Disclaimer: Don't own V. Just not eloquent enough to have ever created a man like V.
A/N: My first try at V for Vendetta—which was inevitable really after watching the movie almost nightly for two weeks— Evey's PoV, Post-Evey's leaving V for the second time but prior to the Fifth. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.
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Evey hates a lot of things nowadays and most of them are related back to him
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Sometimes she misses her hair more than she ever misses him.
It's terrible, she's sure of that, petty and selfish and vain, all coming together in that one great wave of deep seated sadness that overwhelms her when she looks in a mirror. Hardly what he hoped for when he liberated her. Sometimes she can't help but think it funny that she uses words like liberated, his words and never hers, when she thinks about her time spent in captivity.
Sometimes she thinks she does all of it to spite him, that the twitch of her fingers at the memory of her curls is as much a move against him as any of the terrible things she ever spat at him were.
She remembers looking into a mirror for the first time in months, seeing the way her skin stretched in shiny patches over her face, the remnants of bruises that had long since stopped aching. She remembers seeing the white scars on her hands and legs and the shadows in her eyes and nakedness of her scalp and the sudden feeling of shame and rage that flooded her. She hated him then.
She hates him now. It's a vile thing, the hate that fills her, floods her every cell, chokes her with the suddenness with which it consumes her, abruptly startling her from whatever other mindset she might be in. She looks into the dingy mirror that hangs in the bathroom of her flat and she hatehatehates him so badly she has she lean over the sink and dry heave until she's spilled enough of the hate so as to function again.
He must know, she realizes one night in the yellow blandness of her new hiding-hole. He must know that she misses her hair more than she misses the sensation in her left forefinger sometimes, and she hates it.
How stupid and childish she must have appeared to him standing before her in drab orange, chest heaving, and the only words to flood her mouth following her realization were related to her hair. Her hair and not the beatings.
It'll grow again, she knows that. She's thankful he never did try to use that fact as consolation in the months he spent nursing her back to health. She's more than sure she would have tried to strangle him if he so much as mumbled the words.
She hates that after everything he put her through, she can still be grateful.
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End
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Feedback is Love
