Hello again! I am now going to try and post once a week on either a Tuesday (today) or a Thursday! So I also want to that's hanks for all the really nice reviews and that I tried to have less typos but can't promise anything, Enjoy!
DECEIVING PALLORS
A night which appears black may be concealing many stars,
A morning which appears grey may be containing many joys,
A man who appears white may be concealing many evils,
A woman who appears yellow may be containing many vices,
So do never look upon the night coldly,
And never look upon the morning boldly,
Never look upon a man without caution,
So never look upon a woman without doubt.
When dawn crept round in the unsteady way that dawn comes, young Éponine rose from her darkened sleep and stepped into the corridor outside her families door. She passed the door of her neighbour, Monsieur Marius and paused letting her hand fall to the warped wood of the door. She caressed it softly and slowly before leaning her forehead upon the oak, "Je t'aime!" She whispered and inhaled the air, Marius' air, she reminded herself.
His air was sweet and good and filled with promise like a fresh, new apple blossoming in a bright tree. Full of youth and hope, innocent to all evils, beautiful and pure, sweet and delicious but most of all for poor Éponine, out of reach. Just a whisper away, hidden between the security of wealth and the intelligence of his knowledge. And most of all. Completely unstained.
Inside, Éponine could imagine how Monsieur Marius was probably sitting bent over his desk, scribbling away about the social injustice and lack of a welfare system. Secretly Éponine admired him for this even though she would never tell him. To her it ment that Marius really did indeed care for her and was trying to help her. This only added to the reasons as to why she was so besotted with him.
As she continued outside, to the point where she would meet with the cruel police inspector, she dreamt of him. Monsieur Marius, he was walking with her, clutching her hand against his heart, holding it like it was the embodiment of riches. He would stroke her hair or brush her lips with his, holding her near so that she would never drift away from him. Such was their love that it would become the envy of all the regular boulevard trollops.
Although, however beautiful these fantasies were she was always woken up by the task she had to fulfil.
She crouched on an old wooden box by the point and scanned the scene with a lazy eye. The inspector was not yet here. She watched the people and the way they shuffled on, living there formidable lives. Reaching through the mud and filth, a troupe of young rosy cheeked and barefoot children ran in circles tripping and slipping in the dirt. Their clothes were stained and torn but yet their faces held the light of spring and their eyes held the warmth of summer. Éponine turned away bitterly, hating to see how a rose could bloom in poverty when she never had.
She ran her bony fingers through her long tangled tresses looking for something to do.
A boy similar to her own small age was standing across the street in an old pair of worn boots which glistened with the dying mud of the street. She let her gaze travel upwards gazing with soft eyes at his tanned trousers complete with small but dubious holes that were crinkled slightly at the sides. Moving her eyes up once more she passed his stained white shirt which had turned a sickening yellow with age, like an old bone left out for the dogs, she continued upward in silent dismissal until her shining eyes caught the curve of his jaw. Here the look of dismissal vanished and was taken over by one of approval. His face was like the summertime, alive and blossoming with serenity. She could get an idea of his features, but none of it stuck in her mind beyond an impression of astonishing handsomeness . His long hair wafted around him like black smoke, its tendrils curling and moving of their own volition. Éponine could not recall seeing him before. The happiness still lurked in his face, but it was a quieter summer now, not the rabid, passionate and unwavering summer of before. Something else akin to spring stirred underneath the gleam of his visage.
Éponine could not come up with a reason as to why she was so taken by this fetching man even if you were to offer her her worth in gold, which was probably no a handsome amount.
As she sat upon her small rickety perch gazing intently at the young man whose name she simply had to know, she missed inspector Javert striding down the street with a sullen ferociousness about him.
Éponine slowly raised, and almost in a trance without the faintest of knowledge about what she was planning to do, strode across the street and took her new position, sitting on the path cross legged almost directly at the feet of the handsome man.
From this new position Èponine could hear the short conversation that was going on between the handsome boy and a younger girl. The girl seemed to be about ten and had the same curled locks and bright expression which showed mirth and gaiety. She twirled around holding the boys hand chanting a ditty that Èponine herself remembered from her childhood.
Alouette gentille Alouette,
Alouette je te plumerai,
Je te plumerai la tête,
Et la tête, Et la tête,
Alouette je te plumerai.
Such was this picture of happiness that Èponine welcomed as a foreign memory which had been chased from her mind by a harsh hand. The little child was gazing at the boy with such affection and admiration akin only to that of which a child shows a father. Though it was obvious even to the most ignorant that they were both siblings. Èponine briefly entertained the thought that she herself, might have once behaved with such love towards her brothers and sister but knew that it was never so.
Even as a child, when poor Èponine had all her hearts desires, she had not behaved any kinder towards her siblings than she did now. Her mind wandered towards the thoughts of her two small brothers whom her mother had given away. Où étaient-ils? Ils étaient morts? Ont-ils manger? Sometimes Èponine entertained the idea of hunting them down, not stopping until all of Paris had been searched. Then she would scoff and return to her normal cold hearted thoughts. When someone so wretched, with truly so little sole left tries, to give a piece, of that expiring conscious, to another, then one discovers how truly hard it is to be selfless.
Letting her mind and eye return to the garçon and fille she saw that they were both gazing at her with an expression which made her scramble to her feet and flee. She didn't stop until her eyes went blank with pain and her breathe came in short broken gasps, interrupted by the hate which seemed to consume her. She flung herself against the soiled wall of a taverne. She turned so her cheek was pressed flush against the cool granite and her hands gripped the wall so hard that blood was pushed out in thin trickles through the already apparent cuts in her hands. Her inner sole screamed. That look, worse than hate, worse than disgust, worse than prejudice. It was pity.
Pity is what can separate a gamin from a bourgeois. It is in the very soil of all society. To be pitied is to be lower than the one who pities you. To be pitied is to be mocked. To be pitied is to be degraded. One does not pity a person for their thoughts or feelings, one pities a person for their origins, their position in society. It is an act of discrimination and to Èponine, one of the most horrid gestures one could show to her. A quoi je pensais? Monsieur Marius would never pity Èponine. She was sure of that. As sure as she was of her own name, which at that time appeared to be Jondredette.
Letting herself slip down the wall, almost as if she was slipping into the embodiment of darkness, itself.
For every single ounce of light within a heart, there is a pound of darkness waiting to swallow consume all purity and righteousness. It is up to the being whether or not they allow light to prevail over its contrasting enemy. Many find that it is hard to forsake the darkness within their own hearts; this is what, in the end, forces them to give in and submit to the Nuit Éternelle.
When a being succumbs to the darkness in their hearts, they transform into Heartless, the eaters of hearts; the destroyers of worlds. Men like Thènardier. What also stems from this corruption is a Nobody, the shell of a person after their heart has been eaten away. An empty body rotting away from the inside with bitterness and resentment. Nobodies are the mere body and ruined soul of a person. They have no hearts, and they are Nothing- existing in a plane between light and dark. This nothing, this plane is what small Èponine was constantly battling to stay out of. To pull through and thrive and with this one act of degradation Èponine felt the darkness become that much larger. Where Èponine was seeking praise and love she only found hate and hurt and with this constant but vicious cycle she had been worn down into believing that her life's course had been set and she could do not a thing to disrupt this crumbling path.
"Pourquoi ne pas jamais m'aimer?" She whispered to that hard cold wall which seemed to climb ever on into the equally dull and lifeless sky creating a picture of depression. A man exited the taverne, he was tall and stocky with an authoritative stance and a direct eye. Seeing this unwavering figure seemed to ignite a flame in poor Èponine's painful memories. "Mon Dieu! The inspector! Zut, Zut, Zut!" She swore and took off on weak legs back down the allies to her former post.
With a frantic frenzy she stretched onto the toes of her worn boots and peered around the crowds of shuffling persons hurriedly. She was looking for the man that was more wolf than man. The inspector who was forged in ice with a heart of steal and eyes of a hawk, always always searching for prey. The inspector who had landed her into the locaux de la police at least a dozen times. The inspector who she at this present moment was meant to be luring into the Patron Minette's den. Instead of wailing or shrieking, Èponine resigned herself to her fate which would aspire to show death as the lesser of the two evils. She slowly began to sway down the street almost making a show of it to herself. Oh! If only someone would take me from this living hell! From this deploring listlessness!
She could almost see it now, Monsieur Marius would arrive in all his undeniable glory and slowly look into Èponine's eyes, before lowering his weight onto one knee and gently pulling out a silver ring which would catch the glimmer of the suns rays. Then with a tenderness which would seem to come from another world, he would slide it onto her thin finger third from the right and they would become one. It was not Monsieur Marius' beautiful shadow that was cast upon her, but the dark and terribly formidable shadow of the inspector. Seeing this as an opportunity to appease her father Èponine suddenly gave a cry of insinuated fear and let herself fall to her knees at the feet of Javert. "Monsieur le Inspector!" She cajoled, "Oh goodness! Thank god your here! Come quick! It's my sœur!" To terrified to see if he had caught the bait Èponine immediately took off twirling through the street, on the familiar path that would indefinitely lead to the wicked snatch of earth that was the Patron Minette's lair. Her worn boots slapping against the dirt pace after pace. She would turn her head every so often to be sure of the inspectors pursuit and when that appeared clear, she would force her legs to move faster and her heart to beat quicker. The were coming closer by the second, winding a path into the heart of the slums. A place so terrible, bathed in evil and cooked in wicked a place commonly known to thieves, beggars, whores and murderers. The lair had been built, more like summoned, just as one would summon a demonic spirit from a grave. It was fitted in between two equally dismal buildings inhabited by equally foul people, made of a thick black tar mixed with mortar to keep the wind from pulling the structure to the ground. It had many exits but only one entrance which was obscured from the view by a rotting piece of cloth tied haphazardly round the wooden frame where a door should rest.
Èponine quickly turned to Javert, and without missing a beat of her heart quickly spoke that, "My sœur, she is trapped inside, the rafters have fallen crushed her two legs!" seeming to take the bait Javert roughly shoved Èponine back, "Wait here wrench."
Èponine lay back against the wall and breathed a sigh of sweet, sweet relief. Perhaps today she wouldn't be beaten, not even scolded! A sharp grunt of pain broke through her thoughts and the sounds of scuffling feet and the swearing of men travelled towards her ears alerting Èponine that the fight had begun. When the noise died down she decided to slip in holding the curtain aside and causing a stream of light to flow into the room. The men blinked as their eyes adjusted, and seeing that it was only small Èponine they turned their attention back to the task which presented itself unfinished. Èponine was able to see what was happening and it appeared to be, that Javert was lying face down on the cold, hard floor as the men pummelled him with their fists and cudgels.
For a girl of only fifteen, violence of this degree would have been thought horrific but for Èponine it was her way of life. Thrashing. Crippling blows. Bones crunching. Thudding gasps of liquid pain. Pain that bled through the actions of the five monsters of men. Babet was the first to grow bored and with a spit in the direction of Javert, he rose and left only sending Èponine a fleeting glance. The rest followed soon. Montpanarsse showing Èponine his hideous teeth as lips pulled back into a wicked gesture. The men lumbered out, Thènardier adding as an afterthought, "Well done my dear."
Circling the shadow of a degraded man Èponine stooped low and pressed her thin fingers over the previously voluptuous mouth and waited. A breathe. Crouching low like an animal scavenging for food she shifted her weight and drew her hand down to the opening over her worn boots. Inside it Èponine could indeed feel a blade. Her hand slowly gripped the splintered wooden handle and she quietly drew it out. She held it in one loose palm, watching as it glistened and threw out beads of light against the grubby walls. Beautiful shining, unnerving light which ghosted across the inspectors face making him look like a sleeping child, battered and bruised. This caused Éponine tp peer close, brush his grey locks from his face and staring intently at his presence. He scared Éponine. Such was the greatness of his integrity, it would cause mountains to move and seas to disperse. He had a commanding air of grace about him which would send shivers galloping down your spine and shaking your heart itself. Éponine used the tip of her blade to trace down the contours of his features. Moving the sleek silver dagger over his nose and lips, which were permanently turned into a sullen expression which showed a life of great hardships. Éponine's face ghosted with a smile. She held the blade against an awful looking bruise, that had turned black from pain and was marred at the edges, she kept the blade poised there and applied just enough pressure. The blade sunk through his skin as if it was softer than mud. A tear drop of blood rolled out and slipped in a jagged path downwards, moving out of Éponine's line of sight.
The power. A deep, thrilling unexplainable power. The power to end a life. Oh so easily, Éponine could draw the shining blade back and sink it into the soft of Javert's throat, ending a life. Murdering, killing, exterminating, ending a life. A gasp of blood was sent coursing through her veins at the thought. Éponine barely had control over any single aspect of her life, except death. Being too cowardly to bring about her own demise, she found herself finding the thrill of power in this act, the act of killing a helpless man. A terrible rival, a wolf like stalker, a fighter, an appeaser but underneath it all, just another terribly degraded man. Pulled down by her father, not too unlike Éponine herself. And yet, how simple it should be.
The reason Éponine was hesitating, deciding and calculating was because she was afraid. Afraid of this beautifully wicked and extremely addictive feeling, power.
Everyone must leave something behind when they dies. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Or even a strong legacy. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. Not in person but in the movements you once played and in the sound of your voice. It doesn't matter what you do so, as long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The finger prints shall always stay. Sheltered by the memory that you kept.
Éponine was scared. Had Javert left something behind? A piece of his sole? Perhaps a child or a wife? Maybe a book or a legacy? For sure she couldn't kill a man before he had touched something? Bringing the blade back to the sun rays she moved it to and fro, with a childish gaiety, she caught a glimpse of movement and keeping very still peered closer. There trapped in the blades reflection crouched at least ten men, the national guards. The were bent over there legs, muskets pressed into cheeks and eyes front. Éponine let out a gasp of fright and suddenly the room erupted in chaos. Éponine drove forwards trying desperately to reach the hatch in the floor which would lead to an immediate passage into the sewers, instead she was met with a boot to the face. Pain broke out across her visage like an angry storm, so much so, that it was blinding her vision and causing her to temporarily loss of sight.
They had her, arms held tight feet kicked out from under her, blade prised from her fingertips and they weren't gentle, for sure. She was dirt to them, nothing. Just a scrap of dirt committing a crime. She hated it, the faces that looked through her and seemed to find nothing! Nothing! it was as if she existed simply for nothing, no life, no point. Instead of love she would be hated, not even thoroughly hated, just a light loathing. She felt like a leaf, tossed from one to another, nothing really interested in her at all.
Now, with fingers holding her so tightly that they would dent the very bones of her emaciated arms, she wanted to shriek at the indignity of everything.
She saw as they checked their dear, old inspector for a breathe of life and noticed as the air relaxed when Javert was pronounced to be staying in the world of the living and mortal soles. The men glared at her with mirth and seemed to be reviewing the situation and taking their options into consideration. With a curt nod and a murmuring agreement of, "Take her away!" and, "Lock her up!" the men began to drag the waif from the dismal building into the streets where a babble of people had gathered in curiosity. One thing that Éponine knew well was that prison meant death. In her fragile condition of hunger and sickness she wouldn't live over a week. This left poor Éponine with one choice, flee. In the end when the final decision was made, Éponine had not much of a choice in the matter but if she could go back and change her path, she wouldn't. For the path that she had chosen was one that would lead her to freedom, not just that of the body but also of her spirit. Even then she would never look back with a mournful eye.
Even Then.
Even then, when the dead do rot and the starving do sleep, Even then the cold will warm and the rain will dry.