Denial

Count Olaf smiled triumphantly at his prize, practically dancing with happiness. It was over. He captured the Baudelaires. He had killed his entire troupe, who would have given him so much trouble about the money. Most importantly, he had won.

He reached down to the table in front of him, and poured himself a glass of expensive wine. He was in his favorite room in his house, his tower, in his favorite chair, watching his favorite Baudelaire, Violet.

She stared out the window, sitting complacently in a cracked, dirty leather armchair, not noticing her captor watching her. The sun was setting, sending crimson rays across her pale face. Poor girl, Olaf thought, sneering, she must be in denial.

“Violet,” He called. She turned her head to him, calmly, her mouth slightly curved upward. As though she were happy, excited even.

Denial. Count Olaf thought again. She obviously can’t handle the fact that I won. Poor her.

“Would you like some wine, dear?” He asked, holding out the bottle.

Violet merely stared at him, silently, eyes twinkling.

“I thought it might help you. . . face facts.” Count Olaf sipped his own glass. “After all, one can’t go on pretending nothing has happened. I have won. And, you . . .” He trailed off not knowing what he was going to do to Violet. Kill her? Possibly. Or should he let her live, while her siblings died? Oh, that would be delicious. Watch her suffer…

“Violet, you see, I have a problem,” He said. Why not ask Violet what she wants? He thought. Torture her with the decision. Should she die and leave her siblings with me or should she live and watch her siblings die? “I don’t know which two Baudelaires I should kill and,” he paused for suspense. “Which Baudelaire I should keep. Can you decide for me?””

Violet did not answer, but continued to stare, her grin growing.

Count Olaf shifted in his chair, annoyed. “Well?” He asked, anger in his voice. “Chose, orphan,”

Violet lightly clasped her hand together, and looked down, hiding a definite smile.

“Oh, very well,” He folded his arms, airily, sitting upright in his chair. He would not insist that Violet speak to him. She must be looking forward to her death. Otherwise, she would have said something. “You are obviously in shock. Yes,” He shifted in the chair, leaning toward the window, into the sunset. “Yes, anyone would be in shock-in blatant denial-if they knew the end was near. If they knew that the life would soon be draining out of them, that they would soon kneeling at my feet, begging for the pain to stop. . .”

Violet’s smile disappeared, her face now expressionless.

Count Olaf quickly stood and grabbed Violet by the shoulder with one hand, pulling her out of the chair, and pulled a knife out of his hand. He slammed Violet’s back into his chest, and gently, slowly scraped the knife along her throat, tauntingly.

“Begging for the pain to stop…” He repeated, whispering into her ear.

Violet swiftly rammed the palm of hand into Count Olaf’s nose. Olaf let go, and took a few steps away from her, surprised. Had Violet Baudelaire, Goody- Two-Shoes-Caring-Big-Sister Violet Baudelaire just hit him? He rubbed his nose, confused, and in pain. Then, he extended the knife, holding it in front of him, advancing on the girl.

“Dear child, what on Earth were you thinking? Do you possibly believe you are going to . . . fight me?” His scornful laughter pealed around the room, nasally, despite his now bleeding nose. “Do you think you can kill me? The only way to win in this game that you insist on playing is to kill your opponent. I have killed hundreds of people, Violet, while you have killed none. With this in mind, I ask you again, do you think you can murder me ?”

Violet smirked at the knife.

“No. I do not think I can murder you. ” She said, finally, turning away from her enemy. The table. Yes, that was where Olaf put it. Violet grabbed the wine bottle off the table, and smashed it against the tower wall.

CLASH!

Pieces of glass skidded across the floor, as burgundy wine ran freely from the broken end of the container. Violet was left holding the neck of the bottle, which now had a sharp pointy spiked end. It glittered menacingly in the diminishing sunlight. Olaf felt his eyes widen, stunned by Violet’s fall from being the civil, quiet, pretty young woman he thought she was.

“I know I can murder you.” Violet continued, eyes focusing on her enemy, moving her makeshift rapier in front of her, poised on attacking.

“I-” Count Olaf tried to say something, but blood rushed into his mouth. He wiped it away, hurriedly, but Violet leapt forward, and stabbed her nemesis in the stomach, twisting the bottle inside of him. Count Olaf’s knees buckled underneath him, painfully. Painfully. Ha, he thought, kneeling on the floor, gritting his teeth. His breathing quickened as he grabbed his stomach, and pulled the bottle out of it, and gripped his abdomen, hoping to stop whatever bleeding he could. He heard the bottle crash a few feet away from him. Nothing could compare to the white-hot pain he was feeling now.

He looked up at Violet, wondering how she had, so quickly, brought him to her feet. Her expression was unreadable.

“You’ve caused so much pain,” Violet murmured, gazing at him. Suddenly, she shoved him away with her foot. “So much pain. You’ll never do this again.” She said, bending down to pry the knife out of Count Olaf’s bloodstained hands. He struggled to keep his weapon, biting back any sound of pain. This was too much. Violet could not win. He had to get up, had to kill . . .

“Fucking bitch!” He exploded, unable hold on any longer. He thrust the knife into her hands, and curled into a fetal position, shivering with pain. Blood was gushing from his body he could feel it, throbbing, pounding. It wouldn’t be long until he lost consciousness. Or even died from the blood loss. Then, Violet would have finally killed him. It would be over.

He would have lost.

Violet watched Count Olaf relax, sprawling on the floor, weakly.

“Kill me, orphan,” He begged, his head lightening. He was losing life so rapidly he wouldn’t even get to repent.

He had never believed in repenting anyway.

“I didn’t think you were capable of. . . slaughtering someone so quickly. Like you didn’t even give it a second thought.” He groaned, suffering. His eyes were beginning to close. “I have underestimated you.”

“Yes. You have.” Violet smiled a tiny smile, tears in her eyes. I had to stop him, she comforted herself silently, He would have killed us if I didn’t. She glanced out the window, checking the sky. The red sunlight had turned to gold. Night was falling. “I am capable of a lot of things. Protecting myself, and my siblings is one of them.”

“‘Protecting’?” The dying man asked, lying back and waiting for death. “Is that what you call it?”

“I suppose you prefer the term ‘killing an evil man like yourself’?” Violet asked, sardonically.

“Either way,” Count Olaf snarled backed, “It appears you have won,”

“This wasn’t a game.” Violet whispered, down on her knees to talk to him. “I don’t know how money could have meant so much to you that you kill for it. Was it a mistake? Don’t you think killing is wrong? You have driven me to kill you.” She delicately twirled his knife in her fingers. “And I’m not sorry for it.” She sliced Count Olaf’s throat, tearing the flesh with the blade.

He let out small, pained cry, and shut his eyes for the last time.

Violet stared at him, his clothes, hands, arms, legs, the bottom part of his face, all stained scarlet. Blood still flowed from his throat, creeping unto the floor. His face was pensive, lips still stained red from his nosebleed. And his midriff . . . that was a gory mess. She didn’t want to look at that. She didn’t want to think about what she had done.

Violet stood.

“I’m just as bad as you.” She said. She threw the knife at him, and began to walk out the tower room, going to find her siblings. She reached the door, but she couldn’t turn the knob. Hand on the doorknob, she paused.

“You died easily.” She said, loudly, as if she were calling the words to the dead man behind her. “Almost as if you were in shock-in denial. Of course, anyone would be in denial if they knew the end was near. If they knew that the life would soon be draining out of them, that they would soon kneeling at my feet, begging for the pain to stop.”

Violet blinked, shook her head, opened the door, and ran out, leaving the body, and her innocence behind, the sun still setting on her back.