CHAPTER SEVEN | NO LIGHT

It was two days before Christmas and Éponine was, of course, at work. If one was looking for her for any reason at any given time, chances are they would find her at the mill, standing stiffly at her station with a mound of aluminum piled up at the center of the table. A few bottles of chemicals as well as a hot mixing pot were situated to her left and she had a tight-lipped frown on her face.

Pourlevaire L'Fault stood across from her, a man who was too tall and too broad-shouldered to be working in the minerals. Somehow, he'd gotten stuck alongside Éponine at one of the many stations situated around the core of the factory. The two worked together, sorting out chemicals and proper aluminum shards for the mixtures that would be melted down in the blast furnaces.

It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

Éponine told herself this periodically throughout the day – especially when the guards would start to become restless.

Through blurry eyes, she could see the snow falling outside, frosting the windows of the factory's third floor, which was visible from her place on the bottom level. Everything looked so big from the ground floor; the guards pacing near the top of the high-ceilinged work area, their clubs, and the glint of guns hiding just underneath their blue militant clothes all seemed bigger and more fierce.

"The vultures are circling today," Pourlevaire muttered across the table to her. She glanced up at him, then back at the guards who looked bored out of their minds. "Wonder who's going to slip up and give them something to do this time."

"Hope it's that asshole, Rupert in furnaces," Éponine slurred. "Remember last week when I went n' gave him the mixes, and he said something about a girl's place in a factory – well I nearly gave him something to be sorry about. Nearly wiped that damn smirk off his face."

A small smile crossed his stony face. "You should've. I'd have joined you, probably would have made for a more interesting day." He paused before adding, "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing," Éponine said simply, ignoring the murmur of pain still gripping at her chest and the splitting headache sending aching waves through her brain. "Why?"

"Haven't heard you singing at all today."

Éponine went silent, meeting Pourlevaire's eyes once before returning her focus back to work – or, trying to, at least. Sometimes Éponine could become so quiet and withdrawn that it was discouraging to try and make any sort of contact with her. The stone-faced man sighed, knowing there was no use talking to her anymore, and left her alone with her thoughts.

It was hard to concentrate on anything that day; she had rolled out of bed, still half-drunk, trying desperately to get control of herself and wake up enough to walk to work.

If Montparnasse had been over, maybe he would have offered her a ride, but her father and the Patron-Minette were nowhere to be found. This was just another thing she didn't want to think about, but something that constantly occupied her thoughts. Was it another drug deal, or worse? She shook her head aimlessly to clear her thoughts – but it did no good.

Her mind went through the motions; flashing to Marius' kind face and touching upon a fond memory of them together at the Eiffel Tower, her heart leapt. They stood amongst tourists and even pretended to be tourists, themselves, asking people to take pictures of them in their best English accents. And then, suddenly, the memory was ripped from her, as though something dark had viciously gripped it and tore the thoughts from her. A fresh, foggy face took its place: the face of a girl with red lips and a snakelike grin, her black beret's point tipped up like a half-set of devil horns.

It didn't matter that, in all actuality, this girl was more innocent than a daisy. As far as Éponine was concerned, she was the impending root of all corruption.

Sharp pains dug at her temple. She should have known better than to drink an entire fifth to herself at one in the morning. Éponine felt woozy, and the more she thought about how unfit for work she was, the more sick to her stomach she felt. She needed to purge – soon.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," she said after a moment, her words hurried as she took a step back from her post. "Watch this for me, I'll be back..." and her words trailed off because she couldn't focus on anything but the immediacy of things. She didn't check to make sure Pourlevaire had heard her, and instead she spun on her heel and started toward the stairs at the far corner of the mill.

Her vision was getting blurrier as anxiety made her feel even worse. It was coming on too quickly, and she wasn't prepared for it.

"Hey!" someone shouted, but she didn't stop to see who. "Where do you think you're going!"

Without a moment's notice, she was grabbed harshly by her shoulder and spun around. Face-to-face with her was a guard, his club ready in one hand while the other hand dug into her clavicle, bruising the skin against the bone beneath.

Éponine tried to shrug him off, but it only made him clutch tighter. She let out a small cry.

"No one leaves their post 'til they're excused," the guard said. His eyes were sharp like daggers and they cut deep into hers with unwarranted fury. "Now, head back to work or you'll be sorry you didn't."

Stumbling backward, she turned back around and started back toward the table. Pourlevaire eyed her wearily before glaring daggers at the guard following intently behind her.

Éponine managed to keep the bile rising in her throat at bay as Pourlevaire lifted the steel basin and carried it toward the furnaces. She could feel the many eyes of surrounding workers boring into her. Her neck felt hot.

The guard who had reprimanded her watched over her shoulder soundlessly, his chin lifted high in self-importance. He still held the club. There was also something very sickening about this guard, who had dealt with Éponine multiple times before in the workplace. His breath smelt of stale brandy and too many cigarettes; he had yellow teeth and yellow eyes.

"You know the rules here," the guard hissed, his lips dangerously close to Éponine's ear. "You girls don't get any special privileges..." He trailed off slightly, spotting a small purple hickey at the nape of her neck – a gift from Montparnasse just a few days prior. The man smirked, pressing a hand to the small of her back, "Even if you are a pretty mutt, under all that dirt."

His breath was too warm.

"Monsieur," she urged, her hand finding her stomach while the other was pressed against the edge of the table. Her fingertips danced dangerously close to the bottles of chemicals cluttering the table top. "I am not well – I need a breath of fresh air."

The guard's eyes moved to his wristwatch, reading 9:33. "You just got here a few hours ago, girl," he snapped back at her. "You can wait until three to take your fifteen minutes of fresh air."

As the man turned to go, a sudden rush of adrenaline pushed through Éponine. It's now or never, her mind pleaded. You have to make him understand!

"Wait!" she cried frantically, whipping around to stop him, to run after him, to show him she was ill and needed a break. But, as she did so, her hand knocked a bottle of liquid chromium over – knocking to the floor in a sputter. The glass bottle turned to shards, sharp and gritty and numerous across the dirty factory floor.

The sound of it shattering was enough to bring the guard to a halt. He turned around slowly, inspecting the ground for what he already knew was a waste of alloyed chemicals, and found that the bottoms of his shoes were touching the chromium spill.

Éponine gasped, quickly forgetting her upset stomach at the sight of such a fury emanating from the sharp-shouldered man. Her hands fell to her sides and her brown, almond eyes widened in utter shock. She'd never messed up this badly before – not even the day she almost hit that reporter. That time, she had been lunging at him, trying to hurt him so badly – and she'd paid for it later. But although it had only happened a week ago, all the memory she had of that day was beginning to fade. All that remained was a small circular burn in the shape of the foreman's cigar, situated on her left wrist.

But it was about to be much worse than that – this time, she was really going to pay for it.

"You're coming with me, girl," the man seethed, snatching her up by the wrist as he dragged her through the aisles, weaving through people, darting up the stairs, bringing her to the third floor. Everyone's eyes were on her as the foreman, a middle-aged man of average build and height, stood at the edge of the grated pathway.

Éponine's thoughts were jumbled, and so tied her tongue past the point of forming any eloquent thoughts. She couldn't speak, she couldn't breathe, and her eyes kept going out of focus. This was partially due to her somewhat inebriated state, but also because the girl hadn't eaten in two days.

Turning around, the foreman – whose name was Benoît L'Blanc – turned around slowly. His white hair shone in the morning light streaking through the windows. When his eyes met Éponine's, she felt a shiver rush down her spine; his eyes were cold, dark, and even more cruel than the guard's whose grip bruised her.

"What is the nature of this?" L'Blanc said, troubled, as he took a few slow steps forward.

"She tried to leave her post, sir," the guard said, tugging at her even tighter until her eyes screwed shut. "Then she threw chemicals at my boots – busted a bottle. She's not right to be working, this animal!"

"I'm not an animal," she seethed through clenched teeth, "and I didn't-"

"Girl," L'Blanc cut her off, holding up a hand to stop her, "you need not say any more." He paused, taking a short breath, and her eyes widened; the feeling of a guillotine's blade slowly raising was overwhelming. Her stomach began tying itself into knots.

"You have been working here for – remind me, how long?"

"A month, sir."

He made an o shape with his mouth and paced with his hands clamped behind his back. "So you must know about our policies, one of which includes not leaving your post unless otherwise told to do so."

Éponine's breaths were shallow. She was nervous, but because of that part of her that was mouthy and angry and brash, she wasn't nervous enough.

Before she had time to think, she blurted, "I just needed some fresh air."

L'Blanc was taken off-guard for a moment; perhaps he had not thought she would talk back in attempt to justify her actions, or that she had it in her to say anything at all. His eyebrows quirked upward as he stopped in place. After a moment of processing, his eyes met hers – those eyes that were so frozen and bleak – and he began walking toward her. When it seemed that he had moved a bit too close, he took yet another step. His face was just inches away from hers, his breath palpable on hers. He raised a hand and gently moved a piece of fallen hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a light smile on his lips. It didn't look right, and as he spoke ever-so gently, she realized his words were coated in a thick malice that sounded all too familiar.

"If you want to be working here for more than a month, you'll learn how to control yourself," the mad said simply. "For your actions today, your pay shall be cut and you're to be sent home." The look in his eyes read that if she tried to say anything back to him, something even more severe would take place. "When you are here, you are here to work. No breaks, no time-outs, no fresh air. You will comply, or you will go."

Éponine was stuck in a state of soundless disbelief. As she was promptly dragged from the building, her feet were the only thing that kept working. Her breathing was forced, ragged, and her thoughts were muddled. A full day's work was enough money to pay for a lot of things at home, things that needed to be bought. It went toward the rent, the heat, the water, food, liquor – everything that the Thénardiers needed to stay alive.

And they wouldn't have that now – not after what Éponine had just done.

She was thrown from the building's back entrance, escorted so kindly by the guard from the workshop as well as the guards standing in the lobby with nothing better to do.

"Take a good, deep breath," the man said. His warm breath rose in the cold air. "Hope it's worth a day's pay to you." With that, the door clanged shut and Éponine was alone.

Her hands gripped at snow, her knees feeling the chill of winter's bite. It felt fiercer now, though. The air was still, the sky was gray, and as Éponine turned her face to meet the clouds, she realized she couldn't see the sun.

With every ounce of strength she had left in her, she bent her head down and purged.

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Her first thought was to call Marius, because he always knew what to do to cheer her up. She lucked out when she found some change lying about in the street – just enough to make a call. The payphone was situated a block away from the mill, which she stumbled toward with one wrist to her mouth, trying to wipe away the dribbled vomit.

The street was empty – which she was grateful for.

She stepped into the booth and immediately spun around, her shaky hands finding the machine as she blinked back tears. The change clinked as it entered the small slot in the payphone and Éponine pressed the cold, black receiver to her ear.

The dial tone rang twice, and halfway through its third ring it picked up.

"Marius!" Éponine smiled through watery eyes. "It's Éponine, I-"

"Oh, hi," the voice at the other end came. A strange pause lingered on the line; the voice in Éponine's ear bubbled over with femininity, high-pitched and sweet like some sort of toothache waiting to happen. "This is Cosette, Marius is still sleeping. Can I take a message?"

Éponine stood there in silence, phone still pressed against her ear, the wind around her like choppy waves.

She couldn't breathe.

In one flash of anger she clanged the phone on its hook, letting out a strangled cry. Her hands clutched onto the phone box as she leaned up against the clear wall of the booth. She had her eyes clamped shut, trying to focus on her breathing. Before she knew it, she was heaving in and out, that sensation creeping up her throat again.

"Fuck!"

When she opened her eyes, it was all over; tears streaked down her cheeks, salty and wet and terrible. That weight on her chest seemed to consume her as she tried lifting her head up, but failed miserably. She tucked her chin down and let out ragged, ugly sobs. The tears warmed her skin as they trickled off her chin and onto her chest.

You've had it worse, she thought, trying to reason herself out of complete heartbreak. Things aren't as bad as they seem. It will get better.

But Éponine wanted it to be better at that exact moment; she didn't want to wait a month, a year, ten years – she didn't have the patience and God knows she didn't have the strength.

Perhaps the worst of it all was the feeling of complete disownment, the feeling of not being good enough for someone, unwanted, unloved, inadequate. It was this rush of depressing thoughts that sent Éponine falling to her knees, hands pressed to the floor, shaking.

She was hungry, cold, broke, and alone.

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Éponine didn't go home that day. She didn't have the nerve to face her father, who was going to be expecting another paycheck. All she had to show for herself were empty pockets and a bruised collarbone.

He'd be furious when she returned, but so much hurting all at once was unmanageable.

That night, Éponine slept on the streets.