[[ These are IC letters, serving as some sort of Journey / diary written to her latest muse, inspiration / the one she ‘loves’. They may or may not be send to the one addressed IC, and is written in her favourite language French. So, not in English like here! The bold words are trailed over a few times, as they are somewhat important to Villanelle. Enjoy! ]]
It’s evening, a fortnight later and Villanelle is sitting at an outside table of Bon Temps, the cigar lounge in devils pocket, from the east comes the murmur of traffic, the lounge’s garden occupied with the few tree’s, the soft Louisiana breeze rattling the leaves, softly and gentle. A glass of bourbon set upon the table glistering in the slowly setting sun, while her gaze is on the notepad and the heavy expensive pen on top of it, from the Woodbury & Walker lawyer’s office in town she had checked earlier, and able to steal it, just because she had fancied it.
There was a time she would send postcards to her first lover, the first person she had believed had cared — knowing that it was pathetic now, and simply an habit out of obsession, but after last night she still wanted to write. Would she send the letter? Perhaps not, perhaps she would
Joff the bartender had came up to check upon her, but in this case he hadn’t recognised her being the blonde ‘British’ Woman that had taken Racheal to her motel room in the Master Baits motel, simply because she was wearing blue contacts hiding her chillingly hazel-green sights and a fiery bright red wig with bangs shaped into a sharp bob-line.
Villanelle had answered him after he asked her if she wanted anything else, maybe liked a cigar or other services, answering him in a forced german accent. Perhaps that someone German would’ve called her out on it, being dramatic and fake — but she hadn’t met a single German person in Hathian yet.
A sigh escaped past her lips, before her tongue crept over her tilted middle of her upper lip, a barely visible scar making her smile a little crooked and far from symmetrical instead like most imagined, it simple made those full lips more cold and rapacious, pondering making the usual fuck you stare look less, like fuck you and more tired
She needed to write, it had been comforting to her while she had been locked up in one of Russia’s finest prisons, she had written when she had lived in the Boho apartment in Paris, she had written when she had layed low in New York, but after that — she hadn’t used a pen besides offering forged signatures for fake papers, motel rooms and what not.
A barely audible growl came from her lips, as she thought there was no point in writing her former French teacher, which she had fixated on, loved and hated as much as she hated anyone else..
Mostly because the woman had shot herself in the head upon arrival of Villanelle. She had killed the woman without needing to do the merciless job herself and mostly because those letters would be returned to a unknown address or simply never answered.
And then… suddenly, it came to her — the woman who reminded her so much of Anna , even if they looked like nothing familiar.. not even seemed to share the same interests, besides beautiful eyes, features and thick gorgeous hair, both seemingly sharing at least a part of Japanese roots, and their age.. There was no hiding the Russian had a thing for older woman, stuck in their midlife crosses, or boring lives.. stuck in whatever haunted them, stuck with former lovers,and other things that made them almost, sad, or tragic.. with her latest muse in mind — her newest muse, she started to write, what she would’ve written to Anna, the woman that got away.
~ Ma amour,
blame you for everything I did in the last forty eight hours, you unravelled me, I was fine before I’ve met you. I was fine since I left Paris.
I have wondered if it were the circumstances, of the old abandoned church I was in, the man I’ve met there, and what had happened next, but upon exploring my thoughts I think it was you who unraveled me, and not the nightmare the guy put me through. Simply, because he showed me nothing
Let me explain, and start from a beginning you may understand.
I stolen a truck in New Orleans, one that I thought nobody was going to miss, as it was beaten down and covered in dust, the engine poorly wired, huffing and puffing when I used a screwdriver to start it, creaking like one of those heavy breathers do that I like, when I take their last breaths. You know, the sound like someone wheezing, breathing with poor unhealthy lungs, either caused by the bad habit of smoking for years, or simply because they are coming to a certain age.
My grandfather used to sound like that, when he would go through manic memories of the war, sitting in his rocking chair in my father’s house, he would tremble lightly uncontrolled making the ice-cubes in his whiskey glass slowly rattle in a beat that followed the rhythm of his old clock hanging in my father’s study that would echo through the old house if you would listen carefully
I drove to Hathian as I simply was fascinated by the rumours I’ve heard, how poor the town was, how criminals and the police walked both down roads destructed by Katrina the hurricane that had turned New Orleans in a bowl, filled with waters. How desperate most people in town were, broken families and dreams of white picket fences shattered and broken, lacking the government, the mentality to recover from darker days, lacking the ability to function normally like any town would. Like I lack the ability to live like anyone else. In New York, things went perfectly until people started asking questions, looked into my past of disfunction and I had to leave, yet again. Hathian seemed like a place where I would be able to blend in, and not find any eyes wondering, not any lips questioning my motives, or where I came from and I swear I would be fine, until I met you That day, when the rain that has haunted the town for months had stopped, the sun broken all the clouds away and it was warm enough for tank tops and ice cream, shorts, heels to show off beautifully tanned legs.
I had left the truck in a street of the region called Vodou, which reminded me of the little stores in New Orleans focusing on black magic and tourism, whether you believed in such thing didn’t matter, as long as poor tourists would waste their hard-earned dimes on voodoo dolls, offers like cigars and bourbon, coffee and others, speaking off - I passed this little store that offered the same kind of things, from tarot readings to love potions, voodoo dolls and other occult things that would trace back to african slaves once being forced to call NOLA Home. Reminding me of Gumbo, Gator BBQ’s and traditional crawl fish spices, just to turn right, left find my way past the Butcher I doubt anyone would dare to get meat from, the convenience store, and the ice-cream parlor.
I always have liked Vanilla ice cream, so with some dimes to spend I bought a cone with a few of those frozen vanilla blended balls, of cream — yoghurt or whatever they used to make the ice-cream taste that good, sugar and what not. I trailed further down the road, turned right facing the motel I had checked in — that one across the police station, passed some buildings and ended up in Bourbon street.
Bourbon street, a street where I would find crowds that would ask no questions, simply lived from night to night, earn their easily spend money selling their selfs with a sex-appeal that some would admire and others would simply call tacky, private services behind closed door, offering to please urges and desires, and for a moment I could feel mine grow, making me feel good, pleasant and like I’ve made the right choice coming here. Which lead me to whistle my favourite sorts of music, the classical kind and sometimes national anthems as they always seem so dramatic, emotional simply portraying the things that I wish I had, and know I lack. It was when, I found your frame sobbing, standing there, seemingly having a bad day that I knew you would be causing trouble.~
Villanelle wiped one of the red locks from her features, before she glanced over the paper, watching her curly calculated handwriting filling up the blue lines printed onto the paper, before she ripped it off her notepad, turned the page around and continued while taking a sip from her bourbon, one of the ice cubes lingering closely to her lips before she sucked it in and chewed on it
~ How did I know? I hope you one day will ask.
It were your eyes, swelled up and puffy from the tears you shed, your focus on your phone, while a cigarette burned and trembled in your other hand, I think make up hid a bruise very well, but it showed lightly, as if it bled through your cream finish. You were instantly, beautiful. Vulnerable, Emotional, seemingly haunted by whatever caused your misery, you were painting a picture I could have never painted, and as I studied your behaviour I could’t help it but say those things at loud, as I was drawn to your deer in the headlight eyes, your pain. The pain, I never felt.
I still don’t know why I offered you my vanilla ice-cream cone, but I did and surprisingly you took it, bringing it to your beautiful lips sharing how you had that bad-day that had been clear to anyone, if they wanted to notice. Your voice cracked, like a beautiful song stuttering on vinyl, while tears started to form even more. You drew me in, like Anna had. Your scent of misery, smelling like cigarettes and rip off perfume, reminding me of Jimmy Choo. I told you, I think.. If my memory serves me well enough.. Your next words made my heart fluster in my chest ‘You loved a woman’ a woman that had left you, was dating someone else, unanswered your love like mine had been left unanswered in a previous life.
You had that beautiful desperation in your eyes, in your body language, in everything you aimed and wished to be, and it fascinated me. I instantly wished to take care of you, dress your beautiful shaped curves in fancy textures of fabric, make you smell like a fancy expensive place smelled like, knowing those occupying it had spend much money to appear, smell and be like they seemed, you reminded me of musk, wildflowers and bourbon. I don’t know why I shared what I shared, but I did and it made you intrigued I think, gulp and you told me you had left.
That magic moment between us, didn’t last. You wanted to flee, while I wanted you to stay and tell me everything there was to know. I felt like we could be anything, from bitter enemies to would-be lovers. The ice-cream was dripping over your T-shirt, and I couldn’t help it but reach in to wipe it away and bring it to my lips. You seemed to be in your late thirties, early forties, having a quite wisdom and kindness, that would either take you anywhere you wished or orchestrate your downfall, and I will treat you like you should’ve been treated by the woman breaking your heart. At that moment I made the promise, to make you into the person you wanted to be, aimed to be, portrayed to be but simply lacked to become. I wanted to feel your skin, feel your breathe against mine while I would aim for a kiss that will be one to kill for, but I know, I always have known, once that chase is gone, the thrill of what can and will be — I would become bored of you, and you wouldn’t even understand. I try not to think of that, I try not to, but I know the outcome. You will either live, and haunt me for the rest of my days, disappoint me, hurt me.. Or I will end that dance, that we started dancing and I will hate myself for it. ~
" You want a refill? "
Villanelle was snapped out of it, focus shifting from the letter she was writing back to Joff — She didn’t like him, sure she liked the place she was in, the fact they offered much more than most venues did, but she didn’t like him. His timing was almost poor, his humour was underlaying-nasty and his smile unpleasant, which made her wish she could carve it wider, turning his grin into one that would match the cheshire cat
The now red-head hadn’t noticed how she had finished her glass. She found him staring at her handwriting, trying to read some lines but she would halt him. The fingers holding the pen, pointing at her blue eyes
“It’s rude to be nosy.” She told him “There goes your tip.”Her other hand came up to wave at him a sort of bye-bye gesture.
Surely, she would get bottom-shelf liquor now, and he likely would take ages to deliver it, but she didn’t seem to care. She couldn’t give a flying fuck when it came down to drinks, once he left her likely displeased and trapped on his ego she would continue.
~ So after, I’ve left you — you crossed the sidewalk for a way out, seemingly bothering a male figure I doubt you knew, but pretended to know, I felt those urges I have been able to subdue for the last year or so creep in, making me hungry. Calling me to do something, I haven’t done in ages, it reminded me of time spend in Russia, Anna, the criminals that killed my father with a bullet aiming for the back of his head and left him out on the street like some dead dog on the sidewalk, it reminded me of my aunt and my grandfather that had figured out I wasn’t the innocent, hard studying girl I pretended to be, the handler that offered me this life — in trade of his, and all the things I’ve been running successfully from. I couldn’t help it, but return to my black-truck, and drive restlessly. As driving calms me down, besides sex, and taking pleasure of other’s pain.
The old truck, drew one of it’s last breaths, sputtering against my will after driving around a few blocks, exploring trailers and watching the change of social statuses portrayed either in abandoned wasted houses that looked like they are about to collapse versus the ones that were owned by families that had been able to have the budget and money to fix their property, their homes after Katrina hit years ago. It was fascinating to see the poverty one one block, and the luxurious life of a white picket fence dream on the other. It made me wonder how small things could easily change one’s destiny, or faith. I slammed the door behind me, walked about a street or two before I spotted this little inviting house with two red chairs on the outside. Somehow, the feeling you left me with, made me turn to it and knock three times on the glass of the door. I felt like I needed something to play with, a thrill that would beat my desire for you, a way to kill time and I simply decided to see if I could turn my mood around, entertain my boredom by bothering a stranger, simply for the fun of it.
A young woman opened the door, hesitantly as she could spot me through the glass separating us
I wasn’t going to tell some stranger, that I simply was haunted by you in my mind, how you made me feel things, I haven’t felt in ages, despite my day-to-day struggle with this compulsive feeling of wanting to hurt others around me, and that I needed a way to unwind, that entering her home, threatening her was simply my coping mechanism and that I wanted to play with her, toy with her like a cat would with a mouse. So, I told her I was hungry, which I was. Not just physically, mentally or figuratively — you woke my appetite, and I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since I had left New Orleans.
I raided her fridge, all the while we discussed what was bound to happen, she had some challenging grit inside of her, a darkness I recognised myself. I offered her a few outcomes, challenging her to play this game with me. She accepted the challenge asked for Lulu, and out of sheer boredom I gave her my father’s hunting knife, while I devoured a sandwich I found in the fridge, and gulped down a beer.
She was smart, I will have to give her that, instead of choosing to attack me up-close, she decided to aim the knife near one side of my body so I would move the opposite, and attack my throat with a single punch, once I had moved like she had hoped and predicted. It was a nice feeling, to feel that punch connect, to know I had underestimated the woman and now was up for an actual challenge, even if the cutting of air, the gasping and the pain that I tried not to acknowledge, making me wheeze was less entertaining. I managed to block her next move using one of my elbows — successfully. Even if she had slowed me down a little, while I managed to hurt her ribs with my other blind swung.
What was next,was a pas de deux between attempts of hurting one and another, a messy fight that satisfied me as much as it satisfied her, she surprised me with her force and power, a way to defend herself and I think we were both equally matched. Both hurt, we took a break, panting across the room while we found distance and plans for next moves, but again she surprised me.
Instead of fearing me, she saw something in me that I found in her, she moved with slow paces and big brown eyes boring into mine, challenging me to stop this fight if I wanted to while she moved forward showing that she came in peace. I knew she was, and I knew I had no intentions to hurt her further, but that didn’t mean she was allowed to know. Her kitchen blade, I had grabbed earlier eventually settled with it’s sharpest point below her neck, a little lowered with her collar bones, resting in the middle of her chest while I told her “It’s worse when I push it through slowly.” She seemed unbothered by it, as if she could already predict what would be my last move.
I eventually left my number, left and headed back to the motel, where I spend most of my time admiring her scratches and the bruise she had left in the middle of my head caused by a slamming her forehead against mine. I listened to some classical music, and can’t remember when I fell asleep.~
Joff returned, and with a loud thud he sat down the glass of bourbon, of course -- she was right, it was now a watered down one, where he had actually spit in it, because the German woman sitting on his terrace was overly rude. They both didn't seem to like each other.
"Enjoy your drink, Bitch."
Villanelle seemed untouched by him, simply glanced before she refocused on the pages she by now had written, and was about to write. She collected her drink, and took a sip. Watered down, she noticed.. not that he had spitted in it. Ah well. She could be a cunt, she knew this already
~ I woke up the next morning, wet and bothered thinking of you, I thought about what you are wearing, what you are doing, and who you are doing it with,I think about what friends you have, I think about what you eat before you work, what happened to you, I think about your eyes and your mouth and what you feel, I think about what you have for breakfast, making me believe I want to know everything. I decided to mastrubate , a few times, keeping you in my mind. I showered, and mastrubated another few times, before I headed back to the street I left the black stolen car at. </p>
I found a man sitting there with a bottle of scotch, which made me draw Lulu, as something just didn’t feel right. It was the scent of decay, a bar after closing hours after all patrons left, and mischief, the moment I found him, I wanted to leave. I don’t feel the urges to fear anything, but adrenaline kicked in telling me there was something off.
I am not going to get into details what happened next, as I am still figuring out this by myself, I don’t understand it exactly, so I won’t bore you with vague explanations and details, but it did made me feel like I was starving, drowning in the urges to see you again, fuck you, and slip into your mind to know everything.
I showered, cleaned myself up and headed to the diner, I found two woman there — two redheads, one I have been in touch with on twitter, the other — seemingly as well, but different. She reminded me of someone, myself mostly. Or at least, a part of her did. I sat with them and talked, but eventually both of them had different plans, and left.
That night, I became more restless, it’s always like this when the sun goes down, it’s like I can’t help it but feel trapped inside the motel room, and I wished I could go for a drive, but the truck I had stolen wasn’t there anymore. Perhaps, the police took it, perhaps someone else did. So, I left outside, un-moved by the rumours of it being dangerous out night, as I believed I am one of those predators you should fear walking into, instead of the one fearing the predators. I found my way to the place I am sitting now, Bon Temps. It reminded me of the Parisian streets I came to like, and it must be one of my favourite places, as I am sitting here now again — writing you this letter and within Bon Temps, I found a woman. A woman, that was as desperate as naive to be hurt.
I bought her a Gin & Tonic, that got her drunk. Found a way to take her to the motel where I killed her.
I watched her momentarily as she occupied the bathroom and left it open, slipping out of her clothes, and into the shower cabin. She was beautiful, but the opposite of you. She was young and naive, skinny and lightly tanned. I wanted to join her, but I didn’t. I flicked on the radio, found the channel that plays classical music, and the anthems that I like, while we made light conversation. She eventually returned with a towel wrapped around her frame, and I couldn’t control myself much longer, and moved to pin her against the locked door.I could feel her heart pounding with heavy thuds, as she was terrified — instead I wanted to kiss her, fuck her and touch her the way I imagine touching you, she finally let me kiss her, instead of cherishing it, like I hope you will — she bit me, wondering what she did to upset me like this.
The funny thing is, I am not able to be upset the way others are, I feel a little fluster of my heart whenever something bothers me, but it’s mostly met with passionate anger, hunger of lust, one of my first shrinks had told me I was a sociopath, another told me I definitely am a psychopath which i had answered with “You never tell a psychopath they are a psychopath, it upsets them.” while the last two either believed I was both, while one of them said “this disorder is actually your mind’s way of defending itself against a traumatic upbringing, a mask of sanity laid over a very conflicted, confused and maybe even vulnerable individual.” I had laughed at him. I remember my last session, where he had asked me how I was feeling, and I had mocked them and mentioned I was fine besides the heavy period I had the week before, he had not liked my answer.
“I am not upset, Do I look upset to you?” I had asked, a hypothetical question that I left unanswered, and I gave her the insight of what I wanted. “I want to fuck you.” but as she bit me, that just motivated me more, to hurt her in ways I haven’t hurt anyone in a long time, I grabbed her by the throat, squeezed the air out of her enough to warn her, she fights back just a little, I admire it, making her play that game with me. She went for the door, and I told her the door was locked, and where she could find the key, while I watched her eyes filled with terror. Clumsily she stumbled while she lunged for the dresser, she started to cry, which was even more so entertaining, and it was then I made up my mind and told her. “I can kill you.”This moved her in a way she finally yanked the drawer where I had left the key, while she desperately trembled to search for it, she was desperate and called out a ‘Come on!’ as the drawer at first had budged. At that time, as it seemed she wasn’t even trying, I became inpatient, wishing I found someone else, that would have a stronger urge to survive the night. I tell her to “Chop Chop!” and once she finally got that drawer, I egged her on to try even harder, trying to get her to move to the door and told her she had a chance to leave. She cried out a ‘please, let me go!” which I mocked as her voice broke. I watched her fumble with the key inside the lock, making her believe she had a way out, and just before she could’ve opened the door I grabbed her and forced her onto the bed. I asked her if she wanted to have a last orgasm before she died, but she decided to trash around, and yell, which bored me. Her urge to live came in a little too late. Her body eventually turned limp, after I used all the force to strangle the one below me, I watched those eyes dim with their lights, and held her a little while, before I checked her pulse. As she had none.
I showered, mastrubated with the woman dying in my mind, before I left with her to take her to the shore, she had mentioned finding the ocean beautiful. I returned to the motel after, imagining how long it would take for the body to be found, I tweeted you, but you took a long time to answer me in return.
The next morning I checked out, read a newspaper to see if they mentioned anything about a body — they did, but it was one without eyes. I don’t understand why someone would gauge out the eyes. It’s the most beautiful thing to watch those lights dim from them, when the soul is being sucked inside not outside as many believe. — People think that your soul or personality, whatever, leaves the body when you die. I believe it just goes further in. It becomes so small that it can’t control your body anymore, it’s just in there. Dying forever. — I checked in the Pink Motel, using a different European passport than the one I used to check in with at the Master Baits. I got a few lost passports, you know? It’s easily to buy them on the black market. In case, anyone would be looking for me I decided to dress up in a disguise, making me look like a woman called ‘Eve Johanna’ a German tourist who either got her passport stolen, or lost it before it found it’s way on the blackmarket in New York. I feel much better now, the glory of the few nights ago, long gone and I am back to my normal state of mind, that makes me feel.. quite empty, but not bad either. It’s like a — Okay — place to be. Not good, not bad. Just simple, fine.
What I am bothered with, is that the low-key urge has returned. The hunger is satisfied for a few days, I bet.. but not long enough to stop what you have started. You haven’t answered my tweets, you haven’t paid mind to me the way I am paying mind to you. Therefor I decided to write, at first I wanted to write my former French teacher, but.. she killed herself the last time I saw her — smearing her brains all over her apartment with a gun lifted to her chin. It was beautiful, shocking, yet a nice way for her to go. She wouldn’t have felt much pain. I would’ve made sure she would’ve been in more pain, or perhaps less.. Kill her nicely, just leave her body a way so they think it would be , more painful. Anyhoo, She will not answer me, or write me, or read this. So I decided as she you are my latest muse, my inspiration, the reason why I feel what I feel now, or imagine what I am feeling, to write you instead. I still have to find out where you live, so I can drop you the dress I have ordered for you, along with the Jimmy Choo perfume, like I have promised, and this letter. I am not sure if you can read in French, but maybe you will learn the language, just to read this letter.
Know that I am thinking of you, always.
Your heart, is mine.. and mine is yours.
-- Oksana ~
Villanelle, finished her drink, ripped the papers of the notepad before she folded them nicely, and neatly into a white still blank envelop. Her first goal, find the woman, find the address. Send it to her. But first, she had to pay for her drink, and likely catch some sleep at the Pink motel. She left no tip for Joff, and simply moved to head out, into the beginning night.
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