Violette and Sam – Part 1: The Enthusiast, By Bryony Anne
Violette is a quiet, creative girl obsessed with death and the idea of preserving beauty; and secretly the mastermind behind a series of murders which has baffled the local police force. Sam, her only friend, wants no more than to make her happy, though to do this he has become her accomplice. Violette and Sam is a psychological thriller following the lives of these two serial killers. A story of characters and of people affected by, and involved in, murder. Each part of the story focuses on one character, among them the killers themselves, the reaper and the dead.
Violette was singing. She was always singing, in her girly, retro sounding voice; it was always as if she didn’t know that she was doing it. She had a different song for every dress; the current song of choice was ‘Let’s go Fly a Kite’ from Mary Poppins. She was working on her vintage black and gold Singer sewing machine, making a long dress out of white lace. Her long thin hands were covered by black silk gloves as they guided the material around the needle. She was almost finished and beginning to contemplate white silk ribbon as trimming. Sometimes she liked buttons, but she didn’t think that this dress was a button kind of dress. She went through a faze a month or so ago of sewing white and yellow seed beads into daisy shapes along the hemlines of the dresses. But she was over that now and was trying to decide if plain was what she wanted now or if ribbons were making a comeback.
She had always liked ribbons. She saw something intrinsically feminine about them. Her long, heavy black hair was always adorned with a ribbon in some way. Today’s was dark pink and holding up her fringe. She was barefoot wearing a pink gingham cotton sleeveless dress with white wooden buttons down the front. Her big, dark eyes were cast down towards her work, mostly obscured by her long black lashes. She had shiny pink lip-gloss on her porcelain doll lips and a dusting of pale blusher on her angular cheeks. She was slender to the point of skinny; she always had been. Her fine bone structure was clearly defined. With her pale complexion and masses of dark hair, she had gothic qualities, counteracted by her childlike dressing habits but secretly reinforced by her love of the macabre.
She had grown up in a large, empty old house with a mostly absent father. Her mother was either dead or abroad with a lover. Or possibly stolen by the fey. She forgot which was true and which she had conjured in her intricate and overworked imagination. As a very young child, she found herself alone the majority of the time. Her father was a writer or a stockbroker or an entrepreneur. Again, she forgot the facts; either way, he was very wealthy and had a vast and well filled library. Her childhood took place there, like the Matilda of the very rich and very twisted. It was early on that she discovered that her favourite books were the ones with death, preferably well executed and properly planned. By her teens, she was writing the stories herself. She would describe incredibly beautiful women in great detail and then kill them off by a professional. She saw death as an art-form, something to be revered. It was always on her mind. While she painted the roses in art class, she was thinking about how they would very soon wither away. When she helped out at the local retirement home, she was thinking about how there was death all around her; she could smell it in the atmosphere, hear it in air. But her favourite kinds of deaths were the ones where beauty was preserved, at least to a point. The girl who was stabbed by her boyfriend in the heat of an argument, the drug addict who overdosed, the dealer who was shot in a fight over the price or the substance. The woman who was killed for no real reason by someone she had never even met. Those were her favourites.
When she made it out of the library and into school, it was clear to her peers and her teachers that she didn’t have a permanent residence in the world of reality. But, as they never took a trip to the world in which she chose to live most of her life, they never saw it to be a problem. She was creative, interesting, intelligent, and very talented in many ways. It was clear that everything she did was with an absolute precision; she could take things from in her head and bring them into the world with an accuracy matched by very few others. No matter how abstract or far from reality the contents of her imagination was, she could make it something that the rest of the world could see, should she choose to show them. Her art was unparalleled amongst her peers. Her writing was detailed and beautiful, although her English teachers often felt that she was holding something back from them. But it was her textiles work that really shone. Her control over a sewing machine was matchless and her hand sewing was accurate and delicate. Her designs were always beautiful and feminine with every last detail kept in mind.
At sixteen she came to the conclusion that she should be a vegan and she had been ever since. It wasn’t that she cared about the animals and their treatment; obviously death was never a problem for her, just that she found the idea of eating flesh vulgar and disgusting. She didn’t much like eating vegetation either and would have much preferred to ingest only what was synthetic if that were possible. Veganism was the closest she could find to eating cleanly.
When she left school, everyone assumed that she would become a dressmaker. But she had no desire to make beautiful clothes if there was a chance that they would end up adorning someone who couldn’t do them justice. Occasionally she sold art, mostly abstract pieces. But mostly she lived in the basement, stitching for dead girls, or, at least, girls with limited amount of life left.
Did she worry about getting caught? No, after all, it would only be another part of the story. And there was always plenty of death in prison.