Disclaimer: If V were mine, halfway through the movie someone in the audience would have said, 'Hey, why is that short girl tackling V and dragging him offscreen?' None of it is. Alan Moore, Wachowski Brothers, David Lloyd, Vertigo, and men in scary business suits own V and Evey. I just think naughty thoughts and giggle to myself evilly. I am making no money off of this. I do this instead of my homework. Please do not sue me. I have no money, and my organs have been tainted by smoking and alcohol, making them unsaleable on the black market.
"I often think if mirrors could give up their dead how wonderful it would be."
- Bessie Parkes Belloc
(clean up the mirror) It was childish, V knew. Shattering his vanity (vanity 'the vanity of others runs counter to our taste only when it runs counter to our vanity' v.v.v.v.v.) mirror, then weeping (the last time he cried was at larkhill because he could not die he tried) like a child. (was i ever a child) Watching Evey walk out that door (not even looking back why won't she look back don't go don't go don'tgodon'tgodon) seemed surreal.
Like watching your heart burst from your chest and stroll away. (come back come back she said she would will she why would she) She was part of him. All the real parts. (now she is gone i shouldn't feel but it hurts how can it hurt ideas don't hurt don't go)
He cleaned up as if nothing had ever happened. (was it a dream last night was a dream life is but a dream) If he was calm, focused on organizing the Gallery, last night came back to him easily; like watching a movie, there was no feeling. A dark room. A tall man lying alone. A small, frail girl lying beside him. That white mask leering out into the darkness. The man sells his soul. V had no memories to fall back on, no experiences to compare it to. It began and ended in that bedroom, with Evey. It began and ended with her.
He was alone now, surrounded by the voices of the dead. (don't worry soon it won't matter i'll be there soon) But he had been alive, inarguably human last night. He had wanted and needed. The scent of her desire and the feel of her lean legs clenching around him seemed to alter everything. And the pleasure. He winced at the memory, then sped up his cleaning, his hands moving at an alarming rate. Papers and books were sorted, surfaces dusted.
V had experienced joy and pleasure. Pure, with no fancy words to dress it up. He had experienced something so honest it frightened him. And he did not deserve it. After what he had done, inadvertent though it might have been, he did not deserve that. He did not deserve to lose him, lose his PURPOSE in a bed with Evey. Because he had. For a time, he had not been an idea, a terrorist, even 'V', the only name he knew. He had simply been. He had never before, and would never again.
(she loved me last night she did i could feel it like i feel my piano or a knife that simply was it pity could it be pity no it was love but what is love i don't know love to live to love no evey i'm sorry stop stop stopstopstopstop i want it to STOP) V stopped. Stopped moving, even stopped breathing. His thoughts did not. For the first time in his life they progressed slowly, evenly. His mind was clear of chaos.
(i am in love with her. i have always been in love with her. i will always be in love with her. that is enough) He took a sharp, gasping breath. The knowledge made him feel suddenly very tired. He was not done cleaning. He walked into her room. Made her bed. (the last time) V paused, holding her pillow. It smelled of her. The only physical proof she had been there at all, besides her hands that he could still feel on his body.
Like a somnambulist, he carried the pillow from her room to her cell. He placed it on the floor where she had sat while waiting for her execution. (the look in her eyes) For a long time, he stared at the pillow. Finally, V lay down, pressing his mask so hard into the pillow he could feel the enamel cracking, and began to scream.
A/N: Quote by Friedrich Nietzsche