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She could recall the shape of her eyes as they looked at each other one last time. Much like Orpheus, she turned to encapsulate her image within her own eyes to dare to wonder if Villanelle ever existed. Eve would’ve followed her to hell, to the depths of it all and give up the mundane life she’s spent her entire life trying to wrap around her fingers — and certainly, Orpheus would’ve done the same for Eurydice. Yet, when Eve Polastri accepted the roads paved by her bloody hands, it was Villanelle who hesitated. They gaze met, and she knew their lives were tangled like cast chains — it would be easier to simply leave it untouched instead of wrangling to leave… yet, Villanelle broke her free of the endless interlocking chain of events that would haunt her for the rest of her life but Eve changed her mind.
She could never return to that place she once called life: a husband, a job, and a boring monotonous routine. When she first saw the colours of Niko’s eyes she saw a warmth that did not belong to her. He was soft, he was sweet, he was everything that made a home a home… and yet, Eve Polastri always found herself lured in by the ominous aura of scarlet. Perhaps it was the poignancy of the hues that caught her eyes — red, the colours that stained the pristine whites, imprinting its existence permanently. Once you go red, you can never go back.
She once felt the imprint of Villanelle’s blood against her own hands, the way how the warmth drained from her as maniacal screams elicited from the other’s lips. She once bled for Villanelle at the encounter in Rome when the other woman boldly proclaimed and declared Eve as if she was a toy confiscated from a child scorned.
Eve still remembered the way how her fingers trembled as she grasped the wooden handle of the axe, as if she was holding the Grim Reaper’s scythe in her hands. She still remembered the way how it felt when she lunged and hacked into Raymond’s flesh. In that instance, she opened a bloody path for Villanelle to live; in that instance, she spilt crimson across the hotel floors for a killer… and yet, she still held onto that moral high ground.
She didn’t want Villanelle to die.
Villanelle fascinated her.
Villanelle was the only spark in a life where only sanitized tones and monochromes lurked.
Villanelle was the brilliance of a crimson hue.
She didn’t want to lose her.
She couldn’t lose her.
And yet, when the truth that she was yet another piece in Villanelle’s game of chess came to light as the revelation of the glock in her hand — Eve was repulsed. It wasn’t a game for her. It was her compromising the last remaining part of her human self she had left and she was led to believe that it was for a better cause: the life of an irredeemable bastard for Villanelle, her person of fixation.
Perhaps she loathed Villanelle for allowing herself to wield the executioner’s blade; she hated Villanelle for introducing her to a thrill that she never felt again until she crushed Dasha’s ribs. There was a darkness that needed to be fed, a darkness that lurked beneath her skin — a darkness that flowed in her bloodstreams. A monster was born and in that same moment, Eve Polastri died. She knew she couldn’t go back after feeling the same thrill that Villanelle felt. For a brief instance, she felt a soulful connection with Villanelle — they were the same; they were both monsters but even monsters were worthy of love. Only they could sincerely love each other in ways that others could not sate their mutual needs.
There was light in Villanelle’s eyes. Their paths were diverging once more — but what could Eve go back to? It was Villanelle. It always was her. This time, she was ready for Villanelle — after all, how could she be with a monster if she couldn’t accept the monstrosity that lingered within herself? She stepped forward, one step after another until she stood in front of the blonde woman.
And the rest was history.
Villanelle always had escape plans laid out and the right connections made. Truly, she had money and wealth but she was tired of her life… and her job was no longer fun. Eve could see it in her eyes. It was strange how their roles reversed. They were in the frigid winters of Russia: the land of Villanelle’s secrets.
Perhaps it was the complacency of them resting their laurels on newly forged identities but she did notice Villanelle’s pattern of recklessness. On no level was Eve nearly as skilled with any arsenal of weapons as Villanelle was. After all, Villanelle spent her whole life training to be the best possible and Eve was barely able to complete a crossfit routine before all of this. Still, she was a sound strategist that always found a way to land the finishing blow on the people that stood their way. Perhaps, she was liking it a little too much.
Eve could never quite read Villanelle’s mind. There were these walls that wrapped around her so tightly, walls Villanelle constructed with her own bloody hands. These were the hands that built the kingdom she could afford — a kingdom built on blood and corpses; and yet, Eve could only imagine how heavy the crown felt on her head. In moments she noticed Villanelle slipping — from the grip on her glock, to the lack of refinement in her movements, to the blank stares in front of the reruns of Hallmark Christmas movies (or whatever the Russian equivalent of it was).
Most times it was in the form of burning an egg or sausage or the likes but other times it was in the form of hesitating her blow at an already vulnerable victim. Villanelle was no damsel in distress, she was quick to snap herself out of the trance and her reflexes were fast — the foe was usually dead before they could attack Villanelle.
Yet, in this instance Eve witnessed things happen in slow motion.
Villanelle tackled to the ground and there was a blade in his hand. She was fast, but he was even faster. There was a knife pressed against her jugular, too close for Eve’s comfort. Villanelle at this point was wrestling and wrangling for survival. This time, Eve didn’t even hesitate as she raised the axe within their proximity and swung it as if it was a death scythe. One swift movement, the blade made an impact with the bad of his neck; she felt a shock through his body as his blood spilt all over the snow white ground beneath them. Then, within an instant he was frozen on the ground. Eve relinquished her grip and her eyes turned to the wide eyed Villanelle with her fists clenching the ground beneath her.
Calmly, she walked and crouched down onto her level. Eve removed an arm of her jacket and wrapped Villanelle in it. Slowly, she removed the crazed look on her face as her eyes soften into hues of warm cocoa. One finger coming to move the wild strands of hair away from Villanelle’s fair visage, Eve simply offered her a soft smile before pressing a soft against her lover’s lips.
“Let’s go home, the soup should be ready.” She spoke after pulling away and rose to stand with Villanelle entangled in her own arms.
“You sure about that? The last time you forgot to press ‘cook’,” Villanelle chortled.
“Oh, shut up,” Eve quipped playfully.