return! If you keep doing favors for the likes of him eventually you'll amount to nothing more than his whore."
Before I can stop myself, I strike him across his sour face. It takes me a moment to realize that I had stooped to his level of physical abuse. The only difference is I'm not drunk, I'm mad, but now he is too. I can see the anger in his eyes. I had really done it now. It made him look weak, even in his drunken state he maintains the belief that he still has some amount of dignity left. He won't tolerate me playing the authoritive figure. In taking the last swig of his brandy he propelled himself past reason. He threw back his arm and all I can see is his palm coming toward me before it makes contact with my face. The amount of force he used threw me back onto the floor. It stung but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him know that.
"Is that all ya got?" I screamed at him and immediately knew the severity of the consequences of my actions. He lifted his foot, and kicked me in the side without restraint. As I feel the breath leave my lungs, I see him struggle to maintain his balance. All the more frustrated at his sudden lack of coordination, he resorts to punching me once more. Unfortunately for me, his aim was also hampered by his liquor. The punch intended for my abdomen, instead made contact with my jaw. Now rendered speechless and breathless, I lost the ability to fight back. I coughed and gasped for air, which is enough to convince him that he had won. I may be stubborn but I'm not stupid. There's no reasoning with a drunk.
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