Dear Father,

I hate you. I've never hated you more in my life than I do now. All this rage has built up inside me for the past few years and I'm about to explode. I stay away from the shack we live in because I can't even stand to look at you anymore. I want to kill you.

It's funny because even when me and Azelma were little and had to sell our pretty dresses, I didn't hate you. When we were losing money, I didn't hate you. When we had to move to Paris, I didn't hate you. When we were living under the bridge and starving, I didn't hate you. When you began to do your crooked business, I didn't hate you. When we all went to jail and Mother died, I didn't hate you. When you started to yell at me, which turned into a scream, which turned into a punch, which turned into a full-blown beating, I didn't hate you. When you still hit me, I don't hate you.

But now I hate you. Now I want to take a knife and cut your throat out. I've never hated anyone as much I hate you because you let your valued Montparnasse have his way with me. You turn the other cheek. You know what's going on; I know you know. You're a magnificent liar, but you're not good enough to fool your own child. Did you think you're that good, Father? Well, you're not. I've seen better. I am better than you'll ever be.

You were supposed to protect me from him! From anything that's harmful to us. That's your job. A father is a protector of his family! And you just look the other way when I suffer! You pretend not to hear when I cry out for help! Why?

We were your angels, remember? When we lived outside of Paris and the Lark lived with us, and Mother would say that we were so much prettier than she ever could be, and you would call us "My angels"? And I would giggle and Azelma would blush and you and Mother would sit there for twenty minutes just remarking on how lovely your daughters were?

Were is the right word. We're not pretty anymore. We aren't angels, especially not to you. I haven't you heard you say "My angels" in a long time. I don't even think 'Zelma remembers that phrase. But I do. I remember when you loved us. I know what we look like. We're more like ghosts than angels. I know that.

But why, I ask, can't you at least have the decency to stop and look at me. Look at us, Father. See how we're decaying. And if you shake your head, fine. But at least realize that one day these ghosts are going to disappear into thin air.

I think if you look at us, you'll see the resemblance. You'll look at me and Azelma and realize we are your children. I am your child, Father. And you can't cast me out like you did Gavroche. It's too late for that. Speaking of him, I've seen the boy around. He's growing older and he's getting to look a lot like you. There's a difference though. He actually cares about people.

Maybe someday, when I'm dead and gone (which I hope will be soon), you'll realize how important I was to your life. Otherwise, you can rot in hell.

Your former "angel",

Eponine

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