The room at the end of the corridor is invisible to righteous eyes. Blessed blue eyes of pedestrians who live elsewhere never venture inside the building, instead they hurry their paces as the building comes into view. Many do not stop running until they can no longer see the tenements behind them.
Two dull brown eyes, and two alone, light up when they catch a glimpse of the rickety, worm-eaten building. Only two dull brown eyes regain a little of their former brilliance when the step across the threshold.
The same eyes shine -as much as dull eyes can- as they lock with the nearly lifeless eyes of another resident of the room.
"Your father will be right sore if you ain't got the money." These eyes are grey. They had been know to cry tears of joy in a distant past, but now they could only stare and glower deep into the dull brown eyes.
Eyes that echo a former blueness look up from the floor. "If you ain't got it, the bastard will beat us all, and I'll be helpin' 'im out when he's beatin' you."
The brown eyes only smile, in the unique way eyes have of smiling. The eyes are so happy to be home, so very happy! How the brown eyes adore the echoed blue eyes! How they adore the lifeless grey eyes!
"Oh, she ain't got nothin'! I told you, old woman, I told you, mum! That little slip of a whore done screwed up the catch and now we ain't got nothin' to eat 'cept cockroaches 'till God know when!" The glare in the formerly blue eyes is too dreadful to bear any longer, and the blue-eyes lower themselves until all they can see is the dirt floor
"I got the money, Ep, don't worry." There was a soft sadness in the dull brown eyes. "I was…just waitin' to give it, that's all."
"Azelma, don't be greedy, now." The soft voice is startling; it contrasts so sharply to the sharp words heard before. There is a hint of…love in the grey eyes. It is the first sign of life in them.
The brown eyes turn away. No-one must see them, for they are crying.
In the dead of night, the eyes are closed. Their owner, a mere girl the eyes know to be Azelma, is curled up in her flea-covered, tattered mess of a blanket. Her eyes no longer have to see the tenement, the squalor. She has closed them, and instead they see a beautiful parlor. In her fairy-world, her pretend home, Azelma is sitting at a piano. Fairy-Azelma plays beautifully. Her sister Eponine, miraculously cured of the drink-induced rough voice, stands along side her, smiling. Together, they sing, and it seems they sing for hours. They are only interrupted as their father walks by.
"Such gorgeous, lovely angels I have for my daughters," says Fairy-Father, his speech not only proper, but warm. "Truly a father can have no better."
He kisses his girls then, a fatherly kiss, on the cheek. The real Azelma shudders, thinking of the kisses her real father gives her, when he has been drinking. Such a terrible thing, drink.
In fairy-world, Fairy-Mother does not allow drink in the home. Everyone is glad and does not search for drink elsewhere, for they are a family and have no use for bottled drink. They take joy in each other.
Oh! Azelma is sleeping, but in her dreams she is still in the fairy-world. Night is the only time she can fly away to her imaginary paradise. She has tried many times to be in her fairy-world always, but it is impossible to ignore her reality, when she is awake.
Azelma tried today to pretend she does not steal. Tried to pretend she does not bed with men for pay.
She pretended as well, today, that her sister and mother were the very same fairy ones she dreamed about. She was overcome with glee as she walked inside- perhaps, perhaps she could trick herself into believing that their tiny, grubby room was in fact a gorgeous parlor. Maybe she could pretend her sister was good and kind. Oh! Maybe Azelma's plan would work.
When she did not answer Eponine's threats that night, she had been pretending that she hadn't any money, because the coins that jingled in her pocket were stolen ones. It had seemed, prior to Eponine horrible threats, as if her dreams were coming true. She didn't dare think it, but for a second, merely a second, Azelma thought her attempt had worked.
It did not work. Mother and Eponine didn't understand. Mother and Eponine never will.
The night-time pretending does her brown eyes some good. For a split second, in the morning, they are no longer dull.
Two dull brown eyes, and two alone, light up when they catch a glimpse of the rickety, worm-eaten building. Only two dull brown eyes regain a little of their former brilliance when the step across the threshold.
The same eyes shine -as much as dull eyes can- as they lock with the nearly lifeless eyes of another resident of the room.
"Your father will be right sore if you ain't got the money." These eyes are grey. They had been know to cry tears of joy in a distant past, but now they could only stare and glower deep into the dull brown eyes.
Eyes that echo a former blueness look up from the floor. "If you ain't got it, the bastard will beat us all, and I'll be helpin' 'im out when he's beatin' you."
The brown eyes only smile, in the unique way eyes have of smiling. The eyes are so happy to be home, so very happy! How the brown eyes adore the echoed blue eyes! How they adore the lifeless grey eyes!
"Oh, she ain't got nothin'! I told you, old woman, I told you, mum! That little slip of a whore done screwed up the catch and now we ain't got nothin' to eat 'cept cockroaches 'till God know when!" The glare in the formerly blue eyes is too dreadful to bear any longer, and the blue-eyes lower themselves until all they can see is the dirt floor
"I got the money, Ep, don't worry." There was a soft sadness in the dull brown eyes. "I was…just waitin' to give it, that's all."
"Azelma, don't be greedy, now." The soft voice is startling; it contrasts so sharply to the sharp words heard before. There is a hint of…love in the grey eyes. It is the first sign of life in them.
The brown eyes turn away. No-one must see them, for they are crying.
In the dead of night, the eyes are closed. Their owner, a mere girl the eyes know to be Azelma, is curled up in her flea-covered, tattered mess of a blanket. Her eyes no longer have to see the tenement, the squalor. She has closed them, and instead they see a beautiful parlor. In her fairy-world, her pretend home, Azelma is sitting at a piano. Fairy-Azelma plays beautifully. Her sister Eponine, miraculously cured of the drink-induced rough voice, stands along side her, smiling. Together, they sing, and it seems they sing for hours. They are only interrupted as their father walks by.
"Such gorgeous, lovely angels I have for my daughters," says Fairy-Father, his speech not only proper, but warm. "Truly a father can have no better."
He kisses his girls then, a fatherly kiss, on the cheek. The real Azelma shudders, thinking of the kisses her real father gives her, when he has been drinking. Such a terrible thing, drink.
In fairy-world, Fairy-Mother does not allow drink in the home. Everyone is glad and does not search for drink elsewhere, for they are a family and have no use for bottled drink. They take joy in each other.
Oh! Azelma is sleeping, but in her dreams she is still in the fairy-world. Night is the only time she can fly away to her imaginary paradise. She has tried many times to be in her fairy-world always, but it is impossible to ignore her reality, when she is awake.
Azelma tried today to pretend she does not steal. Tried to pretend she does not bed with men for pay.
She pretended as well, today, that her sister and mother were the very same fairy ones she dreamed about. She was overcome with glee as she walked inside- perhaps, perhaps she could trick herself into believing that their tiny, grubby room was in fact a gorgeous parlor. Maybe she could pretend her sister was good and kind. Oh! Maybe Azelma's plan would work.
When she did not answer Eponine's threats that night, she had been pretending that she hadn't any money, because the coins that jingled in her pocket were stolen ones. It had seemed, prior to Eponine horrible threats, as if her dreams were coming true. She didn't dare think it, but for a second, merely a second, Azelma thought her attempt had worked.
It did not work. Mother and Eponine didn't understand. Mother and Eponine never will.
The night-time pretending does her brown eyes some good. For a split second, in the morning, they are no longer dull.