I am not your villain

An imaginative composed by Milo (Year 12)

Being home again was strange.

Scratch that. Somehow it was worse. Years spent alone after her mother’s betrayal, wondering how long she’d have to hide from her own reflection for fear of it showing her to be just like her mother – Octavia was back.

The inhabitants of the void had realised Livia Harrow’s betrayal. Though they still gave Octavia a wide berth. Keeping their heads down and voices hushed, more than likely seeing in her what she spent so long avoiding.

The hallways of her old home were weather-worn. The paint had started chipping long before Octavia had fled.

But had it ever been this bad?

She wasn’t sure what did it; what it was that moved her feet through the depressing halls of the void. Perhaps it was muscle memory, the path she’d walked so many times before.

But Octavia found herself standing at the door to her old room.

The black letters that once spelled out her name had been ripped off – violently, it appeared, - and there were now messily painted flowers.

Octavia found it strange, that they seemed to follow the shape of her name – like a bandage, lovingly placed over an old wound, undoing the damage done.

She opened the door.

Inside, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was a young girl. She couldn’t have been any older than twelve, but as her eyes lifted – wide with a gentle surprise – Octavia felt her heart still in her chest.

“You must be Ms Harrow’s daughter,” she almost whispered, voice gentle and awe-filled.

Her hair was raven black, falling just past her shoulders, some stray strands covering her eyes – eyes that were devastatingly young, not yet let down by the world like Octavia had been.

And hazel.

It was a mirror – that mirror that Octavia had spent so long running from. It was held up right to her face to taunt her, and show her all the calm, gentle, delicate things she loved, and missed, and utterly loathed in herself.

The girl took Octavia’s silence as a cue to keep talking.

“I’m Zoe!” She grinned, hopping up from her place on the floor, only to walk up to Octavia – still from shock – and take her hands, dragging her into her old room.

“Miss Harrow told everyone you were dead, but I never believed, bless her,” Zoe admitted.

Her hands were soft in comparison to Octavia’s calloused ones.

“Didn’t you?”

Octavia’s attempt at a weak smile was destroyed when her voice came out wet with tears that were threatening to spill over.

How long had Livia waited to replace her?

“Nope!” Zoe beamed, seemingly unaware of Octavia’s potential breakdown as she tugged her down to sit cross-legged on the floor with her.

That was when Octavia got a chance to look at what used to be her room.

The layout was mostly the same – not much moved. But the walls – once a dark mauve – had been painted a light lilac.

All but in one spot about the bed.

There was a messy patch, surrounding a handful of Octavia’s old photos.

The life she’d had before.

In almost every single one – there was Castor, her old best friend.

He was probably somewhere close right now. Octavia had to choke back a sob at the simple thought.

Zoe seemed to follow her gaze, eyes landing on the photos. She fell very quiet.

“Miss Harrow wanted me to take them down.”

At the quiet admission, Octavia’s eyes fell back onto Zoe.

“I didn’t want to though,” she continued, her gaze firmly on a younger Octavia, who looked so much like her. “I always felt like I was living in someone else’s place. So I kept them up for you. In case you came back. If you want your room – “

Octavia shook her head, gently squeezing Zoe’s hands.

“This hasn’t been my room in a very long time.”

Zoe brightened slightly.

Octavia didn’t want to be the villain anymore.