The Story Of A Coat
Disclaimer: alas, I own nothing. Nothing.
Note: Yes, this is from the point of view of a coat.
I was never meant for Eponine Thernadier. Looking at me now, one would never suspect that I had once belonged to a decent man. I remember him well. His flesh was smooth, firm, and clean smelling. His voice was deep, and I would always feel the soft buzz of his words against my collar when he spoke. I was kept in a warm, tidy closet with others like myself, where I spent many happy days. I wish that I could know now what became of him. I wish, now more than ever before, that I was still one of his coats.
To cover Eponine, is something completely different. Some might call it an adventure, but I consider it more of a corruption. Her skin is rough and almost scaly, peeling in places. Her smell, on the best of days, reminds me of that of a dog. On other days, she smells like decay, as though her body is closer to death than it is to life.
That smell, the smell of decay, is what permeates me. I am something that belongs, quite fully, to the realm of death. My material is worn so full of holes, that my mistress might as well choose to cover herself in a layer of thinly dispersed threads. Winter passes through me as easily as a ghost. From the barking sound of her cough, and the heavy wheezing I can feel in her back and chest, I believe a ghost is what the winter will make of her. That is, of course, if creatures such as her have souls. She may be human, but on so many days she reminds me more of a wolf, or rat, or a snake. Perhaps that cough is merely an attempt by her composite parts to separate, and fly away from each other. Perhaps I am the only thing that keeps her together, like a ribbon tied around the neck of a broken doll to keep its head from rolling off.
At the moment, she is crouched against the wall of a building, reading a letter. She is silent, which is odd. Usually, when she reads she does so out loud, carefully pronouncing each word as though giving a speech. She seems to think this an appropriate way to prove to others that she is intelligent. This merely annoys her family, and I have never seen a stranger pay any attention to Eponine's activities, provided that she is not trying to pick their pockets. I am the only one who would know that her present silence is odd.
"Yes. Well then." She mutters to herself, as she crumples the letter. "That's sweet then, isn't it. Very sweet, that it is, all that those petty children have to say...". Having crushed the paper into a tiny, compact ball, she tosses as far away from her as far away from her as she can. Her arm is so thin and cold within me, that it might as well be a tree branch moved by a heavy wind. She crouches for a moment, leaning forward on her toes, her arms crossed tightly around her. After a moment she sighs, and gets up to retrieve the letter. She opens it slowly, smooths it out...folds it into a tiny square, making neat creases. She closes her eyes and she takes in a shaky, rumbling breath, and then smooths the letter several more times with an almost feverish intensity before placing it within my pocket.
As soon as the paper disappears within me, she runs with the speed of one who is trying to escape from their next action, or at least the thought of it. Running is one of the few things Eponine does with grace, and I imagine that she might almost look beautiful, as speed blurs her features. I suspect she is beyond human beauty though; instead she exhibits the sort of preternatural radiance of a fairy, perhaps the guardian spirit of some unpolished stone.
Heavily, a shake against her as she climbs up a flight of stairs. My mistress does not know how much I wish to overpower her - to smother her. She stops in front of a familiar apartment, and holds her breath as she leans her head against the door, listening. In the absolute stillness I feel a tickle near my collar, as a bug crawls from her hair into my fabric. I feel her heart beating with a quick thump, and I feel it most acutely when she begins to wheeze again, ceasing the suspension of her life. She opens the door, rummages for a piece of paper, and begins to write.
Author's note: That's all for now. Naturally, I'd love ANY sort of reviews. However, if anybody feels particularly like being helpful, I'd love to know how this story compares to my original attempt at trying this concept (see my profile for the original attempt) . I've tried to paint a more realistic view of Eponine - but if at any point my writing starts to turn into an unoriginal Eppie sue fest please please please tell me! Such is the danger of trying to write about the most popular character in a show. I'm done rambling. Thanks to all for reading and please remember how happy reviews make me.