Shiny cars don’t hide ugly scars

by puffinsmuffins

Summary:

My take on Vox & his backstory
(+ Trans Vox cause you CANNOT convince me that is a cis man)

 

[HIATUS]

Chapter 1: Focus, or lack thereof

I am kind
I am funny
I am brave
I am strong
I am confident
I am worthy
I am grateful
I am resilient
I am creative
I am loved
I am a magnet for good things
I am filled with joy and enthusiasm
I am at peace with the world around me
I am living my best life.

Vox pushed the bathroom window open and dropped his phone out of the gap. He wasn’t living his best life, nor filled with joy and enthusiasm.

“Stupid bullshit” He muttered through the toothpaste in his mouth before leaning down and spitting it out. One hand went behind his neck as he did, instinct to hold his hair back. He scowled and pulled his hand back to his side like it’d been burnt by an imaginary flame.

His therapist seemed to think he was five, recommending him that “I am” app for daily affirmations and positivity and sunshines and rainbows and shit. He had better things to spend his time on, like work.

Vox sat down on his bed again, legs crossed and staring at the mirror. Having his face on practically every wall in the Entertainment District wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sometimes he missed the old days - ugh he sounded like that red prick now - where he just had his simple little company and enough to live on. But he had wanted more. Of course he had, he never stopped wanting. It had driven others away, and he had to admit it hurt to think about them, think about how easily they would turn their nose up and leave, how easily they could just be done with him.

He was scared Valentino and Velvette would do that too, that he’d grow too attached and they’d lose interest in him. Everyone did after a while, so he’d stopped trusting people for a short period of time (totally not after the radio demon left). He’d given up, locked himself away.

Sometimes he wished he could do that whenever he liked, but he had a company to run, to expand. It was hard to talk to anyone, not that he’d ever show his real feelings anyway, that would be preposterous, but he was brushed off anyway. When he’d asked Velvette what she thought would happen after death in Hell, she had laughed in his face and called him an emo bastard.
When he’d asked Valentino the same question, he was yelled at and reminded that Val had bigger problems than him, so he shut up about it. Sometimes Vox thought of going back to—

No he didn’t. No he fucking didn’t.

His claws dug into his thighs at the thought, and he glanced down with a sigh. He wished he could turn off his thoughts, make them vanish like people did. Maybe that would make him focus more. He wished he could turn off his hearing too, have everything be quiet just so he could think. Maybe that would make him feel better. There was no winning, his mind was a mess that couldn’t be cleared up, a puzzle that couldn’t be solved, a stain that couldn’t be cleaned, a wish that wouldn’t come true.

Once, long ago when he was just a kid, he thought that princesses and princes did exist, that one day someone would waltz in and understand him. That was just another false hope he’d gotten used to the idea of not being real.

He had, however, gotten used to the fact that evil was real. The fact that there were bad people in the world, that everyone was at least partially bad. He’d even gotten used to the fact he was one of those people, whether he wanted it or not. His parents certainly hadn’t wanted it, and if *they* didn’t, who would?

————————————

The bell would ring. The door would open. The director would call out.

“Breakfast, girls!”

The giggles and squeals and chatter of girls would fill the spacious room, seemingly echoing off the walls and remaining even after everyone else had left.

“Valieva! Breakfast!”

The director would call out upon seeing one bed remain unmoving, before pulling the heavy door shut and leaving the final child alone in the empty room. Valieva would sit up, black hair all over her face and shoulders and chest. She would wince and huff and drag herself out of the small single bed. The beds were in rows, at least 6 rows in one room, and all belonging to girls under the age of 18, and weren’t much more comfortable than a towel on the floor.

She would pull at her nightie. It just about went past her knees, and felt way too tight for comfort, yet way too loose for safety. She’s never liked changing. That short moment of being bare in such a large, bland room made her feel too vulnerable, made her feel uncomfortable.

It was frankly disturbing.

She dressed quickly into her dress, about the same length of the other one, with a bateau neckline. It was white, like her nightie, like the beds, like the walls. Like everything in that damned place.

Her black hair was always knotted, but she didn’t much care. She’d just hold it behind her neck when brushing her teeth. The other girls all had short hair, and were adopted when they were young.

Valieva was the oldest there, at fourteen, turning fifteen in November. She had been foolish to get her hopes up and think anybody would want to adopt her. Each week she’d watch the young girls grin upon hearing they’d been adopted, and it was all so predictable.

“Valieva. Now.” The director snapped softly, pointing down the stairs.
Valieva would say nothing, having learnt to not say a word in case she was accused of talking back. She would simply nod, and walk down the stairs. It was all a repeat, and a girl could only go so long until she would snap.

Chapter 2: Empathy, or lack thereof

Upon stepping into the kitchen, lit up by the morning light, Vox was silent, more focused on making a beeline to the coffee machine than communicating than the other person in the room.

He was lost in thought, his mind mostly buzzing with ideas on how he could make his latest project work.

For a moment, all was silent, until a cardboard box was thrown at his back. He paused and turned around, to face Velvette, who was sat up on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, with a bowl of cereal, staring at him with a look in her eye Vox had only seen once before - when he wore “purple black” pants and a “blue black” jacket (he hadn’t the slightest clue what that had meant, but she was the expert, not him (clearly)).

He vent down to pick up the box, which was the empty packaging for said cereal box. Velvette crunched loudly on her Veet-a-bix, glaring at him the whole time.
As he turned to put the box in the bin, Vox mad it an instinct to quickly do a once-over glance of his outfit, making sure there was no unseen fashion problems she would spot. Nonetheless, she usually found one anyway, always “Your shoes are too shiny”, or “Your tie isn’t straight”, or even the odd “Your collar’s folded up”. He found nothing and turned back to her.

She clanged her spoon loudly against her dish like she was making a speech to a table full of royalty.

“You ain’t gone deaf, have you?” She cocked her head to the side, expression twisting like there was something on her mind she just couldn’t word properly.

“Huh?” He asked dumbly, probably looking just as dumb. She rolled her eyes, muttering something about being the smartest Vee in the tower.

“I asked if you’re still with us.” She slid off the stool, suddenly shrinking a foot shorter. Vox stifled a chuckle, knowing that making fun of her height would mean she would burn all of his clothes and turn him into a charging port.

“I am very much alive, my dear” He flashed his trademark grin as he turned back to her, and earned himself a banana, which was launched at his screen.

“God, you have such millennial humour, Vox, you just PMO” She put one hand on her hip and walked off, typing out a text to heaven knows who on her phone.
Vox often wondered what the hell she was talking about half the time, but choked most of her confusing habits down to British slang.

 

He slouched down in his desk chair, feet up on the desk. His mind was racing, and his eyes landed on his projects’ cupboard.
This cupboard was used just as the name suggests; to store his unfinished projects, drafts if you may. Some barely made it past the blueprints phase, few made it into the final phase, but he’d been given up on purely over the debate of what colours to paint it. That had happened with Thingy-majiggy-seven, which was an advanced sewing machine him and Valentino had tried to make for Velvette’s birthday.

Needless to say, they didn’t know a thing about sewing, let alone how to make a machine with that knowledge. Velvette had stepped in upon discovering it and helped him fix it up. All was well until it chopped off half of her fingers, and she had demanded he lock it up like it was a rabid beast, claiming she never wanted to lay eyes on it again.

Of course, Vox was too sentimental to throw it away, and so, into the cupboard it went!
He threw his legs over one armrest of his chair, leaking his back against the other one as he turned on his phone, unsurprised at forty notifications from Valentino. Vox rolled his eyes and shut it off again, before cracking his knuckles and turning his computer on.

————————————

“Ow”

“Silence, child. It is unbecoming of a young lady to wince.”

Valieva held back an eye roll, knowing it would only get her in more trouble. The Director patted her shoulder dismissively, before going back to her desk.
She left the office, left arm now tightly bound behind her back. She never knew why they did that, what was so wrong with being left handed?

Her seat was cold, the bottoms of her thighs pressed against the wood, a sign her dress was getting too short, or she was growing too tall.

She could do without, honestly, the other girls had enough to mock her about. Her silence sometimes, her attitude other times, and even her age. They were all stuck in the same place, so it was useless to make fun of each other. They’d say she was too old to be adopted, and that no parents would ever love her. That used to hurt, but she’d accepted that as just truth now.

Valieva had learnt to not talk back to the adults, because it would get her in trouble. She had also learnt not to argue with the other girls, as it would eventually get back to the adults, and therefore get her in trouble anyway.

This problem had a simple solution: don’t talk at all. Well, it didn’t work much, but at least her mouth wasn’t constantly sore from being washed out with soap every five minutes.

If she were to talk, she’d copy what the others said. “How nice”, “That’s wonderful”, “That sounds fun”. Her only problem was when one of the girls started crying. It was usually the younger ones, the ones that would be adopted within a week anyway. Everyone would look to her since she was the oldest, but that didn’t mean she was the expert.

She sometimes copied what the director had said to the crying girls before, or just hugged them. Valieva had never been good on empathy, which had caused problems for both herself and others. Others thought there was something wrong with her, which made her think that too. Why couldn’t she feel bad for them? Why couldn’t she just sympathise and understand what they were going through?

The Director had said she would have to learn to work with others, if she was to live a good life and one day marry. She knew that once she left this orphanage in three years time, she’d be lost again, unknowing of what to do.

Sometimes she’d think of the future, but people would tell her to get her head out of the clouds and focus on her work. Which had just been told to her by an agitated Miss Moore, snapping her back into the present by tapping her cane sharply against the wooden floor. She heard the quiet shudder of snickers around the cold classroom, but didn’t dare to lift her head to meet the eye of the other girls.

She kept her head down and pressed her right hand to the desk with her pencil in it. She understood the work, and knew how to do it easily. And yet, it was so difficult to write, her hand shaking and quivering like it’d never held a pencil before, like she hadn’t been forced to use this hand for writing for years now.

She understood what she had to do, and yet she couldn’t help but hesitate.

Notes:

hope u enjoyed !!
- puffin

Chapter 3: Acceptance, or lack thereof

Summary:

Mentions of porn and Valentino as a whole.

It wasn’t long he had peace and quiet in his office, silence accompanied by the quiet clicking of the keyboard under his claws. It had been eerily comfortable, until the door slammed open. Vox wasn’t one to flinch at loud noises, or anything really, but that did make him jump.

Valentino’s loud 6-inch, or so, heels clanged against the floor tiles, the bangles on his wrists rattling as he approached. His long red coat was immaculate and spotless as it always was, but his sharply smug grin wasn’t there to match. The frown he wore in its place, Vox had grown used to.

“Voxxy~” His accent thickened purposely, as if trying to intimidate or distract. Vox was definitely distracted, and rolled his eyes.

“What?” He sighed, knowing the only way to entertain Valentino without it ending sexually or otherwise annoyingly, was to slowly play into his hands and then brush him off when he thought he was getting what he wanted.

“Just felt like checking up on you, sexy thing~…” He purposely drew his words out, trying to sound seductive. In all of Vox’s brutal honesty, it was more annoying than anything else, but that might just be because he hardly got any sleep.

“I’m not in the mood, Val, leave me alone. Go back downstairs and waste away on cigars..” He muttered that last part mainly to himself, with an eye roll, as he turned back to his computer.

He tried to focus some more on his work, but Valentino was rattling on about something else now, and it was so hard to concentrate.

After Val realised Vox was completely ignoring him in favour of his work, he banged one angry fist on the desk to get his attention. Vox reluctantly dragged his gaze away from the computer screen with a dramatic sigh. It was beginning to feel like a chore to deal with people talking to him, like he’d rather just be left alone in the silence of his office.

“Were you even listening to me?” Val pouted, speaking in that annoyingly whiny voice he used only when he wanted some kind of sick sympathy.

“Sorry.” Vox replied dryly, like he cared at all. He leaned back in his chair, watching as Valentino brushed multiple pen pots and paperwork out of the way so he could get comfortable on one side of the desk. “What were you saying?”

Valentino started up again. “I was thinking about Angel Dust, and this like porno idea where all of these circus clowns…” He droned off. Vox stopped listening after “Angel Dust”, since that name usually meant he’d never stop talking, or never get to a point that concerned Vox in any way.

Vox went back to work, making sure to hum or nod whenever Valentino went up for air. As usual, he finally stopped talking to ask feedback - it was a skill Vox had taught him when he’d come up with the idea of directing movies back in the eighties. He wasn’t exactly the best at using it, since he despised other people’s negative opinions anyway.

“So. What do you think?” He purred, running a finger along the space bar of Vox’s keyboard so he’d withdraw his hands. Vox went for the safe answer he’d probably repeated six times this week.

“Sounds cool. Maybe with a few tweaks, you’ll win another ‘Best Cum-Buster of the year’ award.” He mumbled and reached for his mug. Valentino seemed happy with that, too blind to see the sarcasm.

“And about you starring in it?” He suddenly asked.
Vox choked on his coffee.

“Come again?”

“Voxxy!” Val pouted and whined again, before switching to a sing-songy tone. “I said you’d be the sexiest ringleader in all of Hell~!”

“Um. Well. I’ll have to think about it.” Vox sputtered slightly, averting his gaze so Valentino wouldn’t see the half amusement and half shock in his eyes. Valentino frowned.

“It’ll be fun…” He sang, hoping to somehow make his colleague agree to it.

Vox was no more encouraged than he was when Valentino brought it up in the first place.

To credit Val, Vox hadn’t starred in any movies in a long time. He remembered writing some movies, but they were “too much dialogue and not enough action”, according to both Valentino and Velvette. Vox had given up after literally nobody had bought his latest movie, published in 2009.

He vaguely remembered Alastor being interested, which had been rare. He vaguely remembered being honoured and bending over backwards like a lapdog for his approval. It sickened Vox to think of his past self - so needy and hopeful and pathetic, so desperate for validation that would never come.

Vox had once been told by Valentino that every movie was better with a sex scene. It felt awkward to write that though, felt more like a distraction from the actual plot. So he gave up and left the filming industry behind.
Sometimes he’d make a cameo in Valentino’s pornos, but as a side character: the shopkeeper, the neighbour, the people walking around in the background, etc.

He hadn’t ever been interested in actually being in the spotlight, or being a main character. He was perfectly fine with the project having his name on, but not much more. It wasn’t that the idea of being in a porno repulsed him (well it kind of did), it was just the idea of taking his clothes off.

It was awkward enough taking his clothes off to change alone in his room. But doing it on camera? Well, that was just another thing entirely.

It wasn’t insecurity, Vox was sure about that, but it wasn’t just something else that repelled him from the idea of lacking his clothes in front of so many people, including a camera. Eyes on him, seeing his body bare… It just all sounded too awkward.

“I have work to do.” Vox announced, and Valentino left.

————————————

The first time Valieva had seen blood was when she’d gotten a paper cut, when she was nine. Sometimes, since then, she’d seen the other girls graze their knee, or have a nose bleed. She didn’t have nose bleeds much herself, only once when she was ill.

There hadn’t been so much blood, not enough to stain her clothes or have her put in the nurse’s office.
And it had hardly hurt too. It had just sort of happened. Everything did.

But nonetheless, she hadn’t seen all that much blood in her fourteen years alive. But what she was seeing now was a concerning amount.

Her white nightie had been stained from the moment she had woken up, her bedsheets a faint velvet, a sharp contrast aside the plain white.

The blood was between her legs, and she didn’t want to move. In fear there would be more blood waiting to spill, in fear that something had broken or cut when she hadn’t noticed.

She stared at that red patch on her nightie until, finally, a knock at the door came, followed by that familiar call.

“Breakfast, girls!”

She stayed still, before pulling the sheets over her head. Just as the day before went, she stayed in her bed. The door opened and closed multiple times before heels thudded against the floorboards instead.

“Valieva, breakfast.” She commanded, and Valieva sat up. The director followed her gaze down.

 

It all felt blurry and hushed, like she was watching this happen to someone else from afar, rather than being the one it happened to.

She was walked to the bathroom, dabbed at with a cloth and changed out of her clothes. It felt like she’d forgotten how to do anything. To move, to speak, to focus. She felt like a doll to be moved about.

Finally, she was sat in her bed again, the director speaking but not being heard. She pitched in just at the last sentence.

“…will be necessary for you to adapt to.” She said before leaving the room again. There were no further instructions - no calls to come down for breakfast, nor anyone to come and say what was even happening to her in the first place.

Everything felt far away, too far to reach. It felt like she was looking through a tiny hole, one she couldn’t look through with both eyes, the other one shut. It all seemed wrong, like this wasn’t supposed to happen.

In all honesty, she probably had been taught about what this was, but she only listened to the interesting lessons. This one must’ve been one of the less important ones to pay attention to.

Sometimes she wished she’d been born as the other gender. Male. Was life easier that way? Was life as a female more preferable? Maybe it was just the fact she hardly remembered her life before this orphanage.

Maybe she was just meant to be born the other way.

For anyone else, she imagined saying something like that would be deemed repulsive or offensive, perhaps even delusional, but she stuck out more than the other orphan girls anyway, so what was a little extra insanity on her conscious?

Chapter 4: Choice, or lack thereof

Vox woke with a start as he felt something whisper in his ear. There was the faint cackling of who he could only recognise as the biggest asshole in all of Hell.

Perhaps he was just hallucinating the crackle of the radio he had tucked away in the corner cause he was too sentimental to throw it away. Maybe the faint sight of a shadow dancing around the room and giggling was just a sign that he was going crazy.

It only then occurred to Vox that he’d fallen asleep at his desk. Honestly, this had happened before when he was too addicted to work like a kid addicted to their phone. And now, he created those very phones. The irony made his dull, barely-awake screen brighten till he yawned loudly to his mass amount of screens.

Everything in his office was perfectly put together, perfectly clean and sharp and shiny as the posters that had his face on. And yet, every morning, afternoon and evening, he tinkered about and slouched around like a bored teenager rather than a successful CEO and Overlord.

Hell, he knew he’d done well, practiced his smile in the mirror every day like it was procedure, like he was programmed to.

Still, he was the most tired and grouchy of the Vees when he wanted to be, while the others were just whore or bitch. Sometimes both, depending on who was angrier at the other.

Vox forced himself up and out of his chair, already feeling the crick in his neck from sleeping there. His watch read 22:30 on the dot. He should probably head to sleep, but then his eyes locked onto what he’s been working on.

He’d been procrastinating the Angelic Security first design since he’d first announced its existence months back. So far, his employees had been setting up hints and stuff and focusing more on advertising for Pride month, but that was all over now and forced him to finally figure out the situation he’d gotten himself into.

Vox stared at the digital images on his closet screen, before scowling. What the hell had he been thinking? Angelic fucking blinds. What were blinds supposed to do?!

He sighed and trashed the digital copy, opening a new project and scribbling out a new idea, on doors instead, with his mouse.

God, even on computer he sucked at drawing. His handwriting was fucked beyond belief, approximately the same as a doctor’s, if not worse. Partially why he preferred typing on his computer and printing it out if he needed to.

Cracking his knuckles, his digital brows knitted together in thought as he calculated it all in his head. He needed to ensure that the design was both discreet but hidden, needed to make sure it couldn’t be burnt through or impaled with those damn angelic spears.

He tapped his claws against the desk idly and completely ignored the few monitors displaying security viewings out of the corner of his eye, and the way the footage glitched irritably as a certain red prick was trying to annoy him. It was like he knew Vox wasn’t paying attention to him. For once.

Honestly, if he wasn’t concentrating, that screen would be burning in a pile of ruined metal and broken glass. He narrowed his eyes and settled on a decision, knowing damn well Carmine hadn’t even responded let alone agreed to his offer of a business collaboration.

The two Overlords practically rode on the same wavelength, but they both definitely despised each other deep down. She was stubborn, and he was… more stubborn? Arrogant, probably. Whatever, this was hell, what was she complaining about? There was worse than him, after all.

————————————

Valieva was doing pretty well for herself. It had been a couple years, a good couple of years. It had likely only been good because she knew that once she was eighteen, she’d be running like hell out of that damn orphanage, but also because the other girls there sort of… respected her? The younger ones did that already, but now the older range, 12-14, saw her as their equal now too.

She was seventeen. Just one more year, just one more year, just one more year.

“Valieva.” The director knocked against the open classroom door with the back of her knuckles. “Why don’t you come along to my office, dear?” She smiled with charm.

Valieva had her doubts that anything good would be happening there, but instead, she lead the girl up to the rooms and instructed her to pack her things. She hardly had anything anyway.

The torn dress she wore when she came here had been burnt, leaving her with only a toothbrush to show for the ten years she’d been living here. Her heart sank a little at her empty suitcase. The director brushed her hair and even trimmed it so it was perfectly cut to rest just below her shoulders.

A headband was tucked behind her ears and the director smiled warmly at her before removing the binds from her arm. Okay, if Valieva wasn’t confused before, she definitely was now.

She took her hand, ignoring how strained and uncomfortable her arm felt now it was exposed to the air. It looked frail compared to her right one, more pale than her own skin.

The stairs felt ominous and echoey as usual, but doubled just from the fact her heart was beating too fast for her to comprehend. She could hardly imagine what was waiting behind the door to the Director’s office.

She could hardly expect it to be a middle aged man with hair as black as hers. He looked tired with grey streaks in his hair and dark circles under his eyes. She guessed he was at least forty, and sat down in the seat beside him.

“Valley here is top of her class in English, Math, and Science” The director read proudly, and Valieva could tell that had been rehearsed many times and told to anybody that was interesting in adopting.

“She’s fourteen,” First lie. “And very popular among the other girls here at Birkley.” Second lie. “She is a true dear to the faculty and her peers, and has always comforted anybody in a time of need.” Third lie.

Valieva shifted in her seat under the cold man’s gaze. He stared through her eyes and down into her soul before turning to the director and nodding. The director looked both relieved and delighted beyond belief.

It felt as though she should say something. A question, perhaps? Maybe a “It’s nice to meet you”, or an “I’m excited to be staying with you”.
Instead, the man glared at her again, those slightly intimidating green eyes gazing into hers.

She didn’t utter a word.

Chapter 5: A new beginning

Notes:

Idk what to do with current Vox so he’s being left out of this one :>

The house was ever and creaky, every child’s worst nightmare. Worse than the orphanage. It was colder too, and darker.

The man sort of stared at her, as if expecting something from her. Valieva didn’t really have anything to offer, other than herself. She wasn’t much use anyway, unless he was going to ask her to make her bed or solve an equation. Which he wasn’t.

Viktor, she had read his name from the passport and bills from a random cabinet by the door, didn’t really have anything fit for a child. No spare bedroom, no toys to play with, no paper to draw on, no books to read.

It was practically a wasteland. She wasn’t a child, and could cope without entertainment found in toys or puzzles, but no books?

She had liked to read the history books in the orphanage, mainly the ones about the Industrial Revolution, or Charles Darwin. They weren’t all that entertaining, but she just had to read them the second they had been mentioned in her class.

They had hardly any science classes, since it was preferred that the girls learnt etiquette and housework instead.

Those skills would likely come in handy right about now, as the only thing this damn man owned was paperwork and cleaning supplies.

She was left to her own devices. The man grumbled to himself in the kitchen before calling her name. Well, not technically.

“Valerie.” She stepped into the kitchen.

“It’s Valieva.”

“Excuse me?” He turned to her sharply.

“Nevermind.” The girl muttered, suppressing an eye roll.

“Clean.” He shoved a mop in her arms. She looked up at him with confusion. He only stared expectantly.

So this was what he was expecting. It came to her quickly, the realisation, the thought only now occurring that he didn’t want a daughter.

He wanted a maid.

She huffed and he hardened his glare, so she turned and began mopping the floor with a dramatic sigh.

 

She recalled the car ride, the way the brown leather seat felt under her, the way her eyes met his in the rear view mirror. He had seemed worried at the time, almost paranoid, as if she had a knife under her skirt.

She remembered nearly sniggering at the image, before catching herself and staying silent as a mouse.

She scrubbed the ground floor of the house clean, which had seemed peaceful at the time, but almost depressing now she looked back on it.

She hadn’t even heard the man leave, nor come back, till he grabbed her shoulders, shaking crazily, and spun her around.

She was wide eyed with confusion as he demanded from her. He almost looked… scared.

“Did you lock the windows?!” He exclaimed like a wild animal. Valieva stammered and stumbled over her words at the surprising pressure.

“Yes—” She finally said with great unease and confusion.

“And the doors?!” He shook her aggressively.

“I think so—” She assured him.

She vaguely remembered cleaning the floors around the front door and back door in the kitchen, and seeing the chains hung across. And she had definitely closed and locked the windows when she cleaned them.

He said nothing more and stormed out of the room again. Valieva thought of their interaction all evening.

It wasn’t his last time to ask her that, as she got more and more used to living there with him.

She made herself comfortable on the sofa, which felt and looked at least a hundred years old. Perhaps it was, at least then it would be the same age as the rest of the house.

Valieva entertained herself with the thought of the strange man maybe being a vampire, or a zombie. Maybe that would explain why he was so pale and cold and grizzly like a bear.

She chuckled and leaned back against the stuffy cushions. Everything was uncomfortable about this sofa, the way her neck felt against the not-so-plush armrest, and the way her legs hung over the parallel and equally as withered armrest, even the dip under her back where the man had sat many times in the past.

Every little discomfort she noticed, the sofa felt less and less pleasant, like the beds they have in prisons.

It took ages to get to sleep, and was hardly worth it by the time she was awoken next by the man staring down at her. She blinked dumbly.

Had he been watching her there all night?

“Up.” He commanded as if she was a dog.

She sat up, grunting as her bones ached from sleeping there in the first place. Once she was up and off of the sofa, the man took her place and read his newspaper in a domestic manner.

It was like a cycle, the same over and over again. The man’s radio in the kitchen didn’t work, only yelled static at her when she tried to turn it on.

Though - she caught onto the pattern of broken appliances, since the telephone and telegraph had been unplugged too.

And so, she did what any reasonable person would do. She fixed it, or well tried to. She switched out some rusty parts with random scraps from the broken telephone in the garage, and the radio burst to life.

A little too loud, which didn’t bother her all that much, but she couldn’t say the same for the man. The man was furious though and yelled at her for alerting “them”.

She didn’t know what that meant in the slightest, and didn’t bother asking.

At first, there was a man yelling about New York weather, then another - particularly joyous - man talking about something to do with investigations in New Orleans, which was interesting and all, except for the part she was in California.

She listened in, only for the radio to flicker and go static again, before making an irritating buzzing sound that wouldn’t let up till she turned it off. Valieva huffed in irritation and tried to fix it again, making note to look for some more garage and kitchen scraps later.

She then wandered around the house in search of something else. Clothes, she decided. She was still wearing her scruffy dress and tights from the orphanage, and there didn’t seem to be anything for a woman in this house.

In his wardrobe were some dark coloured button-up shirts and suit pants. In his drawers were some underwear and socks. All far too big and manly for her. Finally, the girl found some smaller stuff: a shirt and vest, and some dress pants.

They were so much more comfortable she could hardly comprehend it. Why couldn’t the orphanage have just given her something like this, rather than that plain old dress.

When the man had seen her wearing his clothes, he looked her over skeptically and told her she looked like a boy.

Valieva thought about it. What was wrong with looking like a boy? Who cared what she wore? Really, only she should: she was the one wearing it after all, not anybody else.

It was comfortable, and that’s all she really cared about.

Chapter 6: Weird

• Eggs
• Butter
• Cheese
• Bread
• Pasta
• Basil

She read the list over and over again in her head, as if trying to commit it to memory. Valieva didn’t really know where she was going, but she followed the road signs to the nearest grocery store.

The stares made her feel uneasy. Was it because she was wearing a man’s clothes? Was it normal? Was it because she was new there and nobody knew her?

So many possibilities and yet she kept her head down, and just went from aisle to aisle and grabbed the cheapest variations of the items on the list.

Some people had shopping carts, with squeaky wheels that rolled loudly along the floor with a clatter. Other people had baskets with worn out handles. Was she meant to have one too? She didn’t know where they were actually getting them from.

Valieva quickly realised she probably should’ve searched for a basket, in fear that she might drop the eggs that she had balanced on her forearm. 

A little old man’s wide, brown eyes bored into the back of her head. She’d seen the man when she turned around, and when she had reached past him to grab the loaf of bread.

He had stared while Valieva wondered whether her father (?) would want sliced or not. Surely sliced, since he didn’t seem the type to sit by the pond and feed the ducks. …Or maybe he wanted to cut it himself? Everything was too complicated

She had walked away with a sense of relief that that old man was out of view. Even more-so when he had left the store entirely. Valieva still had three hours before she had to be home, so she decided to stop and smell the roses, so to speak.

 

She scanned over the items in the fridges and on the shelves, and paused when she saw screwdrivers in the hardware aisle.

Valieva thought of the radio back home, the one that spluttered and stuttered and choked on static, before grabbing a pack, oblivious to how angry her father (?) might be when she returned home.

Finally, she stepped up to the cashier and placed down her bundle of things, before realising she might’ve forgotten some things. Like the cheese and the butter, and the pasta and basil. That was half the list, now that she thought about it.

She didn’t really know what to do so she just handed over the money her father (?) had given her and shoved the items carelessly into her little plastic bag, definitely breaking all six of the eggs.

When she returned home, the front door was ajar. The man was muttering about in the kitchen like a crazy person. She had gotten used to it by now, and had gotten used to ignoring it. But he was in the kitchen, right where she needed to be.

The girl suppressed a sigh and padded into the kitchen. He glanced up to stare at her before snatching the bag from her hand and muttering to himself as he checked each of the items.

He either didn’t notice that half of the items he told her to get were missing, or just didn’t say so. He lifted the screwdrivers she had bought out slowly, inspecting them as if it was a secret weapon.

His gaze snapped up to look at her and he shook the screwdrivers in his already shaky hand.

“What is this?”

 

“That’s a screwdriver.” Valieva said dumbly, before turning to put the eggs and bread away in the fridge and the cupboard. He said nothing more, and watched her.

She turned to see he was gone again, and had taken the screwdrivers with him. Her brows lowered. Perhaps this was her punishment for not getting the rest of the groceries.

Later, she entered the living room. The man was fast asleep on the sofa - where she had been sleeping every night - with the empty plastic packet that held the screwdrivers in beside him.

Her left eye twitched as she saw the state her new screwdrivers were in. The man had removed the handles completely, and even used a magnifying glass to…

She actually didn’t know what he was trying to find. Or look at. Or anything, really. All she knew - and was sure about - was that this man was a complete weirdo.

Valieva gave up on the screwdrivers and the radio and instead reached for the flashlight under the stairs, where the wiring was.

…which was probably a bad idea, since the last three times she had tried to get things from under there, she had accidentally electrocuted herself and laid unconscious for half an hour.

The most unpleasant thing was when her father (?) would awaken her by kicking her in the arm and simply grumble about not following his instructions.

He hadn’t exactly given her any instructions to follow, so that didn’t make sense either.

She removed the back of the flashlight and tugged the batteries out of their slots, before promptly throwing the rest of the flashlight on the floor in the middle of the hall and walking over to the garage door.

The batteries didn’t work when she switched them with the ones in the radio, so it definitely wasn’t to do with that. She knew she needed the screwdrivers to try and make it work but didn’t want to believe it.

She sighed with irritation and scratched the back of her neck, pulling at the collar of the (stolen) shirt she wore.

Valieva debated asking the man if he knew what was wrong with the radio, but didn’t want him to be even weirder, so she just went back to the living room and—

 

Nope, couldn't do that either.

 

He was still asleep on the sofa. The sofa she slept on. Well, two could play at that game.

The girl padded up the stairs and entered the only bedroom there, before frowning. The bed was stripped, sheets piled up not-so-neatly in the corner with the pillows thrown about lazily.

 

Valieva was too tired to care for the man’s weird habits at this point, so she just laid down on the bare mattress and closed her eyes, feeling her shoulders relax yet stay tense upon knowing she’d only get about four hours of sleep before a certain someone appeared at her side with a mop or a broom, and told her to clean again.

She tried not to think about that, and instead thought about what she would do if the radio finally worked.

 

Well, she’d listen to it for a while…

And then she’d find something else to fix.

Chapter 7: Dearest resident…

The radio buzzed on finally, and voices cut through the humming, all (but one) with American accents.

 

Valieva had been awaiting to hear a voice so cheery, as she didn’t really have anyone to talk to and everyone seemed down in the dumps around town. 

 

The garage had been quiet too, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Or a screwdriver. She had dropped the screwdriver many times. Mostly on her own feet, actually!

 

That all changed as soon as she’d got the radio working. Valieva knew to keep the volume down or she’d have more than angry neighbours to worry about.

 

Her father (?) had seemed more paranoid lately, which was saying something. He crept around the house like a ghost, and his hands shook all the time. She couldn’t tell if he was cold, scared, or both.

 

The seasons had changed slow as ever, and Valieva had learned to make herself more comfortable in her home. She could still hear the ringing in her ears upon waking each morning: “Breakfast, girls!”

 

She definitely didn’t miss it, and it felt like a curse to keep hearing it. Like a broken record, every day of every week of every month for years.

 

To remember the loud chatter and laughter of girls younger than her, filled with glee and excitement, even hope that one day a family would come to rescue them. House them. Love and care for them.

 

That’s how she thought it would be, but that was another lie too. She’d learnt to respect and be quiet and get along with siblings if she had any.

 

But how could she respect such a jumpy man? He constantly sat in the living room with wide eyes fixed on nothing in particular, the lights off and his coat on. It wasn’t cold. It hadn’t been in a while. 

 

Valieva didn’t see him much nowadays, hadn’t seen him much before either. His appearances were scarce and chillingly quiet, only a clatter of plates or a shuffle along the carpet in the hall.

 

It was too quiet. Overwhelming. Valieva wanted to speak, so sometimes she did. Only quiet mutters to herself. She stopped upon realising she was becoming a copy of her father. To end up like him? 

 

It was pitiful. Painfully pitiful.

 

She didn’t know if he had an actual job. As in, a stable and secure job he went to and worked in every day or so. But he did sit at the telegraph a lot and type out messages. Lots of letters were sent too, but not as many received.

 

One day, she snatched a piece of paper from the pile. She wanted to write a letter too. Not to anyone she knew. She didn’t actually know anyone anyway. Instead, she just left it on the little desk in the garage to use later.

 

Finally, that use came.

 

In the form of a penpal.

 

She strolled down the street one day and caught sight of a newspaper with a small message in the back that was hardly noticeable. An address, a request, an invitation. Seeking a penpal. 

 

“441 Arching Close, New Orleans”.

 

She cautiously ripped the little advert out of the back of the newspaper, unnoticed by the usually nosy citizens skimming through a bakery section of the store, behind her. 

 

Later, when she arrived home, she took the scrap of paper out of her trouser pocket and took her piece of paper she had stolen a few weeks back.

 

Weeks? Maybe months, actually. Or… years? She couldn’t actually recall how long she’d been staying in this house anyway.

 

“Dearest resident of 441 Arching Close…”

 

Pause. What was she meant to write? Was it sensible to write her full name or just her first name? She might just get in trouble with her father (?) for this.

The nib of her quill touched down on the paper and it was too far to go back now.

 

“Dearest resident of 441 Arching Close, I came across your advertisement in the newspaper. I’d like to learn more about you, dear resident, and perhaps become more acquainted with a person such as yourself.

 

Kind regards, V

72 Smiths Road, California.”

 

And that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Was it enough? She hoped so. It certainly wasn’t too much, but she hadn’t spoken to anybody with a soul in a while and had no other choice but to branch out of her town.

 

She slipped the letter into the post after stealing the necessary stamps from the post office in town and jotting down the address on the front of the envelope.

 

She had too many words to say that her throat was clogged with them and she couldn’t taste the air any more. She wasn’t sure she ever had by this point. If she wrote them, maybe the clog would start to dissolve and she would be able to breathe again.

 

And, just maybe, she might make a friend.

Notes:

Hmm I wonder who that might be 👀

Chapter 8: Freak

“Dear ‘V’ as you name yourself so vaguely, I, too, am interested in learning more of you. Tell me something about yourself, dear V. Are you male or female? Married or not? Where do you work? For one, I am a single, male radio host at the New Orleans Radio Towers.

 

Kind regards, A

441 Brochurst Close, New Orleans”

 

The penpal’s response came pretty fast, considering how bad postal services were nowadays.

 

Valieva read it three times, or maybe more. Her heart was beating irrationally fast for reasons she could begin to think up. Radio host? And he thought she was married? How old did he think she was?!

 

The door slammed from downstairs and she peered over the edge of the banister. Her father (?) paced around the hallway and muttered manically to himself. So, nothing new. 

 

She rolled her eyes and folded up the letter, slipping it into her pocket - that she had noticed was significantly larger than the pockets she had on her old dress, what was up with that? - and walked back downstairs.

 

The man paused and stared at her like he’d never even seen her before in his life. She stared back, with a grimace. He was strung out and panicked as ever.

 

She didn’t care to wonder what had rattled him so nervous, and just went through to the living room, before out to the garage through the door in the corner.

 

The garage was cold and damp as ever, and the desk was just as she’d left it. She reread the letter once more, her gaze tracing each curve of the cursive handwriting. 

 

Her ink pot had dried out, which meant she had to get a new one. Valieva groaned internally. She hated, hated, hated going to the shop. It was always filled with gross old men and even grosser teenage boys with fancy cashmere clothes and weed hanging out of their mouths.

 

Nonetheless, it would be rude to not reply to a letter, so she sneaked out of the house after stealing some cash from the man’s wallet. 

 

On the way there, she thought about what she was going to say. Was she to be honest? Was he even being honest? She didn’t know this man, for Heaven’s sake.

 

Hell, she didn’t even know if he was a man! Maybe he was just a young girl like her. In the same position, maybe stealing stamps from the post office and paper from her father’s desk. 

 

She stuck to that thought like glue before blinking up and realising she was at the end of her journey. With a sigh, she reluctantly breezed in, the bell ringing overhead as the door hit it.

 

The cashier, a young-looking man with a not-so-young-looking moustache, glanced up before back down at his newspaper.

 

Valieva could easily steal something.

 

The man was bored, she could tell, just another dead soul longing for the working day to reach its end.

 

She imagined he was a part-time worker, already exhausted from a long day at college or university. Probably some uptight private school, judging by the way his hair was slicked back with gel and his glasses looked posh.

 

The store wasn’t all that big, and was one of those places so desperate to attract customers that everything was about half price. There were four aisles of food, and only one of hardware, with fridge-freezers along the back wall.

 

There had to be hundreds of drinks in the fridge. Beer after wine after brandy after whiskey. Bottles and bottles and bottles, even more than she remembered from the memories of her father’s basement just over eleven years ago. 

 

When she’d found him hanging there, the thick odour of disease and decay clinging to his limp body.

 

Valieva shook the feeling off and kept on with her browsing. Briefly, she cast a once-over towards the science fiction and fantasy books: in the small donation area at the side. All too expensive for her tiny amount of money, of course, it wasn't like her father (?) had much to steal from anyway.

 

She recognised one book as Dracula. She recalled reading that one at the orphanage, recalled fighting with a couple of the other girls after they’d snatched it and tossed it in the trash heap outside.

That same girl had been adopted a year later, and Valieva felt freed at seeing the back of her. Three years that girl had tormented her.

 

She could still smell the dead rats between her bed sheets at the memory. 

 

Finally, she halted once her eyes had latched onto the ink pots on a small shelf. They were pricier than the other items in the store.

 

After one or two quick glances around the - almost entirely vacant - store, she clutched the pot and slipped it into her pocket.

 

Hardly noticeable unless anyone was specifically staring at her crotch, which would be slightly weird. But surprisingly not rare to happen.

 

Often, it felt as if she wore a target on her back. A big red arrow, or a huge sign saying “LOOK AT ME”.

 

It made her feel all hot and flushed inside and awkward. It hadn’t felt like this when any of the custodians had smiled at her at breakfast or dinner. Maybe it was just the way they looked at her.

 

She could picture their thoughts.

 

“Who’s that girl?”

 

“Where’s her parents?”

 

“Why’s she wearing boy’s clothes?”

 

“Why are her arms so skinny?”

 

“Why is her hair so messy?”

 

“Why are her eyes two different colours?”

 

“Why is she so pale?”

 

“What a freak.”

 

Freak.

 

The term wasn’t new to Valieva. The boy’s school just down the road from the orphanage walked past every day.

 

She’d peer out of the window, hear them laugh and talk about how orphans were freaks that didn’t deserve the love they get from families they are only burdens to. She’d taken that statement into mind. And it hadn’t exactly left.

 

Hadn’t even left her mainstream of thoughts that reoccurred daily.

 

A dictionary, one of the ones with the dark red covers that lined the century-old bookcases in the hall just outside of the Director’s office, had ended up in her hands. 

 

Freak: An animal, plant, or person with unusual physical development.

 

That didn’t really apply to her. But it made her insecure all the same. She stopped looking out of the windows in the mornings after that.

 

She grabbed a newspaper and paid the thirty cents for that at the counter with the maybe-young-maybe-old guy, still concealing the ink pot in her trousers. 

 

The walk back home was brisk, and before she knew it her quill had touched down to the paper again.

 

She had gotten distracted earlier, while thinking of what she was supposed to write. Would she answer his questions? Could she ask him some in return? Should she trust he was telling the truth?

 

Would he trust her?

 

Valieva swallowed the thought down and began to write, lies in each sentence just as her parents used to say.

 

Lies will help you survive.

 

“Dear A, your curiosity is mutual. I am a single male journalist in California. I live with my parents, Elena and Leonid. Do you live with relatives? Or perhaps you have a roommate? I must state, you strike me as the type to work alone and independently, but do tell me, does the loneliness ever seep in?

 

Dearest, V

72 Smiths Road, California”

Notes:

:>

Chapter 9: A silver bullet

Valieva hadn’t dared to move since she’d heard glass shatter downstairs. Her father (?) had been working in his office all day and all night. She was desperate to slip downstairs and see if anything new had been dropped off by the mailman, but the door hadn’t been knocked on. 

 

She sat by the bedroom door and peered out into the hall, seeing the thick carpet and ugly wallpaper that had grown comfortable to her, something that had never happened at Birkley.

 

Valieva had first awoken at 4am - she hoped, since all of the clocks in this house were telling her different times - to hearing a door slam downstairs. Nothing new. But then something had broken.

 

Glass maybe? Or a mug. Perhaps her father (?) had dropped something.

 

After all, this wasn’t the first time she’d heard something break, whether it was a heart, a bone or a vase.

 

But there had been no such sounds from the every downstairs. Valieva gathered her courage and quietly crept out into the hall, and peered over the banister.

 

There was nothing to be seen, nor heard. Just a sense of unease. She knew she was being paranoid, that this man she now lived with was turning her into a younger version of himself. All tense and touchy, like glass.

 

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, there was still no apparent changes in the house. Valieva felt more comfortable now, knowing nothing too devastating had occurred.

 

Still the same crappy paint job on just about everything. Still the same loose doorknobs on every door. Still the same crooked door on the shoe cupboard. 

 

Nothing new.

 

Until, she halted in her steps upon reaching her father’s (?) office. The glass window in the door had been cracked, almost like a rock or something had been thrown through it. 

 

Close enough. She approached a small red trail on the carpet, staining the white fabric, just about a few meters away from the office door. A tiny silver bullet sat at the end of the small stain trail, slightly bent out of shape like it had hit something hard.

 

Valieva didn’t know her father (?) even owned a gun. Who would trust him with a gun? If she was in charge, she certainly wouldn’t. 

 

Nonetheless, the man was still sat at his desk, as if unaware of the dangers. He was reading something off a scrap of paper, much like the director, if she remembered correctly. Always sat at a desk, leading her to believe she was physically attached to it. 

 

Of course, this belief came to an abrupt end when the director had stood up to slap her across the face once when she was eleven. She had been more shocked that the director in question actually had legs.

 

The man finally shifted, as if sensing her presence in the hall behind him. His head turned to the side, detecting her in his peripheral. His nostrils flared in a silent huff, before he sharply swivelled his head back around to face his unkempt stack of papers.

 

She knew to take the hint and left the hall and the man and the bullet alone. Valieva didn’t care enough to keep thinking about it, and instead started to speculate that she might have scared Mr A off. 

 

Calling him Mr A was slightly bizarre, something that would make the other girls at Birkley laugh, but it was her who had called herself V in the first place.

 

She considered sending another letter. For all she knew, he might already deem her too eager.

 

He may be skeptical.

 

Might be reading between the lines, catching the slight shake of her hand when she curled her R’s, or the flick of her V, that may have just been a little too bold.

 

He probably saw right through her lies. Knew she was but a girl. No man here, excluding her father (?), if anyone would ever see him as a man.

 

She imagined anybody with an appropriate sense of judgement would roll their eyes when seeing his name on a list. 

 

Valieva hadn’t even realised she’d slid down to sit with her back against the wall. She wrapped her arms around her legs, crossed them at the heel, like she did at Birkley, before she’d get told to sit like a lady.

 

Wasn’t sitting just sitting? Did there have to be gendered ways of sitting? It’s not like cats sit in different ways, unless they were a particularly lazy cat that felt like lying instead.

 

But it didn’t matter if that cat was a boy or a girl, so why did it matter at Birkley?

 

Valieva stared at the door. Dogs barked and quieted down again, the bells on bicycles rang. Neighbours chattered amongst themselves and children played on the sidewalk.

 

She could picture it all.

 

Imagining it was the only thing she really could do, since there was now a slab of cardboard taped across the window on the door from the last time she’d opened the little curtain there, that had clearly been removed since.

 

Something slipped through the door and caught her off guard. It was unsettling to hear the silence be broken by something that wasn’t herself.

 

She was almost expecting someone taller than her to yell at whoever dare disturb the peace, to be quiet and settle down, but that call never came. 

 

It was all in her head, as she feared, yet felt relieved to know.

 

The letter wasn’t from A.

 

In fact, it was addressed to her father (?) but there was a red thumbprint in place of where a wax seal would be.

 

She couldn’t afford wax seals herself, and knew it was unfair to judge someone who was in the same state as her, even if the red hue of, what she guessed was paint, left her feeling troubled for reasons she couldn’t think to name.

 

The letter was almost threatening. Her father (?) must owe something to someone, in order for them to send such an intimidating warning.

 

They wanted something.

 

Something about…

 

…a child?

Chapter 10: Mr Rockaby

It had been a while since the letter had come. She hadn’t let her father (?) read it at all. He grew more anxious, and now she knew why. 

 

Valieva had analysed every little detail, stripped each word down to the bottom of its meaning. 

 

She still couldn’t tell if it was a warning, a threat, a bargain or something else entirely. The English language had never been her strong suit back at Birkley - more a cause for the other girls to pick and prod at her like some dead bug they’d spotted on a window sill - and this was hardly English at all.

 

Well. It was certainly trying to be. Even she had better grammar. And better handwriting too. The youngest girl from Birkley was six. Her name was Sylvia, and she had dirty blonde hair and dimples. Valieva hadn’t been all that friendly with her. 

 

She mostly remembered the way the child looked up at her with such fascination. Like staring at a mythical creature or a tall building. Her handwriting had been messy and disorganised, writing across the lines rather than in the spaces between them. 

 

Even Sylvia’s handwriting had been more tidy than whatever this was. There were at least three random “the”s in the first fraction of the letter, and a bunch of commas in the wrong place in the next couple sections.

 

It had taken Valieva around four years at Birkley to learn the basics of English, having only spoken broken foreign or nothing at all.

Broken because she had an embarrassing stutter.

Sometimes it came back and that had been her biggest worry at Birkley, because it only came back when she was talking to somebody important.

 

The other girls would laugh. Imitate her and mock her as if she had chosen to stammer herself. She has learnt to shut up then. Her voice had been too quick or too deep for her age or too loud or too much.

 

The words she said were always too much.

 

Valieva kept her sentences brief and quick now, feigning a rush.

 

Now she felt that everything was in a rush. Was she running out of time? Was her father (?) selling her to this mystery person?

 

It perplexed her.

 

And she didn’t like it. “Who would?”, she found herself silently asking to the ripped wallpaper on the wall of the bedroom, hoping it’d give her a clue. 

 

Anyone else would have left by now. Surely. But maybe if she kept the letter a secret then theres be nothing to run from.

 

It had made sense at the time she thought it, even half asleep. When she woke the next morning, she found it was the only thing that made sense.

 

Valieva reread the letter again. She thought about sending another letter to A. Thought about if he might offer advice or even a solution, at a stretch.

 

She could only hope she wasn’t truly alone in this.

 

These people weren’t asking. They were demanding, she realised. They spoke of The child as if they already had it. Spoke of the mission like a failed project. Perhaps it was.

 

She couldn’t tell.

 

The only failed project she knew was her paper rocket she made instead of doing her homework. The homework had been to study the health booklet and give three facts about the human respiratory system. 

 

She’s doodled. She’d ripped and tore. She’d reshaped the scraps into a rocket. Like the one she’d seen on a magazine in Mr Rockaby’s desk. He had owned quite a few magazines, most of them had women on the front with short bobs and long dresses. Cleaning guides for housewives.

 

She remembered wondering what a housewife was. Took the word apart like she’d been taught to do. House: a home. Wife: a lady that a man is married to. She’d guessed a housewife was a lady that took care of the house and ran it. Owned it herself and did everything it needed. Like cleaning and cooking.

 

She was fairly accurate, but what confused her when she found out the truth was that the man owned the house. But he didn’t take care of it. The woman did. She seemed to take care of everything, in fact. But the man owned it. Owned her. 

 

The thought put Valieva off enough to actually focus on her school studies, even if the unequal reality nagged her mind of its attention.

 

It had nagged and nagged. So she nagged Mr Rockaby. “What does the man do?” She’d asked. 

 

And he’d answered. “He goes to work and fights in the wars”. Valieva had been provoked enough to nearly ask why a woman couldn’t fight in the wars. Why a man couldnt do housework. Why everything was gendered. 

 

She’d stayed quiet at the look he gave her.

 

And she’d been quiet about the subject since. 

 

Even if a part of her wondered why a woman go to war. Why she couldn’t go to war.

 

What if she wanted to go to war?

Chapter 11: A gun

It had been a few swell months since she’d decided to burn the letter. Well not really swell. And not really burn either. 

 

Sure, Valieva may have hoped to burn the letter. Make it go off with a bang. But she couldn’t stop rethinking it. Plus, she didn’t exactly have the stuff to burn it. For some reason her father (?) only kept guns in his drawers.

 

And the months passing had gone about as swell as before. Which was actually not at all, now she thought about it. Just the same gloomy old people in the same gloomy old town, not to mention her father being just as overly paranoid as before, if not more so.

 

Her birthday had passed, and she, herself, had almost forgotten about it. It’s not like she was hoping for presents or anything like that, but it did disappoint her that nobody even wished her a Happy Birthday. This was stupid since she knew that nobody knew her well enough to know her birthday.

 

It made her bitter for a day.

Made her wonder if she’d been bitter all this time.

 

Valieva still exchanged letters with A from time to time, and he remained oblivious of the letter. She had decided not to include that information in her letters, out of fear that he might stop replying.

 

She didn’t know what she would do if he stopped replying.

 

It all felt silly.

 

She’d never met this man yet here she’d been anxiously biting her nails in fear that even the slightest thing about her letters might unravel her whole identity. 

 

Perhaps her lack of knowledge about jazz would do it. He spoke a lot about (supposedly) famous jazz artists and songs he’d play on his radio. The radio she had must be slightly different compared to his.

 

Or maybe he’d catch onto the stutter in every lie she wrote down. There was no visible mistake, but it still worried her. Each time she lied pen to paper, she felt A’s eyes boring into the back of her head. 

 

Shaming her. He knew. But he didn’t. The internal debate made her spiral often.

 

When her father (?) had next spoken to her after she’d decided to hide the letter, it had been: “Any mail?”

 

She’d shaken her head. He’d asked again a month later, eyes wide with terror. She’d given the same response, the same thing on her mind.

 

What was he so afraid of?

 

Technically she had no clue who he was exchanging letters with. She wanted to know nonetheless.

 

Back at Birkley, she was taught to obey privacy and respect it. But she was too curious for that, and ended up rummaging through Mrs David’s office after noticing how she always kept the blinds closed and quickly shut the door whenever she went in there. 

 

Her searching wasn’t worth the lunch they didn’t allow her in punishment. Finding three burnt out cigarettes wedged under a table leg and a used up lighter wasn't worth missing out on the next four days of breakfast, lunch and dinner.

 

The only upside was that Valieva was separated from her class and made to do her work alone in the library instead. Heaven. It had been Heaven.

 

No loud shouting, no water poured on her seat, no people tripping her up when she handed out the ink pots, no girls menacingly sharpening their pencils at the back of the class, nobody behind her tugging on her hair or trailing their fingers down her spine just to freak her out.

 

No nothing. Just silence accompanied by the odd smell of old books.

 

Peaceful.

 

Or, it had been. That’s before someone knocked over a bookcase. She was blamed. Told it couldn’t have been anyone else if there was nobody but her in the library.

 

It wasn’t unfair. She’d yelled. They’d hit. She’d cried. That was when she learnt that life isn’t fair.

 

It all started to make sense once she had confirmed that little fact. No more misunderstandings. No more excuses.

 

The excuses she’d made in her head made her naïve up until that point. Second chances had been given to the younger girls. She never even got listened to in the first place.

 

Valieva knew if she understood that nothing was ever fair, she’d understand everything.

 

And that’s what she told herself every time something went wrong up until where she stood now. In the garage. Holding one of her father’s (?) guns. It was fairly small, just slightly bigger than her hand.

 

She didn’t actually know how to use it. There were no instructions. She didn’t know why she’d grabbed it either. Maybe the fear of whoever her father (?) was exchanging letters with. They wanted the child.

 

She could only assume they meant her. Viktor (she remembered) had no other children. She still couldn’t work out of she even counted as a child. 

 

She was eighteen now. And he had only known her for a year. Her real parents didn’t bear thinking about anymore. They were gone. And now she was here.

 

With a gun. 

 

Valieva was no stranger to suicide. She’d grown up around it. Her father had done it, with a rope. And apparently her aunt had too, with cyanide pills, about a week or two before she was born.

 

The grief had made her mother drink, she later heard, even while in the last stages of her pregnancy. Valieva had been fine, the doctors had praised the miracle, but her mother.

 

Her mother was gone in the process. 

 

She vaguely remembered being four when her father first blamed her for her mother’s death. It was obvious he blamed her before then. But hearing it out loud was different somehow. More harmful. More real.

 

That’s what she felt every time he looked at her. Of course, she could hardly remember her real father at all. Could only remember the memories that stuck. The suicide was familiar.

 

The thought of it in her own head was off. Not surprising. Knowing. Almost like she knew it would lead to this.

 

Valieva had no reason to wish her own death. Fear, maybe. Indifference, definitely.

 

All her life treated like something off the bottom of someone’s shoe. Like a burden. Nobody really wanted her in their life.

 

Her finger was hesitant anyway as she loaded the gun. Still hesitant when she aimed it at her head.

 

The barrel touched to her forehead and she breathed deeply, before clicking what she thought was the trigger. The barrel fell off, scratched her eye harshly and landed on the floor. 

 

Blood trickled down her pale face and she looked around at the floor around her.

 

Slowly, standing up, she reached up and wiped some blood away. It was replaced with more. Running down her neck. Down her shirt now too, leaving indefinite stains.

 

She cleaned it off with a cloth, and more flowed, like an endless stream.

 

Within a week the cut had half healed, leaving an ugly scar over her left eye - her blue eye. It ruined her whole face.

 

She imagined, if she was back at Birkley, the director scolding her for being so clumsy. So clueless. Saying her pretty face had been ruined.

 

She’d said her face would be pretty if she didn’t have two different eye colours. If she didn’t have such narrow features. If her hair was shorter, if her face was rounder, if her nose was less crooked.

 

Never perfect enough for her.

 

So nothing was ever perfect enough for Valieva. Looking at herself now in her father’s (?) bedroom mirror with disdain only reflected all of the lessons she’d learnt at Birkley.

 

All of the troubles and foolishness. Every little detail. All made her up now. Whether she wanted it or not.

Notes:

Chapter moved to today cause it’s my birthday ^^

Chapter 12: Sharks

When Valieva’s father (?) noticed the new scar on her eye - well, notice was a stretch in itself - he’d demanded how she’d achieved it. She’d said she fell, cut her face on a sharp rock at the beach.

 

She’d never been to the beach before. At least, not here, she hadn’t. Once, on a trip with her class back at Birkley, she saw the sea for the first time.

 

She was somewhere between nine and ten. That felt so far away from where she sat now. Such a downgrade from what had been going on, too.

 

From beach to sitting in a random guy’s bathroom with a scar she didn’t have before. The more she stared at herself in the mirror, the uglier her face looked.

 

It felt insulting, like she was disrespecting her own body. It felt like the time she stained her white shirt with the ink from her quill when someone had knocked her elbow when they’d walked past.

 

Punishment for staining a shirt so severely was being forced to wash it out no matter how long it took. However, having taken a particular dislike to her, the director made sure to backhand her across the face for good measure. Valieva’s face had stung for a day and a half.

 

A’s latest letter was mainly him talking incessantly and passionately about his hatred of dogs and how one had bitten him when he was younger. 

 

She couldn’t help the way her eyes had rolled themselves. He always talked about the most stupid things, and it peeved her that she never mentioned her anywhere.

 

It sounded selfish, and the director always did say it was selfish to think whoever you spoke with actually cared what you thought or felt, but it just felt like human decency to include the other person in a conversation.

 

The director used to tell her to just keep quiet and stay that way. Valieva was tempted to point out the very obvious fact that she was writing and not speaking to this person.

 

A similar thing had happened when she talked back (explained herself after slipping over) in such an abusive and threatening (honest) manner after disrespecting school property (denting the corner of a desk with a book that was in her pocket), and earned herself a slap on the wrist.

 

Countless times had this happened, actually, though this was likely the worst of anything she actually did, and did herself in that matter.

 

But anyway, A had signed off, “My dearest V”, and her stomach had felt all weird, sort of like the time she did when she first saw blood all over the sheets between her legs.

 

It probably wasn’t a good thing, whatever it was. Or maybe it was just nerves. 

 

She started to wonder about that beach trip again. She couldn’t help the go to the beach if she really wanted to. This was California, and the state’s only pride was their beaches, according to the papers at least. 

 

A way to forget about everything that kept clouding her mind wouldn’t hurt.

 

On her way out of the house, her stomach cramped harshly. She bit her lip to conceal the pain almost out of instinct, halting in her steps and nearly falling.

 

Ah yes, her periods. She’d stayed at her father’s (?) house for just over a year now, and these gross things happened once a month.

 

At the start, she wore socks in her underwear, and it would work nicely, but the blood was such a pain to wash out.

 

So, now at least, she wore nothing for safety. One trick she’d learnt and mastered, was that people were polite. Too polite. If they saw your trousers were bloody, they’d bed too civilised to say a word of it.

 

Sure, they may think you’re disgusting, but words were better inside the heads that thought them, most of the time.

 

She’d had learnt that from the director - like practically everything else -, and it had likely been the only thing she’d said that Valieva might twist into something positive, for a change.

 

The beach was boring. Four words, yet it had taken forty minutes to walk here. It was pointless, until she saw a leaflet on the floor about sharks.

 

It was some kind of colouring sheet for kids being advertised, with a little whale shark on the front. She immediately pocketed it.

 

Vaguely, she recalled from the beach trip before, that the other girls had thrown rocks at her, and she’d cried, but it was still the best (only) trip ever because the tour guide started talking about sharks.

 

She’d been infatuated. Beyond obsessed. The creatures suddenly fascinated her. She hadn’t even known such things existed before a scruffy, boring tour guide had mentioned them in his even more boring explanation about creatures spotted at the local beach.

 

Her hands trembled as she leaned on the fence and peered over. The sea was a scorching blue that looked warmer than fire, but was probably the complete opposite, knowing from the time the other girls in her class had sprayed water at her from the hose outside.

 

She didn’t know why her hands were trembling, just knew it was probably from the heat. It was late August, though it felt like the start of a secret fourth month of summer, since usually the temperature dropped for September.

 

It wouldn’t surprise Valieva if it had gone below freezing. Not a lot did surprise her anymore, really. Not now she was getting used to the world outside of Birkley.

 

She decided she preferred it out here. There were more people, but she felt more independent.

 

There was more rush, more crowd, yet more tranquility and ease, so much less tension compared to a class of blood-thirsty orphan girls all wearing the same dresses.

 

It should definitely be ten times more tense, now she was around a whole town of people older than her, but her mind was weird in that way.

 

On the back of the leaflet, she doodles sharks and decided she didn’t care about the scar, or the oddly threatening letter she read instead of her father. She could even think over A’s mansplaining without getting too annoyed. 

 

Hell, the best karma, in her opinion, was giving someone a taste of their own medicine. In her next letter, she rambled about sharks for nearly a whole page, often copying direct quotes from the leaflet.

 

It did feel mean, because she liked A. He was the only person she could really talk to, but he seemed smart enough to be able to catch onto her copying his method of rattling on about things she didn’t care about, and stop.

 

She slipped it through the post box and began skipping home but then started walking once her stomach started cramping again.