Hate. That is what comes to my mind when I think about life. Life is hard. Very hard. It used to be bright though, in a far away past. A childhood which was far brighter than you could have imagined. Than I could have imagined. Life was good back then. Too good. Now we're rotten and our rotten spoilt us all. It all happened a few years ago, when I was still a little one. My father went bankrupt and we were all ruined. Lost in his treacherous ways. We would all pay for his deeds. All. Each and everyone. Our lives changed. Once we had no worries, now all we could do was to worry. I felt safe down there in that little village where I grew up. But my dearest father wouldn't let me stay to grow into a nice young lady. Oh no. He decided we should all go into damnation with him. We went to Paris to complete our fate. To fill our minds with the Parisian poison.
Once we got there he changed our name into Jondrette. He wanted to make a new start, or so he told us. At first I thought it could be nice after all. A new name, a new house, a new life. How more wrong could I be? We were standing in front of the gateway to Hell. We moved into a small apartment old enough to have been from the middle ages. The floor was soaked and dirty, the only window in the room was broken, there wasn't nearly enough room for all four of us. Imagine a grand woman such as my mother in a room originally meant for one person to live in, let stand four people. At first we tried to make the best out of it. Our clothes weren't as torn as they are now, our faces weren't as rotten as they are to be now, and our hopes were high. At least the hopes of my sister and me were. We still hoped for a better life to come and greet us. I even had hopes for a study; I would go out working and earn my education bit by bit. If only my father had allowed me. I had my ambitions. Now they'll never be.
A few weeks after we moved in there the problems started. Father had sold almost everything but he hadn't been very well money wise. He had thrown our money away as if we lived in a giant money tree, which wasn't the case. We needed every bit of sous that we had. He spent it on alcohol and who knows what. My sister really needed new clothes, her petite dress was dirty and holes were developing. I needed new shoes and a coat because the winter was coming. Luckily mother was able to get my sister a coat and new shoes for me, we really needed that. She made sure that father wouldn't find out that she had gotten the money out of his pocket.
One night my father brought home some strange looking men. They were thieves and criminals. They were scheming on something when I suddenly entered. Mother and my sister were out of the house at that time. The men fell into silence as I shyly entered the room. Father had called for me and I came nearer, shy as I was. Then one of the men pulled me on his lap. Before I knew it, he put his hands beneath my torn shirt. I was scared and I begged my father for help, but he just ignored me. Father stood and so did the others, except for the man forcing me to stay. Father placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded, then all the men left except for him and me. The man turned me around and without saying anything he roughly kissed me and he tore my clothes off me and threw me on the only bed in our room. I cried as he went inside of me and ripped my hymen. When he was done and left our room, I could do nothing but cry. I could barely get up again to gather my clothes and put them on, still dirty with his sweat. I dared not to look into the mirror in the following two weeks, afraid to be grossed at what I saw. A monster. That was what I had become, what I was made to be. A monster, a zombie, neither living nor dead.
In the weeks following my father made me and my sister deliver some letters to rich folk, to beg for money. I didn't know that at the time, I though we were just delivering some ordinary letters. I never knew I was doing wrong. I was a mere child, filled with innocence, no matter what had happened before, that innocence wouldn't leave me. I still had trust in people, and that was probably not a good thing for me. I was being used over and over again, but I missed to see it. And, of course, my father 'lend' me to his men more often. I became used to it and I didn't cry that much anymore. I would just pretend to be somewhere else, somewhere where light shone down upon a tanned face, ready to softly burn your skin some more while inhaling the scents of the beautiful wild flowers around you. That was where I would be when they raped me. Over, and over again.
My mother could do nothing to stop my father from abusing me and my sister. She was afraid. There were times though, in which she would actually defend us. She loved me and my sister. She loved her daughters. In a special way, that is. One could not really call it love, but it was more than I had ever experienced. I cared for her too, just a little. Times got harder, especially after we all got arrested. She died. Our only caretaker, died. There was such little time left.
Meanwhile of course there was this student living next door to us. We bumped into him while delivering letters one day and we both fell for him. I spied on him often.
He was the only one now to take a little care for us. We even received a whole lot of money for him once which was enough to buy us some bread of which we could feast all week. He is a special person.
The only ones who had gotten out of prison were my sister and I. We looked after each other, we were friends. We only had each other. Then the revolution started and lots of people started to fight along. Our neighbour student went fighting there and my silly sister went there to save his life in return of hers. That's how I lost my best friend and the only person I ever loved.
I never really got the chance to say goodbye. Now I wished I had died alongside her. There is nothing to live for. Life is harsh. You can never get used to it.
Once we got there he changed our name into Jondrette. He wanted to make a new start, or so he told us. At first I thought it could be nice after all. A new name, a new house, a new life. How more wrong could I be? We were standing in front of the gateway to Hell. We moved into a small apartment old enough to have been from the middle ages. The floor was soaked and dirty, the only window in the room was broken, there wasn't nearly enough room for all four of us. Imagine a grand woman such as my mother in a room originally meant for one person to live in, let stand four people. At first we tried to make the best out of it. Our clothes weren't as torn as they are now, our faces weren't as rotten as they are to be now, and our hopes were high. At least the hopes of my sister and me were. We still hoped for a better life to come and greet us. I even had hopes for a study; I would go out working and earn my education bit by bit. If only my father had allowed me. I had my ambitions. Now they'll never be.
A few weeks after we moved in there the problems started. Father had sold almost everything but he hadn't been very well money wise. He had thrown our money away as if we lived in a giant money tree, which wasn't the case. We needed every bit of sous that we had. He spent it on alcohol and who knows what. My sister really needed new clothes, her petite dress was dirty and holes were developing. I needed new shoes and a coat because the winter was coming. Luckily mother was able to get my sister a coat and new shoes for me, we really needed that. She made sure that father wouldn't find out that she had gotten the money out of his pocket.
One night my father brought home some strange looking men. They were thieves and criminals. They were scheming on something when I suddenly entered. Mother and my sister were out of the house at that time. The men fell into silence as I shyly entered the room. Father had called for me and I came nearer, shy as I was. Then one of the men pulled me on his lap. Before I knew it, he put his hands beneath my torn shirt. I was scared and I begged my father for help, but he just ignored me. Father stood and so did the others, except for the man forcing me to stay. Father placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded, then all the men left except for him and me. The man turned me around and without saying anything he roughly kissed me and he tore my clothes off me and threw me on the only bed in our room. I cried as he went inside of me and ripped my hymen. When he was done and left our room, I could do nothing but cry. I could barely get up again to gather my clothes and put them on, still dirty with his sweat. I dared not to look into the mirror in the following two weeks, afraid to be grossed at what I saw. A monster. That was what I had become, what I was made to be. A monster, a zombie, neither living nor dead.
In the weeks following my father made me and my sister deliver some letters to rich folk, to beg for money. I didn't know that at the time, I though we were just delivering some ordinary letters. I never knew I was doing wrong. I was a mere child, filled with innocence, no matter what had happened before, that innocence wouldn't leave me. I still had trust in people, and that was probably not a good thing for me. I was being used over and over again, but I missed to see it. And, of course, my father 'lend' me to his men more often. I became used to it and I didn't cry that much anymore. I would just pretend to be somewhere else, somewhere where light shone down upon a tanned face, ready to softly burn your skin some more while inhaling the scents of the beautiful wild flowers around you. That was where I would be when they raped me. Over, and over again.
My mother could do nothing to stop my father from abusing me and my sister. She was afraid. There were times though, in which she would actually defend us. She loved me and my sister. She loved her daughters. In a special way, that is. One could not really call it love, but it was more than I had ever experienced. I cared for her too, just a little. Times got harder, especially after we all got arrested. She died. Our only caretaker, died. There was such little time left.
Meanwhile of course there was this student living next door to us. We bumped into him while delivering letters one day and we both fell for him. I spied on him often.
He was the only one now to take a little care for us. We even received a whole lot of money for him once which was enough to buy us some bread of which we could feast all week. He is a special person.
The only ones who had gotten out of prison were my sister and I. We looked after each other, we were friends. We only had each other. Then the revolution started and lots of people started to fight along. Our neighbour student went fighting there and my silly sister went there to save his life in return of hers. That's how I lost my best friend and the only person I ever loved.
I never really got the chance to say goodbye. Now I wished I had died alongside her. There is nothing to live for. Life is harsh. You can never get used to it.