As he slid over the fence, the excitement of arson grew within Olaf. His stomach churned at the expectation of the euphoric high that came with setting something ablaze. The heat of the fire always penetrated his skin and gripped his bones, the result of his destructive tendencies.
A fire was perfect ironic death for Beatrice and Bertrand, some of the most praised volunteers from the V.F.D. He had been one of them as well before the damned schism. It was their fault his life had been ruined, so it was only fair they paid with theirs.
Olaf rarely ever took extra time to scope out his locations before he set them ablaze, but since the house belonged to those who were trained to handle these scenarios, he supposed it warranted a stake-out.
The moon was hidden by an overcast sky, so Olaf was shrouded in the darkness of midnight. He ducked down into the bushes next to the house; there were no automatic lights, but even so, it was rare that anyone would come to investigate. Small creatures set them off all the time…
Olaf looked up over his shoulder to find that he was underneath a window. Perhaps it could be his way in. Olaf stood slowly and cupped his hands around his eyes as he pressed his face closer to the glass to look in. He couldn't tell what type of room it was, but he could tell the drapes were not drawn.
He stepped back slightly and as if a curtain was being drawn back from a theatre stage, a cloud moved, causing the moon to shed light into the room. It was a bedroom.
Olaf glanced all around; books and tools and tinkering bits were strewn around. His brow furrowed in confusion. A sudden movement in his lower peripheral vision caused him to look down. The bedroom belonged to the eldest Baudelaire daughter. Her bed was placed underneath the window, and there she was, asleep and blissfully unaware of the villain who gazed upon her.
For a moment, Olaf didn't breathe. He blinked at her curious beauty. Her long brown hair was splashed across her white pillow; her porcelain skin nearly shone in the moonlight. Olaf swallowed. She was beautiful.
At first, he couldn't remember her name. He knew from overhearing secret V.F.D. meetings from the Baudelaire's side of the schism that the other two children were Klaus and Sunny. The longer Olaf stared at the girl, the closer her name got.
Violet.
Her name was Violet.
Now he could properly acknowledge what he was feeling.
Anger boiled inside of his soul. He wanted to hate Violet, for how dare Beatrice and Bertrand bring into the world something so perfect? She was fragile and could be so easily broken by the world, by the V.F.D.—by him.
His heart beat wildly in his chest as he struggled to pinpoint the other feeling he was experiencing. Olaf wanted to watch her all night. He wanted to wrap his hands around her pretty little neck and watch as her eyes bugged out, her purpling lips begging for mercy as her small hands clawed at his. That was too harsh. He didn't want to take her life. He wanted to take something from her, to make Violet his own.
Violet turned on her side away from the window, her lips parting as if to breathe out a prayer. She drew her arm down and over her chest, drawing Olaf's attention to her small breasts.
Olaf swallowed again. Violet couldn't be more than fourteen, he supposed, as Beatrice and Bertrand had married perhaps fifteen years ago. She was still a child. She might have recently gotten her period. Pleasant shivers ran down Olaf's arms at that thought. Violet was most likely a virgin.
He pressed his hand flat against the window, desperately wanting to touch her. He needed to know how soft she was and how pliant she would be in his grasp. She was a helpless girl. A helpless, innocent girl.
Violet jolted and suddenly sat up away from the window. Olaf jumped down below the windowsill, hoping that she had not seen him or his shadow. His heart was still thudding within him, blood rushing to his groin. He was clearly aroused by the Baudelaire girl, but he still did not know how to identify what he felt.
As the moon was hidden once again by the clouds, Olaf ever so slowly peeked his head up and over the windowsill to see what happened with Violet. She was lying down again, her brow furrowed and eyes closed. She must have had a nightmare.
Olaf glanced to the side at her curtains. He smiled deviously: that was how he was going to burn down the Baudelaire house.
Olaf stood gingerly and sneaked to the fence where he hoisted himself up and over. He ducked back into the dark cover of night to return to his home.
Olaf locked his front door behind him and looked at the grandfather clock in his foyer. It was nearly two in the morning, but he was wide awake.
He shed his jacket and shuffled into his parlor, making a beeline for his scotch. As he poured himself a generous glass of the alcohol, the sleeping image of Violet Baudelaire kept forcing itself to the forefront of his thoughts. He could not deny that even though she was a young girl, she was beautiful.
After setting a fire in his fireplace, Olaf sat in his wingback chair and took a long drink from his scotch.
Back in his V.F.D. training days, he was forced to read some of the great literary classics. He never enjoyed any of them, until one that he was assigned as a sixteen-year-old kid. It was the one that now reminded him of Violet: Nabokov's 'Lolita.' He never understood why he enjoyed that particular book above the many others he read.
Olaf recalled there was one passage in particular that he devoured over and over again. In fact, he liked it so much, that he tore the page out of the book, even though it belonged to a V.F.D. library. As Olaf gazed blankly into the fire, the words of the specific passage manifested in his mind's eye.
'I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else.'
Olaf closed his eyes and downed the rest of his scotch. He began to feel himself stirring in his pants. Violet had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Not even his former flames Kit or Esmé could compare to her innocent beauty.
'She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past…'
Olaf set his glass down on the stand next to his chair. He imagined Violet in her bed, serene in slumber, the moon bathing her in a haunting glow. His erection strained at his trousers, begging to be touched.
'…Until I am gagged and half-throttled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita…'
Olaf undid his trousers and pulled his member free from the confines of the fabric. He moaned, his arousal covering him like a thick blanket. He remembered Violet's parted lips and longed to know how her soft, pink mouth would feel around his cock. He gripped his member and ran his thumb over his reddening tip. He inhaled sharply at the stimulation.
'…Still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine…'
Olaf began to languidly stroke his member, imagining Violet's hand there instead of his own. He breathed shallowly and moaned the next bit of Nabokov's passage, the only bit of French he knew: "Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque part où nous ne serons jamais séparés…"
Olaf imagined Violet pulling her nightgown up and over her head and discarding to the ground, completely naked in front of him. He pumped his fist harder, his chest heaving in desperate arousal.
'No matter, even if those eyes of hers would fade… and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torn…'
His brows furrowed at the thought of Violet being swallowed up in the flames meant for her parents. No, she couldn't die. The beautiful Violet couldn't be destroyed. He wanted to feel her warm, delicate sex surrounding his cock; he wanted her underneath him, screaming and begging (whether to stop or keep going, he would decide later); he wanted to come inside her, to feel his seed bury deep into her ripe womb. Olaf rolled his hips into his hand as he felt his release draw near.
'…Even then would I go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my—'
"Violet!" Olaf hissed as he spilled himself onto his hand. Sparks of fire danced behind his closed eyelids as he came.
As his orgasm dissipated, so did his mental image of Violet. He now only remembered her in bed, covered and still asleep. Still innocent.
Olaf's expression turned into a scowl. His mentors would be disappointed with him allowing a girl to hinder him.
He decided he still hated Violet, despite his lust for her. He wiped his hand at the base of his armchair and tucked himself back into his pants. He stood and stretched, now exhausted. As he turned to go to his bedroom, he looked around his parlor. It was extremely unkempt due to his repeated phrase: "I'll pick it up later."
An idea suddenly sprung into his head. Violet wouldn't have to perish in the fire like her parents so deserved. At his own cleverness, Olaf smiled.
As he made his way upstairs, he pondered on the logistics of his plan, and finally realized what he wanted with Violet.
Olaf wanted to break her down to submission; he wanted to own her body and her soul. He wanted desperately and wholly to conquer her, his own Lolita. His Violet.