Disclaimer: Much as I might like to, I do not own rights to either the film or graphic novel V for Vendetta.
Author's Note: A complete, short piece on what Evey must have felt while imprisoned.
The days begin to run together, after a while. It doesn't surprise her that they do. She has no way to mark the days, no way of knowing how many have passed. There is nothing to break the monotony beyond the torture and the rats--oh God, the rats. She had been afraid of mice before. She isn't, now. The rats are part of the experience, reminding her that she is still, undeniably, alive--if this is living. Death hovers nearby, always. Every time she hears footsteps in the corridor, she half-expects that it is one of Creedy's men, come to tell her that she is to be killed. It hasn't been, so far. They've come for other prisoners--she's heard the scuffles in the corridor, the cries of fear, of anguish--but never for her, except to try and make her talk, as if nearly drowning her while demanding to know the location of the "terrorist known as V" will make her tell all. Once, it might have--anything to stop the torture, anything to go outside again, somewhere that doesn't smell of damp stone and her own unwashed body--but she doesn't trust them. No one escapes from being black-bagged. If she's going to die, she might as well do so with a clean conscience, without having betrayed V to save herself.
When she finds Valerie's autobiography, it's almost a relief--something to read, to believe in. She knows she shouldn't. God knows, once she gets to the end, it might tell her to give in, tell them what they want so she may live her life in peace--offer hope. Valerie, whoever she is, is right--there is nothing she can do that will prove her writing is not some elaborate trick. Still, it helps. Here is something to hold onto, something to cherish, so long as she is trapped here. Here is something that keeps her sane, even as they try to force information out of her. Here is something--someone--to believe in. Valerie should be no realer to her than the High Chancellor--another distant figure, to be held up and revered--and yet, she is. When she reads what is written on the filthy scrap of paper, she cannot help but believe. Valerie is--was, since the cell beside hers has been silent these days--real. Whoever she was, she was real. She has to have been. Reading the end of her autobiography, of what must have been hastily scrawled before they came to claim her only proves this. She cannot see any of the fingermen as knowing how to love, or assuming that love--simple, pure love--would appeal most to one of their prisoners, convince them to tell all. Besides, it is knowing that someone loves her unconditionally--never mind that she must, in all probability, be dead--that keeps her from telling them what they want to hear--where V may be found. It is knowing someone loves her that keeps from giving in to the fear that threatens to overwhelm her.
It is not long before they come for her, drag her from her cell to the interrogation table and inform her that this is her last chance, she has been convicted by special tribunal and will be shot behind the chemical sheds if she does not comply. She is asked, will she comply? Will she tell them where V may be found? She looks beyond the glare of the lights, to the face of the one interrogating her, thinks of Valerie, of V, of what she has left to lose--only her life, nothing more--and she almost smiles as she informs him--no.
When they drag her back to her cell, she has prepared herself for the thought of death, of dying. Her life is all that she has left to lose. So be it. Where she was afraid once, she is no longer. Her life is all that they can take from her--it will be the final injustice that they do her. She will not condemn V--will not condemn England, if he has his way--along with her.
She is going to die. She knows this much. Once, the thought might have frightened her into obeying her government, but now, no longer. Her life is all she has left to lose. So be it.