Violette and Sam – Part 2: The Killer 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.
Samuel was in a second hand bookshop. He personally didn’t care much for books, but Violette did. He liked to buy her gifts in between girls, particularly if the in between time was beginning to get uncomfortably long, as it was in this case. She had almost finished the dress and he had still yet to find an opening. He didn’t like the way things were going. If he continued to struggle and he didn’t give her the pretty death that she craved then she would start to deteriorate. He wasn’t afraid of her, but he loved her. While he admittedly found her instability captivating, there came a point when he worried for her wellbeing. Luckily, he had just found last week’s paper while he had been walking through the park and discovered that a picture of their last girl, the picture that he had taken with a polaroid camera of her in her new dress and necklace, had made it into print. It was the picture that he had left at the last place she was alive before he left to dispose of her body. She lay as he had posed her, the mark around her neck where the wire had choked her. Sam took a moment to marvel at how well Violette always chose the songs for each girl. The song for this girl had been Teddy Bear’s Picnic and, with her white skin and blonde curls, the girl looked just like a broken doll in her death. The story was on the front page however the picture of the pair’s combined handy work was a few pages in. Violette would be so pleased; she loved it when their efforts were recognised. She was, after all, an artist. In addition to this, he had just spotted an old copy of ‘Anne of Green Gables’, an edition that she didn’t have yet. Violette felt a certain affiliation to Anne Shirley; they certainly shared an inability to separate fact from fiction.
Violette and Sam had known each other since school. They were a match made in serial killer heaven. They had instantaneously recognised in each other what no one else saw: emptiness. While she filled her emptiness with (then) fictional deaths and her own blood, he filled his with fascinations, obsessions. And his biggest fascination of all was with Violette. She was the kind of girl who strangers fell in love with all the time, but she, like Sam, always subtly pulled away from the rest of the world. She never needed to pull away from Sam. He saw where her endearing quirks became downright weird, even creepy. It didn’t take long for the two of them to show each other the parts of themselves that society wouldn’t like. It was something of a beautiful partnership.
While Violette was the dreamer, the planner, the artist, Sam was a mathematician, a scientist, the practical element. She decided on the girl and provided the decorations for the party; he found out exactly how to go about everything and then, crucially, threw the party. He was the killer; he actually did the dirty. He didn’t share Violette’s need for death, but he loved her enough for it to not matter. He had never felt empathy for anyone but her, and this was simply because he saw her as an extension of him, just another part of his personality.
Sam had never thought that he would be a serial killer. While he had no real aversion to the killing, it wasn’t a hobby of his. To be perfectly honest, he struggled to think of anything that he would class as a hobby. Violette surrounded herself with her art, her sewing and her fantasies, but Sam just thought of her. In the past, he had gone through phases, tiny obsessions. For three months when he was fourteen he had taken an interest in vegetable gardens. Something in his mathematical mind found an attraction to self-sufficiency. His phases had never lasted long because, at some point, he would always come to realise that there was nothing in them. Perhaps they were useful, but he got no satisfaction from them. But, as he had become more invested in Violette and her wants and needs, he forgot about his own unrelated obsessions and fixations. The promise of a new girl after each victim prevented him from losing interest and, besides, he was filled with her and only her.