Sorry for taking long to update this! But this is visceral, hard hitting stuff, and I will post a trigger warning here: this chapter deals with mental illness and child death.
Part 2: The Rhyme
One of the things that Enjolras has gotten used to is Eponine's tendency to move around a lot in her sleep. Much of the time it helps to simply keep his arms around her when they are both in bed; she likes how safe she feels when he does that. Sometimes though it isn't exactly enough and Enjolras wakes up to feel her elbow digging in his ribs, her feet kicking his shins, or her hands blindly reaching for his. He's learned how to manage these episodes, exactly how to wake her up and hold her till she calms down and drifts back to the world of the waking.
So when he wakes up at some unknown hour and sees her sitting up in bed, clutching the blankets as if for dear life, he cannot help but feel a frisson of surprise and worry. "Eponine? Are you awake?" he asks as he nudges her. It wouldn't be surprising to find her still wide awake, mostly thanks to the fact that they have just gotten home from their impromptu party at Bossuet's new apartment.
She nods briefly and yawns. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Something. It sounded like a child laughing."
Enjolras reaches over to check their alarm clock and finds that it's only two in the morning. This is no hour for children, or at least most children, to be awake. Still, they live in a city that is unlearning sleep, and they've heard stranger things in these parts. "Probably one of the neighbours," he says.
"I don't know, it sounded pretty close," she whispers before yawning again. "That, or theta waves are messing with me again."
"Theta waves?"
"You know, that state between sleeping and waking, just when you're drifting off? You can't quite tell sometimes what you're really hearing or not"
He nods, remembering all the odd things both of them and some of their friends have experienced in that state. "Well you need to get some actual sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."
"Yeah. Sorry about waking you," she says as she squeezes his arm before lying back down again and pulling the blankets over her head, as if the thin cloth can block out any further disturbances. For good measure he snuggles closer to her such that they are spooned together. This seems to work as soon she's drifting off to sleep again and her breathing is light and easy, enough to lull him into slumber.
When they wake again, it's six in the morning, just the right hour for them to begin their day. Eponine has an early meeting at the halfway house where she works, so Enjolras decides to commute with her and tag along for a little while before leaving for his own appointments at his own workplace. When they get to the halfway house, some of the place's youngest denizens are already playing in the yard. Two girls are sitting on the stoop playing a sort of clapping game. Their hands meet high above their heads, in front of their faces, palm up, and palm down, keeping time with their high pitched voices chanting, 'Mama, Papa, I want a piece of bread. Sister, brother, I want some coffee-'
"I haven't heard that one in years," Enjolras remarks nonchalantly as he steps ahead of Eponine in order to open the door for her. He notices the wry, slightly startled expression on her face as she casts a glance at the children. "Eponine? What is it?"
"Also tripping down memory lane," she laughs almost a little too quickly. "Or not. I could have sworn I dreamt about it."
"You sure it was a dream and not the theta state?" he quips.
She rolls her eyes and punches his arm. "Next time you talk in your sleep, Miguel, I'm bringing out a recorder. You should really hear what you sound like when you're in that state."
"I talk in my sleep?" he asks, affronted at this revelation as well as by her using his given name. He picks up the morning paper, which has been carelessly tossed by the newspaper man into the plant box near the stoop. As usual the front page is a smattering of dire news of every sort, ranging from the headline decrying the still ongoing misdeeds of legislators all the way to a small item regarding a cemetery being dug up to make way for a shopping complex in a small town. He gives this last article a double-take. "Guess what's happening down south?" he says as he hands the broadsheet to Eponine.
Eponine glances through the article and shrugs. "I haven't been back there since I was a little girl. I don't think I have relatives there anymore. I don't think we even have anyone to visit in the graveyard."
"Another thing run over in the name of development," Enjolras says dryly as they go to her small cubicle in what passes for the house's administrative office. He helps her set up her things and straighten up the space before he reviews the article agai. "Besides I think there's an item or two in the sanitation code that might prevent this building."
"You nerd."
"That's why I'm in my job, Eponine."
"And you're good at it," she says before kissing his cheek. "Now scoot. I have work to do and so do you."
"Alright. Later then," he replies before hugging her briefly and heading out of the halfway house. There's something incredibly satisfying about this open ended phrase, at least when it's Eponine in the picture. Normally Enjolras hates putting things off, and thanks to this the word 'later' has always grated on his ears since his boyhood. Nowadays though the word takes on something of a promise of good things to come: of late nights dreaming about changing the world, of falling asleep to her voice whispering 'I love you', and of course of waking up next to her and being ready to face yet another day of wonders.
Tonight though he wakes up to the unmistakable sound of her whimpering, that sound that warns him that she is in the throes of another nightmare and could kick out and flail about anytime. He shakes her urgently. "Eponine! Wake up!"
Her eyes fly open, dark and almost unseeing in the half-light of their room. "Where are they?" she whispers. "I can hear them."
"Hear what?" he asks, but she simply shudders as if coming to herself again, and then she curls up under his chin. He knows better than to ask so he holds her tightly and kisses the top of her head when she clutches at him the way she does on the rare days when she finds that talking about the past is too much for her to bear. Later that night while she is fast asleep, he lies awake and wonders what memories have surfaced this time. While he is very familiar with the narrative, both from her own telling and from the scars on her body, he is also painfully aware that he can only imagine the full weight and color of her story. It's why he tries so hard to fill their days together with something more beautiful, but even that can only go so far.
The next morning when he goes with her to the halfway house, she cannot even look at the children playing in the garden, skipping rope as they chant their favourite rhymes. She bites her lip hard as she heads straight to her cubicle. "Don't ask, please," she says as she sits down at her small desk. "Just a damn coincidence, Enjolras."
"Right," he says, crossing his arms. He's not superstitious, he's not one to believe in omens or most things paranormal, but he knows better than to just chalk everything up to mere chance.
"I'll be fine," she insists. "It's just a stupid dream."
He only shakes his head before bidding her goodbye and heading out for his own appointments. None of her nightmares have left her in such a haggard state before. He decides to discreetly switch their supply of coffee with decaf just for tonight; he's heard that caffeine can worsen vivid dreaming. Yet once again he wakes up to her grabbing his arm and squirming away from the edge of their bed, and it takes more effort than usual to calm her down.
Eponine never lets on what she dreams about, that is if she's dreaming at all. However Enjolras isn't blind to the other signs over the next few days: her trembling hands, the way she can hardly even look at the children she works with, and of course the way she keeps yawning and nodding off even in noisy places. By the end of the week, he's sure she's practically on autopilot.
"Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor about this?" he asks one morning when he finds her asleep next to a whole bottle of energy drinks. It's been more than a week since this trouble began, and he's sure that she's gotten only less than 48 or so hours of sleep in all this time.
She glares at him. "I'm not sick."
"You're not sleeping. I'm not a doctor but I know that can't be a good sign," he points out.
She shakes her head. "Don't make me go through it again. If you love me, you wouldn't."
Enjolras flinches at the word 'again', knowing what she's referring to. They hardly speak of that spell in her life, of those weeks in one of the city's most infamous wards when her parents had almost given her up for lost, of the months of doctor's appointments, pills, and teetering on the edge with every shift of mood and thought. 'She's come a long way since then,' he reminds himself, but the sight of her so pale and jumpy makes him wonder if that spectre is surfacing before his eyes.
"What am I going to do then? I refuse to let you go about like this," he retorts. "What on earth is going on there?"
"It's none of your goddamn business, Enjolras!" she hisses. "I was afraid you'd ask this."
"Only because I'm concerned." After all, he's been waking up too to calm her down, but unlike her he can fall asleep again.
She takes a few deep breaths, as if wrestling with herself. "Can you try to believe me when I say I'm not going crazy?" she asks.
He swallows hard but he has to nod for both their sakes. "What then?"
"I'm...hearing things," she whispers. "It's not a voice telling me to do something or to believe something. Not that."
"Then what is it?" he asks, now genuinely confused.
"Voices asking me why I forgot them, why I left them behind..." She takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. "Children. Two little boys. I don't know why. They act like I know them but maybe I do, but you know that sometimes my memories are so goddamned addled...I think that Gavroche and Zelma know more than I do, really"
It occurs to Enjolras that he's seeing the worst thing of all; that Eponine herself is worryiing that she is going mad. Yet he's heard too that the truly ill do not exactly know they are ill, especially in the earliest stages. Before he can dare to delve into this, he hears his phone as well as Eponine's going off with new messages. "Bossuet wants to meet us later at Feuilly's place. It's about that apartment of his," he says after he reads this new text missive.
Eponine manages a ghost of a smile. "Bet he's got questions. Something was fishy about that place, beginning with the rent."
"Indeed." The mention of their friend's new accommodations is a little troubling, considering that the beginning of Eponine's nocturnal troubles coincides with their first visit to this place. 'Post hoc ergo propter hoc,' Enjolras reminds himself, but something in his gut warns him otherwise when he sees Eponine yawn again and almost fall asleep right where she is sitting.
The conversation later that evening with Bossuet takes a strange turn, with talk of ghosts and other things paranormal. Thankfully they do not dwell on that topic too long and the talk turns towards other more pleasant memories of the city, but Eponine is far too tired to really participate and so they call it a night rather early.
He carries her to their bed, and is alarmed to find how seemingly light and limp she is in his arms. "Please don't dream tonight," he whispers in her ear when he tucks her in.
"Wish it was just dreaming," she mumbles almost incoherently. She clings to him with a grip born of desperation as well as fear. "Don't let them get me, please."
"No one is going to harm you..." he tries to reassure her but she's drifting off before he can finish his sentence. He holds her tightly but what can he do if perhaps the danger is from within her own mind, from the scars that refuse to fade.
And that's when he hears the soft chanting, almost as if the voices are being carried away on a breeze. 'Mama, Papa, I want a piece of bread. Sister, brother, I want some coffee-' The voices aren't cheery but haunting, almost mocking. Worst of all, they are much too close to his ear for comfort.
Enjolras sits up in bed, looking around frantically for the source of this eerie sound. "Where are you?" he shouts. Next to him, Eponine is flailing about and tangling herself in the blankets, so he has to move fast before she can inadvertently smother herself. He has to get out of bed and pull her with him in an effort to extricate her from the now dangerous cocoon of sheets. As he does so his foot brushes against two soft bumps on the floor. In his shock he stumbles on them, sending him and Eponine to the ground.
It is there that Eponine seemingly comes to, judging by how she suddenly moans and clutches at where she's landed hard on her bottom. "Did we just fall out of bed?" she murmurs.
"No, not really," Enjolras manages to say, though even he himself cannot trust the sound of his own voice. He reaches for one of the bumps and holds it up to the half-light coming from a nearby streetlamp. It's a tiny red rubber shoe, no longer than his own palm.
Eponine has also found another shoe, but this time in blue. "I know these shoes..." she whispers before grabbing the shoe that Enjolras is holding and flinging it aside. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it, I swear!" she gasps as she curls up in a ball on the floor, wailing incoherently.
Enjolras has to keep an arm around her even as he searches blindly on the bedside table for his phone. He waits for Eponine's sobbing and shrieking to stop and for slumber to mercifully claim her again. His hands are shaking as he searches his directory for one particular number.
Thankfully it only takes a couple of rings before the person on the other end of the line picks up. "Azelma? Yes, it's me, Enjolras. This is an odd thing to ask-yes, I know what time it is. I just need to know something...how many brothers and sisters do you really have?"