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If you were to call Villanelle a judgmental person, she'd scoff and say she's observant and there's a difference. That they are not the same thing; that judging people is of no use to her, has no value to her, judging people is not the thing that's kept her alive. She doesn't always get it right when she judges someone. And has relied too much on what isn't there rather than what is. Rarely has she gotten it wrong when she observes someone.
She pays close attention to the barely perceptible details and the more noticeable how they tell her everything. A twitch of fingers, a quirk of the eyebrows, a fit of giggles bubbling up from the throat. Some try to laugh their way out of their fate - as if laughing or making her laugh would bring them salvation and pull them back into the light from the darkness waiting for them.- it never does. On the contrary, it annoys her more than anything. She is not there to seek forgiveness; she is the executioner, not the judge or jury. She'll notice the harsh swallow and panicked eyes when they realize this.
A glance downward, and she'll see the shaking leg and tapping toes. "don't run," she'll say. They never listen, so she gives chase. She is the predator, and they are the prey. Nowhere to go, they always resign themselves to their fate. Some of them beg one last time with cries of "I have kids" and "I have money," an eye roll and a reply of 'I don't want your kids and "I have my own money" have become the standard. A weird sense of peace seems to fall over the others, asking her to make it quick, painless; someone even smiled at her once.
Disgusting. How can someone smile like that?
She'll occasionally spare a thought to the others, wondering how they could've ever felt like that toward the end.
It must be nice.
These days, however, she finds herself with no prey at all, and she doesn't feel like a predator either. It's been two months since she followed a beautiful stranger she met at the airport onto a plane to Spain.
Two months since she walked away from the Roman ruins.Two months since she's been in hiding. The twelve haven't tracked her down, which surprises her, but she knows it's only a matter of time before they do. After all, Rome had been an absolute disaster.
Not just a disaster, but a setup. Her nose flares, and her gut twists at the betrayal she still feels. What was the end goal? Had they always viewed her as a sacrificial lamb?
'I thought we were friends,' she asked Konstantin.
‘We are, but we are not family.' He tells her. She tries not to focus on why those seven words cut so deep; she tries not to focus on Rome, how it all went wrong, her job, or how she even ended up with this life.
She tries, but she has a lot more time to think these days than she's had in years. She'll go shopping (and buy stuff she doesn't need or even like) or take walks to quiet her thoughts.
The walks also stifle the boredom she feels. Lately, the newfound monotony of her life is making her skin itch.
That's how she finds herself here, wandering the streets of Barcelona. It's a warm day, and she likes it just fine. However, the roads seem busier than usual. She finds the cause soon enough: A wishing well.
It's a more glorified water fountain than a well, but it serves the same purpose for the people crowding around it. She makes her way through the crowds to get a closer look; it doesn't seem special. She doesn't understand why anyone would throw their money away to make a wish into it.
To her, it looks a little pathetic and sad. Are people that desperate? Guessing by the number of people gathering around and all the coins in the well, The answer seems to be yes. She almost pitied them.
Peering down into the well again, she can't help but stare at the reflection that greats her. It's still her reflection, but it feels different, off in a way that she cannot describe. The water makes her feel more exposed.
Had the bags under her eyes always been there, or were they new? Had her eyes always looked so dead? When did the light behind her eyes fade? Has she ever had a light behind her eyes?
It's like she's seeing herself for the first time, and she's not sure she likes what's staring back at her. A tap on the shoulder brings her out of her trance,
"Are you okay? You don't look well." an older woman asks her. "I'm fine," she quickly responds and moves away from the well and into the crowd.
She finds brief solace in the separation, but now her mind feels impossibly loud.
Stop thinking! She mentally chastises herself, running a hand over her face and into her hair.
She hasn't felt like this since her job in Amsterdam. More specifically: when she had set up everything to get Eve's attention and she never showed.
Did she not like the postcard?
Did she not get the postcard?
She had spent hours staring out that window, watching the scene across the street. It was boring, but she'd wait as long as possible.
A smile tugged at her lips as the car door opened, only for it to be replaced with a frown and a look of sadness when she saw that it was not Eve that got out of the car but someone she didn't recognize. Her throat felt impossibly tight, and her eyes started to burn.
She spent the rest of that night walking. She had no clue where she was going, but she needed air. Her skin felt like it was burning with rage, and these feelings might swallow her whole. And then a man offered her drugs. She initially refused. She was not the one for vices, hadn't even touched a drop of alcohol, Russian stereotypes be damned, but something in that moment made her turn back.
She ends up in a club where the music is too loud, and the light hurts her eyes. The room spun, and everything felt out of focus. The rest of the night was a dizzying blur.
The following day, she wakes up confused and feeling like shit. She finds her way to the bathroom and looks at herself and the mirror.
She sobs for what feels like the first time, all because of Eve.
The feeling of weight shifting next to her brings Villanelle out of her thoughts.
When did I end up on a bench?
She looks ahead and sees that people are still making wishes; she can't hear what anyone wishes for, but she can hazard a few guesses: love, sex, and money. The kids probably wish for ice cream and ponies and unicorns. Villanelle laughs at the thought, the naivety of it all.
Kids are so stupid.
She thinks she could make a better wish than they could. She asks the man sitting next to her if he has a coin she could have; he hands her one wordlessly hands with a smile. Then Then, going back to the well, she stands at its side, careful to avoid looking again.
What could she even wish for? She had money, expensive designer clothes, and lived in nice places. She travelled more than she could've ever imagined. She had everything she could have wanted.
Well, Villanelle didn't have Eve.
Eve, who she met by chance in the bathroom of a London hospital.
Eve, who she had properly met for the first time in Eve's house while they shared her husband's shepherd pie.
Eve called her bluff on the sob story she made up, called her an asshole and then used her real name.
She's not fond of her real name, but she likes how Eve says it.
Eve called her an exceptionally bright, determined, hard-working, and extraordinary person.
Those had been the nicest things anyone had said about her in years. She wanted to hear more. Something felt good about Eve saying those things.
Eve who trashed her apartment because she liked her so much,
Eve who told her she couldn't stop thinking about her.
Eve, who stabbed her through the gut while they lay facing each other on the bed.
'I really liked you,' Villanelle had cried.
Villanelle splays her hand over the raised skin on the left side of her abdomen and hisses. It doesn't hurt much anymore, but she swears she can feel something when she thinks about Eve.
She thought a lot about Eve during her stay in the hospital. She Told a young boy that Eve stabbed her to show her how much she cared and love makes you do crazy things.
Villanelle doesn't see Eve again until weeks later when she shows up at her house.
They sit in her kitchen and play a game of chicken with sugar pills and a bottle of champagne when Eve says she needs her help.
Eve who Villanelle does help even if she doesn't sound thankful.
Eve, who Villanelle thought she loved,
Eve, who rejected her.
Eve, who Villanelle shot in the Roman ruins.
Eve who she leaves in the ruins.
One minute they're planning their escape from Rome. Which involves a cabin in Alaska, pasta for dinner, and Villanelle taking care of Eve.
The next Eve backs away from her. It all happened so fast.
"Eve, wait, why are you being liked this?' Villanelle asks, confused.
Eve says nothing and continues to move further back.
"you love me," Villanelle states.
'"No," Eve says quietly.
"I love you," Villanelle replies shakily.
"No," Eve says sharply.
"I love you," Villanelle's voice still shaking, she adds, "I do
"you don't understand what that is,"' Eve tells her.
'I do. you're mine."
'No'
"you are. You're mine."
Villanelle doesn't understand why Eve disagrees with her.
As far as Villanelle knew, Eve and her husband were no longer together. However, she and Villanelle have spent more time together in the last few weeks than she thinks Eve has spent with her husband in months.
Eve has probably spent more time thinking about Villanelle in the year that they've known each other than she has her husband.
They've played a game of cat and mouse across Europe, always so close yet so far. She knows Eve has enjoyed it too.
They've been alone together in Rome for three days undercover trying to catch their bad guy. they haven't seen each other. Still, she knows Eve can hear when she talks into the earpiece she wears. So even if they can't speak to each other, she knows eve is always listening.
As far as Villanelle is concerned, Eve is more her than she's been anyone else's. So why is Eve disagreeing?
"I thought you were special," Villanelle tells her.
"I'm sorry to disappoint," Eve replies, tears rolling down her cheek as she entirely turns away from Villanelle.
It's the last thing Eve says before–
Villanelle can still hear the gunshot crack that rang out if it's quiet enough; she wonders if it's guilt.
She's not sure what she'd feel guilty for, but out of all of the shots Villanelle has ever taken, that's the only one where she doesn't stay behind to make sure the job is done.
She's not squeamish or one to run away, but she was so angry; Eve wouldn't listen to her. Everything she was saying was so wrong! How dare Eve say Villanelle doesn't love her and that she doesn't know what loves is!
Of course, she knows what love is; she'd felt it before, hadn't she?.
She tried to love her mother. But unfortunately, her mother was mean and uncaring. All her attempts were met with a stare, sneer, or disinterested "go away Oksana."
Even 20 years later and through memory, the sound of her birth name on her mother's tongue feels wrong, as if it was always forced out, always some contempt behind it.
In retrospect, she thinks her mother was jealous. Jealous of the connection Villanelle had with her father. She always seemed to make him smile and laugh. She can't remember if her father ever looked happy around her mother, can't remember if he was ever without a bottle in hand.
Villanelle thinks her father tried to love her the best way possible and help her. He made her laugh and taught her how to fight. When she got into trouble at school for being disruptive (again), he would say, "she just needs an outlet" he tried getting her into woodworking to see if that could help. Still, she didn't take to it the way she did fighting, and then he died.
Even If her mother never viewed her as a burden before her father's death, she sure did after. Nothing she did was suitable for her mother; she was always the wrong kid. The mean older sister ( she couldn't help that her brother was annoying), the darkness. She entertains the idea that her mother killed her father in a jealous rage, not understanding why he cared for his daughter (their daughter) more than her.
Two years after her father's death, her mother dropped her off at an orphanage and never returned.
She waited two months before she let herself cry, and then she never cried because of her mother again.
She doesn't fare well at the orphanage either.
She often got into trouble, the other girls found her weird, so they excluded her and teased her. She'd walk down hallways and try to pick the locked doors with forks she stole from the kitchen; she needed to entertain herself somehow.
Then one night, she found a stash of matches hidden away and started to strike them, she got a little too close to a curtain, and it caught flame, and everything around it lit too. She spent five years in juvie for the fire. She wasn't trying to burn it down; she was bored and wanted something to do. It's not her fault curtains are flammable.
While in juvie, she finds some books about other languages and takes an interest in them; she always liked other languages, but her school never taught them. She couldn't afford a tutor. She liked french the most, but she learned English too. She doesn't try to make friends while in juvie, and other kids don't approach her; if they get too close, they move, or she does. She doesn't overthink this. She likes her books better anyway.
Sometimes though, she'd look up from her books and notes to see that there was a game of cards being played. She'd feel a pang in her chest and briefly consider joining before deciding against it.
For two years after she gets out of juvie, she's bounced around from foster home to foster home. The longest she stayed at one was six months. The reasons are always the same: she's disruptive and dangerous, and I'm scared she'll harm our other kids or us. So we don't want her anymore.
Villanelle met Anna when she was 15, and she knows she likes being around her as much as possible.
That's love, right?
Anna taught her French and English at school, and she likes them and likes learning them, but she likes the attention Anna gave her more.
She gave her extra time and lessons. She was the only person who wasn't scared of her, the only one who noticed her. Anna saw how smart she was, laughed at her jokes, and didn't get mad at her if she had an attitude in class. Anna was there every time she won an award or needed a chaperone for a school event; Anna was her person.
Eventually, she started writing Anna letters in French. At first, this was just to practice French, but she liked sending the letters, so she kept sending them. She sends so many Anna gets a special box to keep them. Whenever nice clothes and perfumes made by french designers catch her eye, she sends those to Anna. Anna never seems to mind. Eventually, after much begging, Anna agrees to give her extra lessons after school.
Villanelle spent most of her spare time at Anna's house. She liked Anna's place, how homey it felt; she wasn't used to it.
One thing she didn't like about Anna's house was her husband. Anna would get skittish and jumpy whenever he was around as if they were doing something wrong. He would try to make conversation, and she never really responded. He wasn't the one she was here for. He was boring, and she didn't understand why Anna married him. She told her as much. Anna laughed as if Villanelle had told a funny joke. She didn't get it,
For as good as her relationship with Anna made her feel, it confused her just as much. She likes all the compliments, praise, attention, and time they spend doing other stuff. Still, every time she asks Anna why things seem to stay the same and never become more, Anna mentions God and ponders what he says. She'll mutter something about "sin" and "frowned upon"
When she mentions that she didn't seem too worried about sin a few minutes ago, Anna just laughs. Occasionally, Anna mentions her husband. On one occasion, Villanelle tells Anna she thinks Anna only likes her husband because he has a penis. Anna laughs and says she might be right.
A few days later, Villanelle goes to prison for the murder of Anna's husband.
She spends five years in prison before someone breaks her out. He tells her his name is Konstantin but not who he works for, just that they've been watching her for years and think she has potential. (she finds out years later that these people were the twelve) He tells her that if she trains for them and does as she's told, she could make a lot of money and that's she's not in a position to refuse.
She does her first job a year and a half later.
Her trip down memory lane fills her with a heaviness she hadn't expected. Memory lane was a lonelier place than she remembered. She wanted to prove Eve wrong, prove she knew what love is because if she did, then that means she loves Eve, and she likes the idea of loving Eve more than she likes the idea of most things. But now, she fears she proved Eve right. She's heard love described before. She knows what it was supposed to be like; its silence in her past screams in her face.
'I feel things when I'm with you,' she had once told Eve, and it was true. She did.
She couldn't tell you what those things were other than that they were new and different and not like the boredom and silence she used to. They feel different from how she feels about Konstantin and anyone from her past.
She'd thought they were feelings of love. Part of her still does.
How would things in Rome have changed had she known this sooner?
Would she still tell Eve she loved her? ( maybe she thinks)
Would Eve still reject her? ( probably, it was an ill-timed moment for a declaration of love )
Would she still shoot Eve? ( even she can't be sure, she's never handled rejection well, and she never planned on being rejected by Eve, someone she thinks she loves or could love. Besides, they don't have the best track record for spending time alone together, especially in high-pressure situations. )
God, she's tired.
There's a slight ache in her bones, heart, and head. Everywhere really. It makes her feel older than 26.
(If she were to think about it a little harder, a little longer, she'd realize she was somehow far too young and yet too old; she has lived many lives, but not the one she wants to live.)
She still stands in front of the well. People crowd her, but they pay her no mind.
The coin dances across the skin of her palm and finds residence in between her fingers. She is not a masochist, but the coin's heat and all its implications seem to burn her. Perhaps the heat had always been there, a low crackle to keep her warm.
As she gets ready to make her wish, she thinks back to what Eve asked her in her Paris apartment months ago,
"What do you want? Honestly," the question caught her off guard. It still does now.
When was the last time someone cared what she wanted? 'Normal stuff and a nice life' were the first things that came to mind.
Could it be that simple, that easy? Does she want it to be? Does she know to be normal?
She looks back into the well for the last time.
Her reflection greets her, almost as if it had been waiting for her. This time it seems to swim as if she can make out distinct faces.
The face of a little girl who wanted her mother's love and never got it.
The face of a lonely and broken teenager clinging on to an authority figure's affections.
The face of a young adult desperate for something resembling normal.
The face of herself two months that just wanted the woman she loved to love her back.
They all swim together, and she sees her reflection as it is.
The coin feels like it's starting an inferno in between her fingers. She flicks it out from between them and lets it drop into the well. She remembers hearing that the outcome of a wish depends on how a coin lands at the bottom of the well.
Heads up and the wish would be granted, tails up, and the wish would be ignored.
She walks away, not checking to see which way it lands.