Hey guys. So this is a random idea that popped into my head awhile back and I decided to write it. Enjoy!

Also, only the prologue is in third person. The rest will be from Eponine's point of view.

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables, nor do I own the characters


Eponine Thenardier did not have the best life. Her father beat her when he was drunk (though this was unknown to her mother), she rarely got enough to eat and, as a result, was bone-thin, and she was forced, by her father, to pick-pocket. Her family was very poor and her father often spent money meant to buy food on alcohol, which his wife greatly disappoved of. Her mother, Liane Thenardier, loved her very much. She always tried to get food for her when her husband, whom she both loved and feared, was not paying attention. But there was hardly any food. Thenardier kept most of it for himself. This being said, Liane often gave Eponine her food, which Eponine normally refused to take, stating that her mother needed to eat. But her mother would not listen and would all but beg Eponine to eat. So she would. But then Liane, the only person in the world who cared about Eponine, became sick. Very sick. Thenardier couldn't be bothered to buy medicine for his sick wife and she died, leaving Eponine all alone. Eponine had been with her mother when she died, she had held her hand during her last moments.

After her mother's death, the beatings she received from her father became worse and more frequent. He no longer only beat her when he was drunk, but multiple times a day. Eponine didn't cry when he beat her, she never made any noise. She had promised her mother that she would be strong.

Strength can only take you so far.


"Ep'nine, where're yeh?" My father drunkenly slurs as he walks into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. "Ep'nine, git over 'ere!" I sigh as I walk out of the small room that I call a bedroom. I suppose it could be worse, I mean, at least I have a bedroom. In the past, my father and I had lived in one room apartments. At least in this apartment, as shabby as it may be, I have my own room and my father has his. Not that he really gives me much time to myself. He normally has me out pick-pocketing, or out stealing bread, or 'entertaining' his gang. Not that I actually do that last one. When his gang, the Patron Minette, comes to the house, I leave. I never have anywhere to go to, so I walk through the streets. The streets are what I can actually call home. I know them well, better than most. I know my way around, which is always an advantage when I'm being chased by the police for theft. I've never been caught.

I look at my father. He's rather large, both in height and in width. He has dark red hair and a scruffy red beard, complete with sideburns. His dark, beady eyes glare at me and his mouth is set in a frown. I can smell the alcohol mixed with tobacco smoke, even from a distance. He's obviously wasted. I can tell from the way he wobbles from side to side and the way his words are slurred.

"Hello father." I say quietly.

"Ep'nine, the gang'll be 'ere soon. Go 'n git some wine fer us."

"You're already drunk."

"S'what? Git some wine. Three bottles." he says. I sigh again. There's no use arguing with a drunk. I leave the dingy apartment with the rotted flooring and the peeling wallpaper and walk down the stairs of the Gorbeau building, where our apartment is located. I walk down the familiar streets, pick-pocketing a few passersby as I walk, soon reaching the Corinthe, a wine shop. I walk inside. It's a quaint little shop, with almost a homey feeling to it. The walls are a deep red and it has a nice wooden floor. There aren't many people inside, just three of what look to be university students. One has curly black hair and dark stubble, another looks young, though he is balding, and the third looks anxious about something and has a very clean look to him. The first seems to be quite drunk.

Turning my attention away from them, I walk up to the bar and I order 3 bottles of wine, which I pay for with the money I pick-pocketed. I suddenly have the feeling that someone is watching me... multiple someones. I turn and find that the three students are watching me as Madame Hucheloup, the owner of the wine shop, hands me the three bottles. I raise an eyebrow at them and they look away. As I'm leaving, I distinctly hear them talking about a revolution.

I hurry back to the Gorbeau building, knowing that my father hates being kept waiting. When I walk through the door to our apartment, I find that the Patron Minette is already there. Montparnasse, my father's right-hand man, walks over to me and takes the bottles from me. I decidedly don't make eye contact with him. Montparnasse is, in every sense of the word, an ass. He often insults me and hits on me at the same time. He's tried many times to take advantage of me, though I'm able to fight him off. He has some sort of obsession with me. He won't leave me alone, and it terrifies me. I fear that one day, maybe I won't be able to fight him off, that he'll overpower me and I'll lose what's left of my pride.

But he doesn't bother me this time. He just takes the wine from me and walks back over to the others. While they busy themselves with drinking, I sneak back out the door and down the stairs. It's dark and there are no candles, I'm pretty much blind. In the darkness, I bump into someone while going down the stairs and I lose my balance, nearly falling all the way down. Lucky for me, the shadow (for that's all the mystery person seems to be in the darkness) catches me, their strong arms instinctively wrapping around my waist.

"Th-thank you." I stutter, my eyes wide.

"Anytime, Mademoiselle. After all, it was I who bumped into you." the voice belongs to a male, probably not much older than myself. He sets me back on my feet.

"No, no, Monsieur, the fault was all mine. I'm sorry." I apologise.

"No worries." he says. I can hear a smile in his voice. "I'll see you around, Mademoiselle." he says before continuing on his way, up the stairs. I smile slightly and continue on my way down. Maybe there are some nice people in Paris.

I walk down the streets. It's raining a little bit now, but I've never minded the rain. Paris truly is beautiful at night. Though the stars that normally shine brilliantly and the moon that is normally so bright in the night sky are absent, hidden by the dark clouds, Paris is still beautiful with the pavement shining like silver in the rain. As I walk, I softly sing to myself, something that I often do,

"The darkness of the night is so becoming

The moonlight against the street shines

The raindrops are softly drumming

Against the green pines

The crescent moon smiles in the sky

And the rain whispers

Tree branches wave at all who walk by

Times seem simpler

The stark outline of a bird's wings unfold

The flower petals open

Like a story to be told

Once the sun has risen

The faint glow of the moon disappears

Replaced by the sun of bright gold

A bird's chirp is heard by all ears

Singing a song of old

The brightness of the day is so becoming

The sun in the sky shines

The raindrops are no longer drumming

Against the green pines." I sing softly.

My mother used to sing me that song when I was little and it remains to be one of my favourites. I find myself near the Seine. I smile as I look at the tiny ripples in the water cause by the many raindrops. I look down at my reflection in the water, distorted by the tiny rain drops that cause the ripples. I don't look like my father, nor like my mother did. I have long, tangled, dark brown hair that has a bit of red in it. That bit of red is as far as my resemblance to my father goes. I have rather large hazel eyes that sometimes look brown and sometimes look green and are framed with thick black lashes. My eyes are the only part of myself that I actually like. I don't think that I'm very pretty. I'm far too thin to be pretty. My cheekbones are sharp and they jut out. There are dark bags under my eyes that make me always look tired. My shoulders are bony and they too jut out. My waist is a lot smaller than it should be, all of my ribs are visible. I'm taller than most girls my age are, which is just another thing that makes me different. My legs are thin and bony. My face is rather gaunt, which I hate. I never get enough to eat. That's why I'm so thin, so gaunt. But I don't think that's ever going to change. I'm never going to get enough to eat, I'm never going to get to wear real dresses and not these rags. I'm never going to have a good life. I'll alway be poor, I'll always be a street rat. It's just who I am and there are some things that, no matter how hard you try, you just can't change.

I'm a street rat, nothing more.

I hope you guys liked it! Please review!

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