A Very Sweet Kind of Revenge

Every single day of the week. There was no escaping it. Sure, it brought in money, but none of it was used by or for her. Every franc she made went to her father, and whatever he spent it on, it sure as hell wasn't for her.

She practically had a new man every night. There were a few repeat customers, but she couldn't even distinguish one face from another, so she was oblivious to that. After a while they all sort of blended together. The pain was undeniable and unbearable, but it seemed she could never get away. If she ran or if she hid, her father or one of her clients found her and treated her worse because she hid from them.

She was lost in her thoughts as usual, sitting in her normal spot on the ground, peering into the subconscious depths of her feelings trying to harden herself against everything and everyone who had caused her pain. Lately it had been getting harder and harder to complete this numbing process, as she felt more and more helpless, and felt as though she would feel much better dead.

Her body, covered in bruises, gashes, and cuts, was aching for her to move towards the bridge over the Seine, and to throw herself into the water. But as street tough and hardened as she was, she was afraid. She was too scared to throw herself into the raging waters. Although every night she went to sleep and wished never to wake up, she could not kill herself. The only reason was a fear of the unknown mixed with the painful memories of an incident with this river that had happened some years before.

So, if anyone had been watching, they would have seen the gamine known as Eponine, huddled in a mass of rags, shivering uncontrollably and lapsing into coughing fits every so often. Her eyes were glazed over, and one could see nothing of the pain she kept inside herself. She looked as though she were daydreaming. Nothing more, nothing less.

Her silent reverie was interrupted by the sound of distant footsteps, echoing off the walls. Her eyes went back to their normal state, and her senses returned as she perked up, looking down the alley to the left, seeking out the source of the sound. A couple seconds later, she saw a shadow emerge out of the darkness. It was followed by the silhouette of a man, walking steadily down the alley towards her. She quickly turned her gaze down to her ragged chemise and pretended to be preoccupied with mending a hole in it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the figure approaching, closer and closer, until he came into full view. It was a police figure, Inspector Javert, the unmerciful law man. Her heart started to race. Perhaps he had found out about her stealing that loaf of bread from the bakery a few days back. She sure hoped not. She let none of her fear show, and appeared calm and occupied with the chemise. She felt her heart skip a beat when he came up to her. He was just standing before her, and she figured she'd better look up and address him.

"Monsieur?" she inquired softly, gazing up at him. She knew he was an uncaring, pitiless man and did nothing to help the position of the poor of Paris.

"Girl, what has happened to you?" he asked stiffly, peering at her bruises and cuts, no concern written on his horrid face.

She lowered her gaze, "I took a fall, monsieur Inspector." She lied, knowing the witty man would see right through it.

He paused a second, thinking. He looked at her frail and unhealthy thinness and decided he would have her for dinner to get the truth out of her. He knew she wouldn't refuse, not with her skinniness. He was, as she had guessed, not concerned for her, but, knowing that someone did this to her, and that she was in contact with the Jondrette man and Patron-Minette, he was looking to crack down on a law-breaker rather than saving her from her pain. He did, even with his heart of stone, feel a kind of pity for the poor creature, despite her record of injustice.

Finally, he resumed. "You will come with me for dinner." He commanded, instead of asking.

"And if I refuse?" she asked, sighing, knowing that was not an option.

"Come," said Javert, "We will get you some food." His voice cut through the chilly air like a knife.