Azelma woke up in a smelly hospital bed. The hospital was crowded and filled with people coughing and puking. Her nose felt stuffy and her throat hurt. She coughed a little, and a nurse gave her some water.
For two more days, Azelma was in the hospital. For most of the time, she people-watched. There was a large variety of people in the hospital. A couple of the patients weren't so lucky, and had died. Azelma always felt uncomfortable when the nurses would put the sheet over them and get the body out of there. She remembered when she was a girl; Éponine and she were taken care of by a well-trained doctor. Then they went to Paris, lived under a bridge, and had to just suck it up whenever they got sick or hurt. Azelma self-consciously traced the scars on her right hand and wrist.
It was snowing outside, and inside proved little warmth. The fire was put out and Azelma was forced to punch a hole in the window. The sharp and ragged edges of the glass cut her and she held her bleeding hand to her chest. Her mother went over to her, and her father hastily wrapped it up, too concerned over the philanthropist to really care.
When the philanthropist and his daughter did come, Azelma could see pity in their eyes. The girl, vaguely familiar, went over and took a look at her hand. She was nice and talked to Azelma quietly, telling her that it would get better.
And Azelma remembered the poor little girl her family got all those years ago. And how that girl's life did get better, much better.
Maybe now Azelma's life would get better. She yawned and coughed some more, before drifting back to sleep.
When she was released from the Hospital, her dad just glared at her as they got on the boat, "You feel better, I hope."
Azelma nodded, "Much better," she said quietly.
"Ah, here comes New York," Thénardier grinned as the boat docked.
Azelma smiled softly as she stepped onto New York. Her life was going to get better, she could feel it.