A.N. - This originated from a post on the Les Mis Kink meme - "Enjolras' journal entry - 'He rapes me nightly now. I shouldn't call it rape. He doesn't.'"

Also inspired by Valerie's Letter from V for Vendetta.

Hope you enjoy it, and as always, remember to review!

June 10th, 1832

I cannot be sure of the days any longer. There is no light in this place, no way on earth of knowing when the sun has risen or fallen, or whether it has simply burned out in the sky.

But I mustn't think that way. I am not mad. Not yet.

It seems he wishes me in my right mind as well, else he would never have granted this one request and presented you to me. Shall I call you 'you'? I feel not unlike a pubescent girl, pouring her heart into a companion of leather and coarse paper. Yet, ultimately, is that not what you are intended to be? I shall likely lose all sanity without some other soul upon which to unburden myself, and as you are the nearest, so let it be. He has no significance. He hardly speaks to me whatsoever. Yet, before I befuddle you with so many details, let me first explain to you the past, that you might better understand the wretched existence into which I have found myself.

Let us imagine, for now, that you are well aware of the events that took place in the Rue de Saint-Denis. It would consume too much time to cover in accuracy, besides which my memory is clouded and he has given me too little ink to spare.

You know then, how the barricades were over run by the law, like vermin upon a carcass. How all the 'traitors to the crown' – as they called us – found themselves bound against the back wall of the Musain, blinded by linen scraps that they might not see death rushing to meet them at the hands of twenty marksmen.

All but for myself – and the reason for that only God in Heaven knows. My mind fights against my better judgment, forcing me to accept that it is little more than a political maneuver, to make an example of me without martyrdom. As the instigator of an uprising, I deserve the strictest censure.

It is coolly logical, and it is not the reason I am here. It is what they would have the city outside believe, for their own purposes.

Few would accept my treatment as lawful. At least, so I pray. I am merely a prisoner of the state, and my rights as a man have been stripped to the barest degree – strange, is it not? The freedom fighter, the patriot, left as little more than an object to be used for the divergences and constrained needs of one man?

He is coming. Pray for me.

There was no escape, no mercy, yet I have come to expect none.

He rapes me nightly now.

Yet I should not call it rape, for he does not.

To him, it is a freedom – a release from this black-and-white life he has imprisoned himself within. I am merely the creature he has selected upon which to vent his rage. I ask myself why, every night, as the candle burns down and he sleeps by my side, or the tread of his boots fades into the corridor beyond the door. Perhaps there is no reason. Perhaps he views it as revenge, for the violence I dealt him at the barricade. Yet at the darkest hours I cannot help but wonder if, perhaps, as he shared our wine, our stories, and played at being our ally, he merely found me beautiful - if this Hell is born of little more than carnal lust. If that is the truth, I would rip every strand of hair from my scalp and gouge out my own eyes – better to be a deformative, a hunchback, a leper, if beauty brings such horrors upon it's victims.

June 11th, 1832

The last hour was no different. The welts still cover my back and... other places, where he took his belt to my skin. Some nights he is satisfied with nothing but a beating – although it lasts for over two hours, and his arm never seems to tire. On others the sight of blood and discolored flesh satisfies him only briefly, and violation follows.

I wonder at my ability to speak of these things to you in such a levelheaded manner. There is no respite, no relief, no mercy. I should well be dead by now, yet he clearly has no desire to see such an event occur.

Certainly I receive extra rations then the average prisoner – a show of favor, or merely to ensure my continued strength for the nights to come?

June 17th, 1832

Forgive my lack of attentiveness over the past several days – I believe the date is correct.

He has grown gentler in some manner. When he touches me, it is no longer to shame or injure, but an offering of delight that I dare not accept. I had never desired this, save in the arms of one other, and whether or not they are still within mortal reach I shall perhaps never know. I did not see his face amongst the dead, and yet there were so many... too many...

The poor madame is likely still scrubbing our blood from her once-white walls.

I will have little peace tonight, as he leaves for Marseille at dawn. Likely he will remain in this damnable room for hours, unsure of whether to torture or worship my body. His hands will wander, the skin dry with age and calloused with use. My ribs will be counted luxuriantly, his fingertips tracing the skin, and perhaps one will be shattered beneath his fist, merely to serve as a reminder that my 'penance' – as he puts it - has not yet been fulfilled. He will breathe down my neck, his hand resting heavily in my hair, wrap his body about me like a chrysalis, trace my lips with his tongue, rip me apart just that inch more with every rock of his hips.

Perhaps it is a twisted blessing that he is old, and never lasts long.

When he is done, he will rest his head on my chest, his mouth on my nipple, and whisper my prison number into my skin.

I believe he imagines himself to be in love.

June 21st, 1832

I suppose I must resign myself – I shall never maintain a constant record.

After two weeks at the most, I have finally refused him. The swathes of purple and green bruising that cover my body are his answer.

I have never seen any being possessed with the fury I saw in his face at that moment, his eyes burning as I tore down his pretense at affection. The bites and blows that litter my flesh are testament to the forgery.

There is no emotion to connect with him, and this act, but rage.

And yet, when I lay supine before him, his fists still red with my spilled blood, I felt the air move across my chest as he knelt beside me, a father at the side of a cradle, and with a tenderness I could never have anticipated he lifted my head and kissed my torn lips.

Lest you damn me for my weakness, believe me when I say I had no strength and could never have fought him had I tried. His lips drifted everywhere, his mouth a hot, dripping cave that I could not escape, his hands weighting my hips to the floor as he wrung pleasure from every crevice in my body, places I scarcely knew existed, and when I finally sobbed to him – for yes, I wept – that I could bear no more, he caressed my face and kissed me, assured me I was beautiful, I was brave, I was good, I was remorseful.

I bore his caresses the best that I could, yet all I saw or knew in my mind was you. Not this poor, shambled construction of paper sheaves and gut-string, but you. Every night I try to recall the exact shade of your eyes, the fall of your hair, the hundreds of freckles upon your skin.

The others always believed me incapable of human feeling, and though it is painful to imagine, perhaps you did as well. Yet believe me when I say that I have felt desire, if blindly, and I have felt love, if only for a moment. It mattered not that you were unaware, that you had no conception of how my feelings swept far beyond the borders of brotherly affection. God forgive me, how I longed to touch your lips to mine, that night in the fiacre, as you slept by my heart.

But I will not speak of that.

July 1st, 1832

I have been unwell. I pray it is merely pneumonia as they claim, and not the pox or some other contamination that his constant attentions may have forced into my veins.

He rarely leaves me, and many times I wake to the sensation of cold water on my skin, or broth passing between my lips as a strong hand lifts my head from the floor. At other times, through the heat and the pain in my chest, I hear his voice as he pleads or prays over me, and despite the chance that I am simply out of my right mind I believe he may be using my illness as a means of atonement for himself. I wonder often if he is simply a madman.

The fever has not abated, and my head still spins. The nature of my writing gives credence to my near-inability to hold the pen.

I am granted a mere half hour alone every day, as he attends to his official duties. Otherwise he is always here, holding me like a child in his arms, caressing my hair, and begging the Lord for forgiveness, that he might not be the cause of another untimely grave.

I only wonder if he refers to his own sins against me, or if he blames himself for our wretched failure at the barricade. I cannot tell, and may never know.

July 5th, 1832

It seems strange that I should die here, of all places – that a dank, straw-covered floor should be my deathbed.

I have no doubt he will be here in the final moments, to hold me to his breast and convince himself that what he felt was not lust and guilt, but love.

It does not matter.

I have no way to be certain that I will ever put ink to paper again, and as I will have no sacrament before the end, let me make my confession here.

My dearest, I cannot know if you are not already waiting to welcome me amongst our brothers.

But, if by some miracle you are alive and reading these words, I pray you will not revile my memory when I say that I love you. Though I shall never hold you in my arms. Though I shall never caress you. Though I shall never kiss you.

I love you.

With all my heart, I love you.

Julien Enjolras