Disclaimer: Being the poor, unpublished, sleep-deprived author I am, I own neither series, movie, nor characters used/based off of in the following short story.
Movie set. I'm a fool , so I only got to borrow the GN from the library (Lordy Tunderin', the hold queue is bloody LONG)... after I had written this. For shame. shames self
Visitations
I GOT UP FROM my bed. The noise was so faint – a quiet, far-off rustle, perhaps of clothing, or the brushing of a leaf – nobody would have heard it. Yet the heightened sense of hearing I had developed over so many days and weeks spent in a soundproof, cement cell told me with great certainty that is was not a something that had made the noise, but rather a someone.
Quietly, I tiptoed out of my room to the balcony door. I opened it, and as I did, the cool evening breeze swept in past me from the streets of London, filling the small, one-bedroom flat. I stepped over the threshold onto the balcony. My bare feet touched the cold, textured floor, and my toes curled in recoil, but I continued on.
There was nobody on the balcony, unsurprisingly, but there was a glimmer of deep red on the far ledge. I walked the few paces to the edge, looking briefly over a not-so-busy street, and picked up the rose that lay before me. I lifted it as tenderly as possible, as though it might wilt away in my very hands. It was a scarlet carson, thought to be long extinct. I remember V showing me what they looked like. He told me he had grown them in memory of Valerie. The memory of her always makes me shiver with a chilly sadness.
I knew it was he as I sniffed the elegant flower, watching a petal left behind on the ledge fall to the floor gracefully. "V," I said aloud into the darkness below my somewhat lofty viewpoint. "Are you there?"
"Evey," came the mellow voice. I recognized his theatrical enunciation immediately, the vaudevillian star he was. "I just decided to drop by. How… how have you been?"
"Fine," I said curtly, tinged with bitterness. "The last of my cuts are nearly done healing. But you, V. Why are you here?"
I heard a soft chuckle from below. "Are you sure I'm here at all?"
Rolling my eyes, I walked over to where the solitary petal had fallen. I picked it up, feeling its bloodied velvet against my fingers. I dropped it over the edge, like the releasing of a paper airplane from a ledge. Watching it drift downwards, I waited for him to snatch it up in his gloved hand. He never did. The petal was swallowed up by darkness, and I barely made it out lying peacefully on the earth.
"I've been fine," I answered. "You?"
"Here and there. I restocked my butter," he remarked. I could imagine the smile he wore on his face.
"Stolen anything else especially noteworthy?" I idly brushed a thorn on the long stem of the rose, pricking my finger ever so slightly.
"An old copy of the Koran. As it happens, it's in Arabic. I've been working diligently to make my own translation. It's really quite absorbing."
I smiled. I thought about the masked man, how he must've poured over the book by candlelight in the Shadow Gallery, voraciously devouring the poetry, scribbling on a sheet of parchment with one hand, keeping a Arabic-English dictionary open with the other. With that, I wondered what his eyes must be like, flitting from Koran to dictionary to paper. I had never seen any part of him, save his hands. "You'll have to lend it to me someday," I remarked.
"You're interested?" He sounded genuinely surprised.
"A friend once recommended it to me," I explained. "Gordon," I added quietly.
A pause ensued. "Ah. Mr. Dietrich. In his memory, I suppose?"
Gordon Dietrich had hidden me from the clutches of the Fingermen; had trusted me with knowledge of his secret room of artifacts, most of which had been banned by the High Chancellor on that infamous "book-burning" day in 2018. And lastly, Gordon had died sheltering me, a sought-after "terrorist."
"Yes," I agreed solemnly. "In his memory."
"I'm sorry, Evey. I shall leave you to yourself. Goodnight."
"Adieu," I replied to the shadows, concealing the fact that I was slightly miffed at his sudden departure.
After I waited until I was sure he had left, I flew down the three stories of stairs to the main level, bursting outside in my T-shirt and sweatpants. Shuddering momentarily, I headed to the bushes that were below my balcony. I saw a rope coiled on the ground, and atop them lay the petal I had released unto the night moments ago.
I looked into the bushes, and did not have to look far before seeing a Russian rock. I picked up the small, fist-sized plastic rock, seeing the small antennae attached. Peeved but slightly amused, I put down the camouflaged speaker. Had he really been here at all? I wondered to myself, spinning around to see if he lingered nearby. I barely caught a glimpse of a black cape billowing dramatically around a corner into an unused back alley.
The mild shock of realization kicking in, I jogged to where the alley met street, calling after him into the darkness. "V! Why did you come? Why did you take the risk V! Just wait… I only want to know…" I sighed. That man. A wanted terrorist-anarchist with the a bigger price on his head than had ever been known to London, coming out of hiding for a rose and a meaningless chat?
Sullen and disappointed without answers, I trudged back up the stairs. After I had locked the door and headed back to my room, I noticed the balcony door was still open, a shaft of silvery light sliding through. Strange, I thought. I would've sworn that I had closed it on my way downstairs.
Making my way over to the door, I realize with some disconcerting surprise that the rose was lying on the end table next to the entrance. With the skipping of a heartbeat, I also noticed a rolled-up piece of paper. Hurriedly, I moved the rose and unraveled the paper. It was from V, obviously, but there must've been something of considerable weight within. I discovered that considerable weight as I reached the end of the roll. It fell out, onto the table. A stick of butter.
With a faint smile, I picked it up, reading the short message written on it again and again to ensure its actuality and presence.
Happy Birthday.