First things first. I believe I owe La Pamplemousse an apology. I reviewed her fake story with my first ever flame, and I feel horrible now, as she said people couldn't take a joke as well as she had hoped. I have been taking out major stress on everyone, and I extend my utmost apologies to La Pamplemousse!!! Now, this is my first attempt at a piece about Fantine, or basically any "act one" character (with the exception of little Cosette). I know Fantine probably didn't talk as fancily as I made it seem, and I'm sorry. I haven't much of a grasp of Fantine, and this was more an exercise than anything.
A friend of mine who has Down's Syndrome inspired this story. The only thing she has in common with Fantine is that she's kind of an outcast and people are generally horrible to her, with the exception of my friends and I. This one group of boys always makes her cry in Art, and they always make sure she knows that she's retarded. It's so awful. Anyway, that's all you pretty much need to know, and I hope you enjoy my story!
There is an emptiness that comes from being outcast. A chilly reminder that you are alone, you are alone, you are alone. One cannot even walk down the street without the tossing of apples, the jeering, the mocking. You find one person you feel is truly on your side, and suddenly it was all a jest. They meant to get to know you and laugh at you as your back is turned.
Oh! The defamation of character is the most horrible, difficult gut-wrenching torture a woman ever had to exist through. Oh, she must exist through it. If she were to escape, it would only defame her character more and more until even posthumously, she was a laughingstock.
My existence, my forced existence, upholds this. The ones who are rich enough to afford scorn walk on the other side of the street as I pass by. They heave things at me, whatever they feel would be most painful. And I am accused of being unladylike! A lady would not hurt. She would not jeer. And they accuse me of being unlike a lady!
I try, so help me. I try to be the feminine ideal. If only it were in vogue to be poor! Then I would be the queen of all France. I would be the paramount of style. I do try to be pretty- so sallow I am from cold nights of working in sin, I must rouge my cheeks to reach the pale pink beauty so sought! I haven't the money for it, but one always finds a way to spend money that is not in their possession for vanity.
Mon Dieu, but these ladies are sharp! It is as if they can smell from miles away the small amount of red on my cheeks. Rumors fly seemingly before they see me. Unpleasant rumors, but they are nevertheless true. They say I am a painted lady! How strange it is that they feel these double meanings might confuse me. I know exactly what it is they are saying, and sometimes it renders me temporarily insane. It is true, I know- I have indeed sunk to that level- sink I must. I am but a harlot, though it is the only living a woman can make. I cannot do much else, as a woman and a poor one at that cannot be accepted into any university. Oh, I laugh at the thought!
Sometimes, late at night, I pretend I am one of them. I sit tall, ignoring the chip in my only cup, and engage in proper conversation with an invisible lady. She never sneers, not my dear friend! I am like her, and she is like me. We talk on fashion, the latest sermons, the difficult task of finding a good serving girl. Sometimes we even jeer and laugh at a woman like me. She is invisible as well. Anastasie, I call her.
I always retire to my bed in tears after this. I cannot help but think of Anastasie's forced existance. Oh! Such a poor girl.
Oh! Such an outcast.