Villain

Marie bled tears when she died.

She was too much our leader to shed blood. Tightly-controlled. A ‘show-no-weakness’ stereotype of a person. Ridiculously stubborn and a stick up her ass even with her dying breath.

She whispered to me, “Do anything but be the leader, you dumbass. You aren’t the type.” And then she stilled, with salt water still leaking from the gunshot wound in her chest. (I became the leader anyway.)

Colette sang as she was burned alive.

A noisy girl. Always chatting away, always had something to say. Bursting into my room without knocking the door, even at 2 a.m..

Her voice carried long after the flesh melted off her bones. Her voice rang like a funeral toll, singing of freedom, or revolution, of a world in which witches could live without fear of fire.

She sang the same line over and over again. Chatty, but not eloquent, hadn’t even been taught to read.

And like the irritatingly positive girl she was, she smiled until her lips were mere ash in the breeze.

I poisoned Vanessa myself.

With a teacup her father had left her. An antique that was too obviously an antique to be nice to look at, something that should have joined a trash heap years ago.

But she’d always been the sentimental type.

Bitching about empathizing with the weak and soft-hearted to the point of making me wretch. She’d even stopped Marie from killing the witch hunters; insisted on compassion.

(Her beloved Colette left her because of that same compassion.)

I smiled when she toppled from her chair. Laughed when her chest heaved wildly, struggling to breathe, as her accursed teacup crashed into the ground.

When my last teammate left me, I left my home.

And I kept laughing, because it was either that or pay attention to the water flowing past my jaw. I was a coward.

Marie had just bled when she died. It didn’t matter how strong or beautiful she was in life, how she’d been my courage, my better half, my everything.

Sticky, crimson, and warm. All over my hands. All over the clothes that Vanessa had sewn for me. All over the ring in my pocket.

She’d whispered, “I love you, I’m sorry.”

I was a coward. I couldn’t bear to see Colette’s end; I had to leave after only hearing a single scream.

There was no singing. She was just a young girl too lovely for a cruel world. She was not a bastion for rebellion.

Only a girl. Only a girl who didn’t want to die.

Vanessa begged me to kill her because she couldn’t live in a world without Colette. I was a coward.

She passed peacefully on the kitchen chair, with a pot of mint tea still brewing in front of her, a soft smile of relief freezing itself onto her face forever.

And you don’t understand.

I had to be the villain.

It was that or be a victim.

And a victim does not crave genocide. A victim does not hunger for revenge so desperately that only death can sate her.

A victim does not want their children to burn in their beds, their wives to be shot in front of them, their babies to be poisoned in their cradles.

No, I am not a victim.

And until the world has finished burning, I will not rest.

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Marie. I miss you.

I don’t know what to do without you.

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Please come back.

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Lemons.

Lots of them. Sweeter than sour. More meringue than zest.

Baked, not fresh.

A soft giggle. Muted conversation. The table feels cool underneath my cheek. A short pinging sound.

I open my eyes.

Colette claps her hands together excitedly, looking to her right. As always, her sunny blonde is a vision in chiffon pink. I lift my head. It smells like Vanessa’s lemon pound cake.

Off-key humming floats in on the breeze. She must be in the kitchen. Marie’s bubble-flower pushes a puppy-shaped bubble into my face.

I blink. A brief flare of mint.

Marie’s magic, sharp and tangy. It accents the lemons. My stomach grumbles. The Laugh-Leaves rustle at me teasingly, and Colette turns towards me.

“Good morning, sleepyhead! Had a nice nap?”

What lovely blue eyes. Colette had always been so lovely. Easter-egg blue.

“...I don’t know. I feel well-rested. But-” Something tickles at the edge of my thoughts. The Soothing Strawberries pat my arm gently.

“What, did our fearless warrior witch have a nightmare?” Colette laughs, and the room brightens. The plants murmur lovingly, brushing her shoulders. They’d always liked her. The Nightshade says nothing.

“Something like that,” I finally manage to reply.

Lemons. Lots of lemons.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better after a bite of Nessa’s cake, ___.”

A soft wind ruffles my hair, sifts through Colette’s skirts, sneaking a crisp autumn into the rich bite of sugar.

The window’s open. To let the smoke out. Vanessa had forgotten once, soot all over her perfectly coiffed bun.

I smile at the memory. “Yeah, I’m sure I will.”

“Did I just see you smile or are the heathers playing tricks on me?”

The Hallucinatory Heathers bristle in response, angrily shaking it’s flowers at Colette, and she giggles. “You know I’m just joking, don’t get your vines in a twist.”

“They’re so quick to forgive you,” I roll my eyes as the heathers immediately retreat, pacified. Colette just smiles in reply.

Lemons.

She is a… chatty girl. Odd. Why isn’t she saying anything?

More lemons, so many lemons… It’s so sour…

““Good morning, sleepyhead! Had a nice nap?””

““Good morning, sleepyhead! Had a nice nap?””

““Good morning, sleepyhead! Had a nice nap?””

““Good morning, sleepyhead! Had a nice nap?””

Oh.

“Pull me out. I’m Aware now.”

“Yes, ma’am. Commencing shutdown of the illusion immediately. ”

Everything goes black. I keep talking.

“It fell apart rather quickly, but it was a very well-built illusion. What did you base the premise on?”

“Longing, ma’am. I have been taught that illusions work best when people do not desire to leave them.”

“...Yes, you’ve been taught well. This will serve our cause greatly.”

“...Ma’am, if I may ask a question.”

“Yes?”

“What did you see inside of the illusion?”

“Excessive curiosity is weakness, Paloma. Curb it.”

“My deepest apologies. Executing illusion dea-”

“Lemons.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Lemons. I saw lemons. Now pull me out.”

“Yes ma’am. Executing illusion death.”

Avi Taylor is an aspiring writer that doesn't get anything done without deadlines. This piece was inspired by a study on character and expanded into something with a darker fantasy touch. It is a shallow exploration into the mind of a villain.