Even in her dreams, Violet could not be free from Count Olaf.
In her past, Violet had dreamed the normal dreams of a girl with a head filled with gears and gadgets and other wonderful inventions, but that was the past and this was now, and now her nights were spent enveloped in darkness and it held her by the ankles and weighed her down as she ran.
In the daylight, Violet tried not to think about the things that weighed her down. She stood hunched over a rather grimy-looking table holding in her hands some tools she had managed to scrounge up from around the dingy house, if one could call this a "home". In the silence of the mid-afternoon, Violet had found the time to dismantle a small radio. Like the tools, the radio was also a long-forgotten relic that Violet had found thrown underneath a back porch. How it had gotten all the way under there she did not care to speculate on. When there was a job to do, Violet was excellent at channeling her energy into completing it, and she hoped to fix the unit.
Late morning drifted into early afternoon so quickly that Violet took no notice of the fading sunlight or the fact that she had been given a long list of chores to complete. It was the same list she was given every day, filled with the same mindless tasks, most important being the creation of dinner. Yet on this day the broken radio had attracted her devout attention in a way her husband never could.
Violet's concentration on her radio was finally broken by a sudden commotion downstairs, the sign that her husband was home.
Husband.
Violet shuddered at that word and put down her tools.
As familiar and vulgar sounds flooded into the house, Violet was consumed with panic. She wanted to run and hide–as she sometimes did–but Olaf always managed to find her. Violet sadly reminded herself that if he would already be angry with her over dinner, he would be even more infuriated over her disappearance. Violet resigned herself to a confrontation and moved downstairs.
She found Olaf's usual group of hang-abouts and leeches loafing about in a sitting room attached to the rear of the house. Peeking out from behind a sliding door, Violet rung her hands together nervously and watched them all. Out from the battle of shouting voices, Olaf's finally commanded the room's attention. At that, Violet became filled with apprehension, like a brick had been dropped into the pit of her stomach. She had to fight the instinct to turn and run.
Olaf stood near the doorway delivering some kind of fanatical impression of someone they all knew and hated. He continued on with intense focus as Violet slowly stepped out into doorway and waited to be acknowledged. Even as the troupe members averted their gaze one by one from Olaf to Violet, Olaf continued on, oblivious to everyone in the room except for the presence of his own ego. When he finished his performance, Olaf stood with hands stretched out magnificently, waiting to embrace the adoring applause that greeted every act he made before his circle of freaks. Met with silence, Olaf quickly began to search the faces of his troupe members, his face filled with simmering rage. He followed their blank and confused stares to the doorway behind him and found his little wife the only one in the room actually looking at him. Violet shuddered at his glare and at that word.
Wife.
In this short space of time, Violet began to regret her timing. She had not meant to steal away the attention of the room, but she knew he would not understand. Olaf placed his hands on his hips and looked at her impatiently
"What?" he asked, his tone poorly masking his anger.
The troupe now split their attention between Olaf and Violet, eager to see what would happen next between these two so-awfully mismatched people. Violet ignored them and took in a deep breath.
"I forgot to prepare dinner," she said bluntly. "I'm very sorry," she added, though she really wasn't. Violet, as a rule, never liked to lie to anyone, but everyone has exceptions to their own rules.
At Violet's revelation, the troupe became unsettled and the room filled with whispering. Olaf's own reaction was, at first, predictable. He glared at his young wife with contempt as Violet began to wish she had just run and hid. Yet as fast as Olaf could clean off a plate of roast beef, his demeanour calmed.
"We're eating out tonight," he said. "Didn't you read my note?"
Violet could not recall any sort of note, only the daily chore list, which she had admittedly only skimmed.
"Nevermind," Olaf said, dismissing her. "Go finish your other chores and go to bed."
Confused but grateful, Violet made her escape back upstairs to her broken radio, unquestioning of her seemingly perfect luck.
It was later than her normal ten o'clock when Violet finally began to prepare for bed. She was not particularly concerned about the time, nor that she had abandoned her chores.
Tired as she was, Violet stopped before the bed she shared with her husband and a shudder fled through her. Suddenly, the memory of her first night in this room came to her mind and she felt a weight of despair. That first night, she had gone to bed alone as well, with Olaf arriving only during the time the next morning that Violet could have been just waking up, drenched in the smell of scotch. She had slept little that night between her tears and her anxiety, and could remember with achingly painful accuracy when he had fallen into bed next to her and wrapped his arm about her body, burying his face in her hair and calling her his Pretty Little Meal Ticket. They had remained like this until Olaf fell into snoring and Violet left.
For a moment the memory had held Violet prisoner and wondering if tonight would be the same. The weight of sleep pushed her to the bed regardless and the last thought she would remember was the hope that Olaf might fall down the stairs and die this night before he could reach the bed.
It was still dark out when Violet awakened to the sounds of someone tripping through the bedroom. She rose slowly to see whom it was, even though it had always been Count Olaf and not the thief or murderer she morbidly hoped it would be. This time, like every time, it was indeed Olaf, returned from wherever it was he had been.
She sat in bed watching him move about in the dark, occasionally bumping into something and cursing quietly under his breath while stubbornly refusing to turn on a light. When he began to undress, Violet's face went warm and she lay back down again, turning away from him.
Violet assumed he was finished when she felt the weight of him in bed and his hand on her shoulder. He began shaking her and commanding her in a whispered, demanding voice to wake up. She clasped her eyes shut tightly and refused to turn to him, well aware it would infuriate him, and it did.
Grasping her tightly by her shoulder, Olaf turned Violet over, and she was forced to face him. Between his body and the large pillow that cradled her head, Violet was nearly smothered. She could feel the press of his chest and his arms and other parts she could only guess at and chose not to linger in thought about. The stench of his breath lingered over her and was so powerful she turned her face away from his and closed her eyes.
"Look at me," he said in a low, demanding growl. He forced her gaze to him with a hand locked over her chin and held it there for a long moment, staring at Violet with the same intensity he had when she had informed him that she had prepared nothing for the meal that evening.
"I let you off easily for dinner today, but you were only lucky I was in a good mood," Olaf said. "I didn't feel like punishing you in front of my troupe, but you will be punished."
He let Violet go and sat up, but he still hung over her, watching her. "As I was once your father I feel its my duty to raise you into a proper young woman. Therefore, your disobedience must not go unpunished. You'll spend the rest of the night on the floor."
Unceremoniously, Olaf tore off the sheets and shoved Violet off the bed. She moved quickly to avoid falling, stumbling forwards onto the cold hardwood floor in her sleeping gown.
"May I have some sheets?" Violet asked.
Olaf shook his head and continued to speak in a most authoritative voice. "You must learn your lessons. Be grateful I value your pretty face and didn't give you some other kind of punishment."
She had to protest. "At least give me something to protect me against the cold. If I get sick I can't do my chores," she said, trying to argue her side in relation to Olaf's own needs, but he simply narrowed his eyes.
"Perhaps we can expand your punishment," Olaf said, ignoring her reasoning. "I recently had a letter for you from your brother and that monkey you call a sister. Should I send a message back from you?"
He left the question hanging like a noose over Violet's head. She bit her lip and shook her head and, defeated, settled into her floor bed for the night.