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There was a perpetual undercurrent of boredom that Villanelle found herself submerged under. The wondrous world described by the tabloids, by the magazines, by the passerby at the local cafe never resonated with her. Where there were colours, she could not see them. She operated in the shades of monochrome, allowing a boldness in which others would not even dare to fathom. Perhaps, it was because she couldn’t see. Perhaps, it was because she didn’t care.
Adrenaline rush only came in the forms of sex as she realized the control she had over another human being as she watched them give into their wanton needs — or perhaps, a greater thrill was to count down to the seconds when someone’s soul would leave their body. She could watch the light leave someone’s pupil and watch it happen as she slowly puts down her five fingers one by one. In a world of monochrome and shades of grey, the only excitement that draws her in is the flash of pure white, the light that shines in another’s eyes, the brilliance of whiteness on a bulletin board.
Still, after the initial rush came the impending doom of boredom. It becomes clockwork for her: wake up, eat breakfast, make fun of Konstatin, take a job, prepare for the job, do the job, have sex. Rinse and repeat. Villanelle would do anything for a rush of thrill. Perhaps it was her living to the expectations of those who called her a psychopath, or perhaps it was a way for her to fill the void that she never once cared to think about.
Day by day, she grows immune and resistant to the remedies she prescribed herself. So she became bold and brash as if to taunt an invisible watcher that lurks in the shadows. Villanelle knows someone’s always watching her. It comes with the job. There is flare in the ways she kills: extravagant but never a pattern. She was never good with routine nor regularity and it reflects in her work. To the Twelve, it’s beneficial not because they particularly care about her but rather due to its difficult nature to be tracked… and Villanelle is aware that her existence is only meant to be used until there is no worth in allowing her to exist as she does.
On a certain level, Villanelle has accepted the conditions that allow her to exist. There was never a place for her for as long as she could remember. There was no refuge in her childhood home with the mother that was supposed to love her; there was no sanctum in the orphanage she was banished too; and there was no truth in the love she thought Anna gave her. All Villanelle ever had was herself and the fight to survive.
She tries not to think about how disposable she is amidst all of this and instead she attempts to have a life she was never privy to in her youth: cool flat, nice clothes, and a fun job — the basic things in life, really.
She’s now in Vienna, sitting in an ice cream shop after completing her task at hand. Her watchful eyes watch her surroundings with caution and care. A girl stares at her, and she stares back. It wasn’t long until she devoured her sundae. So she rose onto her feet and knocked the child’s ice cream over just to feel an adrenaline rush of feeling a sense of empowerment.
She’s sitting at a meeting with Bill Pargrave, listening to Frank drone on and on about who knows what. Eve Polastri has spent her life living safely as she watched the thrills pass her by. She has as steady job, a house she calls home, and a husband who is nothing but lovely. Yet, the undercurrent of dissatisfaction seeps into her no matter what she does or who she does it with.
She studied criminal psychology with the hopes of seeing more in her life and the thrill of catching and interrogating notorious murderers and crime lords. Not because of any morals that tie her to a civil duty but rather the fascination of what drives someone to kill? Specifically, what drives women to commit the crimes they do — were they scorned by society? Was it initially a self defense mechanism turned addiction to the adrenaline high? She doesn’t know and it is the unknown that drives her to remain in the life she currently has.
Niko would illustrate the beautiful colours he would see — the bright saturation of oranges, the brilliance of the warm yellow hues of an egg yolk. All things seemingly mundane things to her, were all colours of love. Yet, Eve could not see those hues he so enthusiastically attribute to objects.
Perhaps, she was broken in ways that she could yet comprehend.
“...He was bleeding for a minute before he collapsed,” and when Carolyn spoke those words, Eve laid eyes on the image and her eyes widened.
“Cool,” she could not help but to admire in bewilderment, and suddenly all eyes were on her.
It was probably a woman. It was probably a woman. He was a misogynist, he probably didn’t consider a passing woman a threat.
“Thank you…” replied Carolyn and once again, Eve spoke her mind… literally.
Eve Polastri stood in front of her reflection in the hospital bathroom. Her hair down and tousled as she decided whether or not she should wear it up or wear it down. Then, she felt a pair of eyes on her… she turned to see a blonde nurse with piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to mirror her own. Eve was uncomfortable and immediately broke the silence with an interrogation of her own.
The nurse ignored her and walked past but not before uttering a few words.
“Wear it down,” she instructed before turning away.
Perplexed, Eve simply shrugged and turned back to her own reflection as she let those words ring and persuade her decision in keeping it down.
It was going to be a long night, and she was well aware of it.
Moments later Eve returns to her post after a phone call with Bill. She was ready to flaunt: for once, she was seen and acknowledged for her prowess. They really shouldn’t underestimate her. After all, this was her fixation and her interest. Yet, in spite of all the triumph she felt her heart drop at the sight of an empty room before her.
The desolate ringing of the phone, the lack of a staff presence at the table. Eve’s eyes widened as she hesitantly approached the room of the witness in her protection.
A body across the floor. Her heart stopped before the adrenaline kicked in.
“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” She screamed, almost pleading for the perceived reality to be false. Eve never stopped screaming his name and the name of a god she didn’t believe in.
For the first time she saw a hue so violent — it spilled across the room in a violent bloom. A smell of iron dizzied her presence. Her knees went weak and for once, she witnessed a shade that was outside of the monochromatic binary. This was blood. This was the colour of red she’s heard people rave about.
This was not beauty. This was terror.
Eve felt terrified as she cried for a help that never came until it was too late… until Kasha died in her arms, drowning and drenched in her own blood.
Villanelle was making her bed for the first time since her job prior to Vienna. Her body moved as if she was in autopilot, slowly as she recounted the sight of seeing the brilliant hues of blood. There was an adrenaline high that pulsed through her veins, an addiction she could not seem to shake off. The scent of iron, viscous and lingering on the victim’s body — Villanelle wanted more. She wanted to see the shades of crimson, of red, of bloodstained sheets and gowns so she kept killing until there were no one left to kill.
Now, she stood in her apartment for the first time seeing all the colours she never could before. Blue, was the colour of her walls — a few shades lighter than the Parisian sky in overcast; red was the colour of the blood that spilled from her victim’s bodies as she watched their life drained from their eyes.
She never believed in seeing colours and yet, for the first time she was seeing in the hues of the rainbow. It was a fairytale told by her teachers in Russia that: when you meet your soulmate, you will see the world in colours you would never imagine seeing them in; when you meet your soulmate, you will see the beauty of the world as it was meant to be seen through God’s eyes.