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27 May 2008 @ 10:41 pm
Lost Scene  
Title: Lost Scene
Pairing: Count Olaf x Violet
Fandom: A Series of Unfortunate Events
Genre: General, Romance
Rating: R
Word Count: 624

Lost Scene

There was a passage that was not listed in the Bible (and other noteworthy books, books that they’ve read or promised they would—only, but never did). And in this passage, there was something peculiar, something striking and mad.

And Olaf had always prided himself on finally deciphering it (just because he could, just to prove that he could and did and oh-oh, let them envy him—for a change).

He was not a great reader, he always said—announced and proclaimed and shouted—brightly to his associates and enemies alike. Said grandly that he read only when necessary and never otherwise. But this was different, this passage. Because something in the passage pertained to him. Directly.

And that was a rare event indeed. As he explained. Brightly (like everything else, like his glistening eyes pouring over throat, breasts, chest, and et cetera).

“And et cetera,” Olaf concluded.

Josephine frowned severely, adding age to her baby-soft, fat-old face. “That was incorrect grammar,” she admonished. Softly, like a rising crescendo, picking up beat (and pain).

“Ah yes, well, that’s too bad, isn’t it?”

And of Josephine tumbling down a cliff. And off she was: dead.


Now, it was Violet’s turn to scream. And scream she did. Loud, strident, the sound of slams and whipping—the sound of something tearing, perhaps a lamb.

She’s just did know—

Remembered something, she realized. And that’s what all the screaming had been about. Or most of it. Or part of it. Or the part that was not really a part and had so (thus, was, is) been her imagination.

All along.

But anyway, Violet pretended like she knew. Goddamn everything, Sunny used to remark.

Because like a video playing in slow-motion in her mind, with the sound all muted and the faces all blurred, Violet remember-felt hands on her face (neck, chest, and breast).

And someone pulling at her tit (the left) and laughing in a high, wheezy voice. Shrill, too. But that was the sound she couldn’t hear (even in her imagination, like this one was—right).

And like an excerpt from some lost, forbidden book (like the Apocrypha), Violet lost the leaves and dog-eared pages, and her mind. But that was later, way, way later.


Olaf visited her in the hospital sometimes (when he felt like it). And that was unusual because he was lazy and clever and et cetera.

“Et cetera,” he said.

“I thought it was and et cetera,” Violet retorted.

“No, that was wrong. And some lady died for it.”


And that was the end of that. So, Olaf didn’t really die, trying to save his long-lost-love (Kit or Katherine or something or another). And Violet wasn’t really insane, hadn’t been hallucinating all this time.

“Are you surprised?”

“About what?”

“That I am here, you stupid orphan.”

She laughed. Harsh, like a plague—that she could still hear. Something that resembled an echo, only not. Because echoes died, in all good time.

“No, I’m not. You’re just a temporary fix.”


That night, they had sex (because there was no other way to put it, no subtle euphemism, no phony-baloney).

And no subterfuge, no foreplay, none of that.

It was sex.

And Violet was used to just-sex (she thought) but not romance. That was different, a whole, unconquered terrain. And she was not ready (yet, not that night).

So, they had sex, and Olaf was repulsive—like she thought. And she was timid, no passion, no guts—like he thought.

And like some disenchanted slut and papier-mâché prince, they replayed that night over and over and over again to embed the sounds and rushes study-deep in their heads. Some lost scene from some life, some time long, long ago.

nanakieverblaze on May 28th, 2008 08:51 pm (UTC)
Very interesting prose; I've never really seen anything in the Violaf fanfiction communities (or any other category, for that matter) that quite adds up to this.