fic: velvet
Fandom: A Series Of Unfortunate Events
Pairing: Violet/Olaf
Title: velvet
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 629
Summary: Thank heaven for little girls; a series of snapshots.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Daniel Handler and rights-holders, one of whom I am not.
velvet
The memories get to her sometimes. And she remembers them as well as if they were written along the bindings on her skull, scribbed like an escapist diary.
It's hard for her to think about the big things, all the tragedies. Mostly she likes thinking about the little facts, because they were the only things she was absolutely certain of. Those were all that was left undamaged, as if her life was one big insatiable mansion fire.
x
He smelled like attic knick knacks and vino, both dusty and sweet; his skin was pale, probably from his more nocturnal habits; he was unshaven, covered in whiskery dark hair that was flecked with grey; his nose was long, a bump on the ridge declared that it was broken and rebroken once over.
She remembers feeling the tense enthrallment of fear as she clutched her brother and sister closer. She was also seriously questioning Mr. Poe's mental health, because what sane person would hand over three children to a man with a wolf toothed smile and a jug of wine in his hand?
Sunny must have sensed her fright and uncertainity because she hid her face in the warm crook of Violet's neck, all the while muttering "Oh!" quietly to herself.
x
The play was called 'The Marvelous Marriage'. Was that a message? Was it some secret that was hidden in the words? She thought there probably wasn't, but still. With her fingers she felt the bones of the prose. The murder in the simple-mindedness of it.
He has been hiding in his dressing room for the entire day. Rehearsing lines, they say. But even an infant could have this script memorized in twenty minutes. Is he thinking, perhaps, about all the terrible decisions he has made? She supposes he is, if anything worthing mentioning, unique.
"It's time!" he cries as the red curtains draw, in a tone that predates tragedy.
x
"I met your parents once," he tells her while she is strapped on the gurney. She knows, knows that he probably killed them. "I thought you'd look more like them, your parents. But you don't. Not at all."
Oh, but she does! She used to look at family photographs and be assured that she has her mother's hair and eyes. And her father's slight, upturned nose. This confused her, gave her a sense of frenzy. Who was she? Who did this man think she looked like? He seemed to be looking right into her. And she doesn't want to look back, because she is afraid that she might be gobbled up by those spherical black holes.
"Violet."
He says it so falteringly. His voice, as scratchy and syrupy as untuned piano wires, sliding over her skin like worn velvet.
She is hooked up to an IV, she realizes, maybe that's why she feels so dizzy all of a sudden. There are no villains allowed in the city limits, doesn't he know it is the same with her? He must know that she will never surrender.
x
She doesn't want to begin to spout philsophy about how his death is just the beginning, et cetera. He is still dead, and he should still never really be forgiven for the things he did. He killed, afterall, he shouldn't be mourned.
But still, she feels he started something; the memory of him shreds apart her insides in a way that only something meaningfull can.
But he was more than a man - because he was hardly a man at all - he was an actor, playing a sequence of characters for himself, or maybe for her, for what she thought was a series of unfortunate events. But how can you tell, how can you know something like that? Maybe his death really is just the beginning...
rest in peace, count olaf
Pairing: Violet/Olaf
Title: velvet
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 629
Summary: Thank heaven for little girls; a series of snapshots.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Daniel Handler and rights-holders, one of whom I am not.
velvet
The memories get to her sometimes. And she remembers them as well as if they were written along the bindings on her skull, scribbed like an escapist diary.
It's hard for her to think about the big things, all the tragedies. Mostly she likes thinking about the little facts, because they were the only things she was absolutely certain of. Those were all that was left undamaged, as if her life was one big insatiable mansion fire.
x
He smelled like attic knick knacks and vino, both dusty and sweet; his skin was pale, probably from his more nocturnal habits; he was unshaven, covered in whiskery dark hair that was flecked with grey; his nose was long, a bump on the ridge declared that it was broken and rebroken once over.
She remembers feeling the tense enthrallment of fear as she clutched her brother and sister closer. She was also seriously questioning Mr. Poe's mental health, because what sane person would hand over three children to a man with a wolf toothed smile and a jug of wine in his hand?
Sunny must have sensed her fright and uncertainity because she hid her face in the warm crook of Violet's neck, all the while muttering "Oh!" quietly to herself.
x
The play was called 'The Marvelous Marriage'. Was that a message? Was it some secret that was hidden in the words? She thought there probably wasn't, but still. With her fingers she felt the bones of the prose. The murder in the simple-mindedness of it.
He has been hiding in his dressing room for the entire day. Rehearsing lines, they say. But even an infant could have this script memorized in twenty minutes. Is he thinking, perhaps, about all the terrible decisions he has made? She supposes he is, if anything worthing mentioning, unique.
"It's time!" he cries as the red curtains draw, in a tone that predates tragedy.
x
"I met your parents once," he tells her while she is strapped on the gurney. She knows, knows that he probably killed them. "I thought you'd look more like them, your parents. But you don't. Not at all."
Oh, but she does! She used to look at family photographs and be assured that she has her mother's hair and eyes. And her father's slight, upturned nose. This confused her, gave her a sense of frenzy. Who was she? Who did this man think she looked like? He seemed to be looking right into her. And she doesn't want to look back, because she is afraid that she might be gobbled up by those spherical black holes.
"Violet."
He says it so falteringly. His voice, as scratchy and syrupy as untuned piano wires, sliding over her skin like worn velvet.
She is hooked up to an IV, she realizes, maybe that's why she feels so dizzy all of a sudden. There are no villains allowed in the city limits, doesn't he know it is the same with her? He must know that she will never surrender.
x
She doesn't want to begin to spout philsophy about how his death is just the beginning, et cetera. He is still dead, and he should still never really be forgiven for the things he did. He killed, afterall, he shouldn't be mourned.
But still, she feels he started something; the memory of him shreds apart her insides in a way that only something meaningfull can.
But he was more than a man - because he was hardly a man at all - he was an actor, playing a sequence of characters for himself, or maybe for her, for what she thought was a series of unfortunate events. But how can you tell, how can you know something like that? Maybe his death really is just the beginning...
rest in peace, count olaf