It was so bizarre, but I actually felt safe living under V's care. This violent terrorist, who had blown up the Old Bailey, who had attacked the police and the Fingermen…he doted on me, in a way. He made me feel as if I was someone, rather than just anyone. Had he seduced me with his attentions? There is no point in denying the truth. I'd been seduced by him, but I never forgot, not even for a moment, what he was capable of.
In the first few days, I came to realize that V had lived for years in near total isolation; he was completely self-reliant. It was a requirement for his survival that no one should ever find his home, let alone come to know him or even glimpse him for more than a moment when he left for supplies.
Anyone would be lonely living that way- but V wasn't normal, was he? The only proof I had to confirm his humanity were those few moments when I caught sight of his hands. He'd been embarrassed, almost ashamed of his scars- I felt a terrible pang when he asked, in much too lighthearted a way, if he'd put me off my appetite. I had known him only a matter of hours by the time I'd seen his hands, but it hurt me that he thought of himself as being so disgusting.
I tried to reassure him, and I was surprised to find that I was as concerned about his feelings as I was about his body. I had been afraid of him, but he had saved me twice, never threatened me, and I couldn't help but feel a strong sense of compassion. When I asked after him, his only explanation was that there had been a fire some years ago.
V didn't explain the whole story, he never does. It was just one thing that I'd come to learn about him during my stay in his Gallery. V's conversation is a mix of quotes and the plain, though there was much less of the plain speech in the beginning; he'd thrown so many lines of Shakespeare at me that on the first day I'd given up on asking him anything serious.
This appeared to be his intent the entire time. He wanted to distract me with the art of his home rather than explain his true motives. It was impossible to put myself in his place and try to see the world as he did, but I felt that he must be glad for the simple pleasure of having someone to talk to. I never had to do more than glance at the title of a book or a portrait on the wall and V would draw me into deep conversation. Heknew everything of the contraband treasures stored in his home, and was very eager to share what he knew. I probably learned more from him than I did in school.
We shared every meal- or rather, V would sit at the other end of the table while I ate. He wouldn't be able to eat without removing the mask- if his hands shamed him, I couldn't imagine how horrible his face must be. Out of respect, I didn't mention it- I knew he wouldn't remove it if I asked him, and to arouse his anger was the last thing I wanted to do. Sometimes he would provide the conversation, other times he would simply sit quietly. When he was quiet, I felt uncomfortable- I didn't like being watched by that smiling mask.
When V was quiet, he would become very still, his masked face would tilt softly to one side, and I knew that he was far away. With his voice silent, his attention gone from the room and his body motionless…I felt as if I were at the table with a horrible mannequin.
Without V's voice to give life to the mask, I felt judged. The smiling mask was laughing, cruelly taunting me as I tried to eat, "Eat it all, you fat cow, you pathetic little mouse!"
Bad memories from the past- in the juvenile center, and the foster homes where I'd been placed after my parents were…
I knew, without asking him, that I had been the only other person to ever see the Shadow Gallery. Perhaps I was the only one to ever know V. I feared what my knowledge of V would cost me- in time, would he come to see me as too much of a risk? What would he do to me?
The constant uncertainty was slowly driving me mad.