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In the middle of her violent assault on Villanelle’s flat, champagne bottles crashing to the ground and glass perfume bottles shattering into a million little pieces, Eve realises she may not be as put together as she previously thought herself to be.
What the hell is she doing anyway? Breaking things that probably cost more than she’s earned in a lifetime? As if that is going to put her life back together.
Even though it certainly won’t put her life back to how it was, it does feel good — Eve’s hands tearing at Villanelle’s clothes, fabric ripping, every bit of Eve’s anger pouring out on the floor along with the contents of the chic-as-shit wardrobe. By the end of it there is nothing left; she is sweaty, chest heaving, the magnitude of what she’s just done now embarrassingly clear.
“Fuck,” she swears under her breath, glass crunching under her shoes. “Oh my god, oh my god.”
She runs a hand through her hair. What exactly her next step was, was a mystery to Eve as well. She could exit the flat, leaving a trail of madness and a hand-written note behind to poetically call it even. Or she could stay, fit herself into Villanelle’s boots. Find out what she does when she isn’t murdering politicians and wreaking havoc on Eve’s life. The wise thing would be to leave, because one tired and angry assassin could be home at any minute for all Eve knows.
As Eve eyes the clothes on the ground to step over them — because stepping on them is too much, even though she had just ripped some of them apart — she sees something strange.
A red wax crayon. Clearly used.
She frowns. A child’s crayon isn’t a strange thing in and of itself, except that it was found in a ruthless assassin’s wardrobe.
Eve kicks at the clothes, revealing an opened cardboard package with crayons and a colouring book. Not one with detailed line-work intended for adults, but a colouring book with farm animals for a young child. A strange, awful feeling rolled in Eve’s stomach, one unlike anything she had ever experienced. Here in this very second Villanelle turned into a human.
She picked up the book, opening it. This felt like a worse invasion of Villanelle’s privacy than the destruction of her home. The front page made Eve frown again.
THIS BOOK BELONGS TO:
Oksana
The assassin’s given name was written in clumsy green crayon, big and small letters mixed, resting barely on the straight line. Oksana. The name had an impact on Eve that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It felt innocent and sad. Like a ghost of something that could have been, had the world just let it.
She flips through the book. The first page, a sheep and a lamb touching heads, is filled in with warm colours. The blocks of colour are scribbly, and just like Villanelle they hardly remain inside the lines. Eve traces her fingers over the waxy crayon, unsure of what to make of this.
What does she know of Villanelle’s childhood? Dead parents. Orphanage. Violent outbursts in school at eight years old. That sort of childhood would stick with anyone into old age. Killer or not. Maybe especially if you grow up to be a killer.
Eve flips to the second page, where a paper has been jammed between the pages. Her stomach flips at the sight of herself drawn neatly in graphite. Whilst the drawing is faceless, there’s no doubt about it being her. Villanelle has drawn her hair in intricate detail. With tenderness and care.
“Put that down.” A Russian accent, thick and shaky, makes Eve jump. How had she not heard her come in?
Villanelle stands in the doorway — gun clutched in her hand like a child’s comfort blanket.
She just about looks like she’s been dragged through hell kicking and screaming; dirty clothes, hair sticking every way out of the once neat bun, face bruised and bloody and so sore. Eve feels no fear of the gun in Villanelle’s hand. The assassin’s eyes are teary, her lip trembling, and for someone so full of words she is eerily quiet.
“Put it down, Eve,” Villanelle’s voice cracks. She waves the gun. “Eve. Put it down.”
Eve puts her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m putting it down.” She lays the colouring book on the pile of clothes. “There.”
“You weren’t supposed to see that. No one was supposed to see that,” Villanelle says. Her voice is angry, and her face is trying to be, but she just looks so sad.
“It’s fine,” said Eve. “It’s … it’s just a book. Right?”
Villanelle seems put off by Eve’s calm approach and she hesitates with the gun, arm lowered somewhat. Her eyes flicker about the room.
“You destroyed my apartment,” she says. “Is it because you like me so much?”
Villanelle tries to give Eve a teasing smile, but it sits lopsided on her bruised face.
“I know it’s not … conventional,” Eve says.
They stand there, quiet, only looking. The air is different this time. Villanelle doesn’t look like she could pounce at any second. She is bruised and beaten, and it makes Eve’s heart pound in her chest. All she can focus on is the deep cut in Villanelle’s lip and the bruise blooming in ugly red and purple across her jaw. It must hurt, and Eve feels oddly inclined to do something about the hurt.
“Your face,” she says softly, approaching Villanelle much like one would a wild animal — slow and with a wise amount of caution. “That’s got to hurt. Let me help you.”
Villanelle’s eyes well with tears the instant the words leave Eve’s mouth. That same offer had been made not too long ago. The person who made the offer is dead, and she never meant any well. Villanelle finds herself wary of Eve’s intentions. Her lip trembled and she tightened her grip on the gun, like it was something soft and comforting and not just a gun. She just shrugs. Eve’s face is soft with worry, eyebrows curved, and the corners of her mouth turned downwards.
“Please,” says Eve. “Let me help. And we can talk.”
A tear rolling down her cheek, Villanelle completely lowers the gun. “It does hurt a little,” she mumbles.
“Sit,” Eve says. Clear, no-nonsense, but not at all harsh. “The one on your lip looks nasty, I’d hate for it to get infected.”
Villanelle, so confused by this caring side of Eve that her head hurts, sits down on the toilet. She watches Eve wet a small towel under the tap. Whatever anger Eve felt when she was ripping her flat to shreds seemed gone now. Was it because of the book? Or because Villanelle looked weak and pathetic?
“I don’t understand why you’re being nice,” Villanelle says. “Don’t you hate me, or something?”
“Me either,” Eve mutters, wringing the towel with her hands. “And no. I don’t hate you, I think. You’re very difficult to hate.”
“Most people would disagree,” Villanelle said. She picks at her cuticles, nervous. “I would disagree.”
Eve smiles just slightly. “Then I guess I’m not most people,” she shrugs. “Mkay, this might sting …”
The towel touches the bloody scrapes at her temple. It stings, but it feels good because Eve is doing it. Eve leans in front of her, big curly hair like a curtain around her beautiful, aged face. Up close, Eve smells warm and woody — like a forest in the summer. It’s a homely and comforting scent. There’s complete silence between them as Eve cleans her cuts. Villanelle’s heart is pounding, because Eve is close and she’s touching her and she’s looking after her as if she’s incapable of looking after herself. A familiar sensation of shrinking washes over her and she suddenly feels so much smaller than she truly is.
“I think that’s enough,” Eve says, putting the towel away.
Tears well in Villanelle’s eyes again and like a child she wants to shout at Eve to not stop, to never stop caring for her. Her lip trembles and she makes a noise in her throat like she’s about to speak but changes her mind. Eve looks at her, really looks, and makes a sympathetic coo. One a mother would make at a child who is hurt or upset.
Villanelle’s chest cracks open when Eve’s finger ghosts over her bruised cheek. In all her childish daydreams, Eve is there. When she is injured after a job, Eve blows softly on her cuts and tenderly bandages them. When she is scared and lonely, Eve keeps her company and tells her everything is okay. All she wants is for Eve to hold her close, for Eve to hum lullabies in her ear and trace shapes into her back as she’s falling asleep.
Villanelle curls into herself with shame, covering her face with both of her hands. If Eve knew this is how I think about her she would never want to see me again.
“Villanelle,” Eve murmurs. She repeats her words from that night in her kitchen. “I know something happened to you. I know … I know you must’ve been hurt, very deeply, a long time ago.”
She strokes Villanelle’s cheek. “I think about you all the time,” she confesses. “I think about what you're wearing, and what you're doing, and who you're doing it with. I think about what friends you have, I think about what you eat before you go to work, and what shampoo you use, and what happened in your family …” Eve continues. “I just want to know everything.”
Villanelle removes her hands from her tear-streaked face. Eve kneels in front of her on the checkered bathroom tile. “I think about you too,” she admits in a small voice. “All of the time.”
“Yeah?” Eve smiles softly, to which Villanelle nods.
Eve can’t put her finger on it, but when Villanelle removes her hands from her face, she is different. Her eyes are glazed over, her voice is small and her accent is thick. The assassin Eve has come to know feels far away. Eve can’t say it’s not a nice change.
“I’m sorry I destroyed your home. I was having a moment.”
Villanelle smiles shyly. “It’s okay. I have moments too.”
“God, I’m tired,” Eve says as they exit the bathroom. “Aren’t you tired?”
Villanelle rubs her eye with the heel of her hand. “Maybe.”
Eve flops down on the Lilliana Rizzari throw, her hair billowing above her head like a halo. Villanelle follows suit, laying her aching body down. Eve toes off her boots, making herself comfortable on her side. Villanelle looks at her with wide wet eyes. Thumb rubbing at her bottom lip.
“You found me,” she whispers, like it’s a secret between only them.
Eve chuckles. “I did,” she smiles. Then her smile fades, her brow furrowing again. “What happened?”
“This?” Villanelle gestures to her face and Eve nods. The assassin looks away. “Many things. I was in Russia. That’s where I got this,” she points to the bruises on her jaw and lip. “Then I saw Konstantin. He gave me this. With a log.” She points to the scrapes on the side of her face.
Anger flares in Eve’s chest. Konstantin. That bastard.
“I’m sorry,” Eve says.
“S’okay,” Villanelle mumbles, even though it’s anything but okay. It feels weird — for it to be acknowledged that something that happened to her was, in fact, not okay. “Can we … never mind. Stupid.”
“Can we what?” Eve repeats gently. “I’m sure it’s not stupid.”
Villanelle nips at the skin on her thumb. She shrugs. “Just … can we keep being nice to each other?” she says, gaze flickering to Eve and then away again. “I’m too tired to be angry and for you to be angry with me.”
“We can keep being nice,” Eve agrees. “I’m too tired to be angry, too. We can be angry another time.”
Villanelle smiles, barely and shyly. “Thank you.”
“Mm,” Eve hums. “Can I ask about the book?”
Villanelle averts her gaze again. She shrugs. “I get a lot of money. I can buy as many clothes and perfumes and knives as I want. But sometimes when I get money, I don’t buy any of those things,” she begins, still looking away to make it easier to let the words out. “Sometimes I buy … I buy colouring books, or toys. I don’t even know why. It just feels nice.”
The confession knocks the air out of Eve’s chest and leaves her with an ache. It hits her how young Villanelle is. How packed with misfortune her short life has been, how she must’ve been hurt so badly as a child that part of her is frozen in time. Eve realises she’s been quiet for too long when Villanelle curls up, making herself small.
“You think I’m a freak.”
“No, no no—” Eve hurries to say, wrapping her hand around Villanelle’s delicate wrist. “No, I don’t. I was just … thinking. That it’s probably something that makes you feel safe.”
Villanelle nods warily. “Yes.”
“And if it’s something that makes you feel safe, it isn’t a bad thing.”
The things Eve say are so understanding and kind that Villanelle wants to disappear out of sight. The worry that this isn’t real simmers in her belly — Eve could turn at any moment, couldn’t she? She squeezes her eyes shut against memories of her mother faking kindness one moment and then slapping her the next. That is how it always goes; someone older treats her nicely, makes her trust them, and then they hurt her. Anna, Konstantin, The Twelve.
She doesn’t want it to happen with Eve. She really likes Eve.
Villanelle takes Eve’s hand, the one kept loosely around her wrist, and wraps her fingers around Eve’s thumb.
“What is your mother like?” she asks quietly, meeting Eve’s gaze.
Eve blinks, surprised, but answers in earnest. “Well … sort of strict. Very traditional about a lot of things. Not very affectionate. But I know she loves me a lot.”
Villanelle hums. “Mine was really strict. Mean. She never loved me at all,” she says. “The orphanage said she died.”
“I’m sorry,” Eve whispers. “I’m sorry, Oksana.”
Eve may not have ever considered herself to be motherly, but she is still a woman in possession of a heart, however faulty it may be. Laying here like this, calm and quiet without knives and the looming threat of a murder overhead, Eve thinks she really sees Villanelle. Or maybe she sees Oksana. There’s a distinct difference between the two.
“What do you want?” she asks. “Honestly. You’ve chased me around for a while, you must want something.”
Oksana shrugs, shifting uncomfortably. “You didn’t believe me last time,” she says, nearly in a whisper. “When I said I didn’t want to do it.”
“It was hard knowing what was true and what wasn’t that night,” Eve reminds her, though not angrily. “Were you telling me the truth?”
She shrugs again. “Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes I say the truth. I just don’t know when. But I think I said the truth.”
A lock of dirty hair comes loose from the bun, hanging in front of her eye. Eve pushes it behind her ear softly and a shiver goes through Oksana’s entire body. She was so starved of a gentle touch that she could cry.
“Do you want out?” Eve asks so quietly.
“I don’t know,” Oksana sniffles. She grows anxious, gnawing at the tip of her thumb and resisting the urge to suck on it like she does at night when no one can see. “I can’t. They’ll be so angry.”
“I can make it happen,” Eve swears. “I have strings I can pull, I can make it happen.”
Oksana shakes her head, because suddenly it all feels too much. Without The Twelve, she would have nothing. She would be poor and homeless with nowhere to go. She might as well return to the orphanage at that point.
“You’re still so young. It isn’t fair that your life is controlled by a bunch of people who don’t even care about you,” Eve says. “It isn’t right.”
The girl shakes her head slightly, agreeing that it isn’t right at all. Eve sighs deeply, feeling at a loss, because this certainly isn’t what she expected today. An hour ago she was ripping Villanelle’s apartment to shreds, now she is offering to help Villanelle out of The Twelve and feeling strangely maternal towards this childish side of her. Eve feels a headache coming on.
After a moment’s silence, Oksana moves her aching body closer to Eve, tucking her head under the older woman’s chin. It’s a quiet and slow leap of faith — she waits with bated breath for the rejection, for Eve to shove her away.
The rejection doesn’t come. Eve freezes for a moment, arm hovering in the air, before she releases a deep breath and lays her arm to rest around Oksana. Her hand caresses Oksana’s back, feeling the tremble that goes through Oksana under her hand. Maybe what Oksana really wants is to feel taken care of. It makes sense, why she’d want to stay with The Twelve; they took her in, they gave her money and clothes and a place to live. It gives Oksana a sense of security she’s never had, and it gives The Twelve a sick, twisted amount of power over her.
“We can deal with it later,” Eve murmurs, continuing to stroke the girl’s back.
Oksana nods. She feels like a child again, except she never felt this way as a child — protected, enveloped, safe. She inhales Eve’s warm scent, closing her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Eve says. “It’s okay.”
She’s alerted by a soft, squeaky sound coming from Oksana. It takes a moment for Eve to realise what it is, but once it clicks, she melts. Oksana is sucking her thumb. It would be weird, plain weird, to lay like this with anybody else. But it’s Villanelle, and so far this may be the most normal and human interaction they’ve had.
Eve sighs again. God, she’s tired. Maybe she will come to regret it, maybe it’s foolish, but she trusts Villanelle enough to close her eyes and she trusts that she will wake up to the same, soft Oksana.