Bonfire Night
By Sarah Fish
I always knew it was you. Had no reason to. Had no reason to think you were even alive. Madness, really. No one came out of the camps alive.
It could have been anyone – anyone with a mission, a grudge, a cruel debt to collect upon. But I knew in my heart it was you, knew a half second after the masked face appeared on the telly. And then your voice…but like I said. By then, I already knew.
Strange really, I think. Do people wonder? Do they cast a wary eye on people they pass on the street? Do they not secretly think that maybe maybe the man they just passed is actually the mysterious V? How odd. No one ever give me a second glance. But then again, no one's ever had trouble telling us apart since we were infants.
Growing up it was always you. You! You always had to question things, ask why, demand reasons for everything. You were the outspoken one, the loud one, the smart ass, the troublemaker. I was the quiet one, the one who wanted to please everyone, the good son. You were smart, brilliant, talented. I was good. I was quiet. I was obedient.
I remember how Mum used to say that even in the hospital, us just a few hours old, she'd been able to tell us apart. Even then, you were loud and demanding. I was an easy baby, they said. Yeah, that was it. I was always the easygoing one. They say that's how it is with twins. They're rarely as similar in personality as they are in face.
We were so different, yes. But we were brothers. Polar opposites on the same scale. And we loved each other. I knew that much. And it was enough.
I remember bonfire night one year, before things got bad. We were twelve. Mum and Dad took up to the neigubours' to celebrate with them. You were distant, silent, the whole evening. As we tossed our Guy onto the fire, you muttered something.
"He was right, though."
Maybe. Maybe not. I mostly cared about the fireworks.
We were twenty when things started to go to hell. God how we hated the flat we shared then. I'd forgotten, almost, how much we hated it. Despised it to the point of it being funny. We were lucky to get hot water some nights. And then there was the time you fell through the floor! God how we laughed.
There were still some good times then. I remember you begging me to take your place on a date you'd arranged with a girl you'd met the night before. "She'll never know! She won't be able to tell us apart!" you'd said. So I had, though I knew all too well that identical as we may be, our personalities were too different. The girl had laughed when she found out. Six months later, we were engaged. She was dead a month later, killed in a riot. Wrong place, wrong time. That seemed to be fast becoming the norm.
You had always loved to read. Inhaled books, really. Classics, politics, philosophy. No topic was off limits. The walls of our flat were lined with your books. If only….if only you'd been less attached.
There was a new government, new regulations. Confiscations. You hid your books. But you refused to let them go. You started speaking out. Oh God, if only you'd kept quiet! Fliers, pamphlets, you would stand handing them to passers by for hours.
Jesus, why couldn't you just be quiet like me? We fought about it. I wanted you to be more like me. But really, what I wanted was to be more like you. Fearless. Outspoken.
They raided our flat. Your name was on the lease, not mine. You were home, I wasn't. The books had your name in them. You fought back. I wouldn't have.
I didn't see you for two weeks. I feared you were dead. But knew, somehow you weren't. I knew I would have felt it. It was two in the morning when you came through the door, looking like hell. At least ten kilos lighter.
"We have to fight them."
That's what you said to me. We have to fight them. And you did. Speaking out with more fervor than ever. Going to protests.
They found you out after curfew. Pasting up propaganda, they said. And they took you. Larkhill. A detainment camp, they said. I wasn't stupid. You were not the only one who had read those banned books we kept beneath the floorboards. I knew they weren't the first regime to use that term. Detainment camp. Concentration camp. Death camp.
I heard about the fire, the explosion. Did I think it was you? Perhaps. Maybe in the back of my mind I suspected. But never knew for certain.
Then, last year….the Bonfire Night explosions. An emergency demolition, they said. I recognized your handiwork – your sense of irony. And with the television broadcast…I knew for certain then. It was you. Still the activist.
And I was still the quiet, obedient one, doing as my government said.
Then the package came in the mail. A mask. A cloak. A hat. And I knew.
Knew what I had to do.
How many thousands? How many anonymous persons walked the streets of London that night? How was it that I ended up on the green in front of Parliament? And the music! Handel. You always loved Handel.
The earth shook with the explosions. Fire turned night to day for a glorious moment. Guy Fawkes' work completed at last. Your work. Your opus.
It started at the front, wave after wave of people pulling their masks up to better see the fireworks shooting towards the stars. The mask fell from my hand. I was crying. I knew at last. Felt it in my heart. You were gone.
They say twins know these things, and I felt it in my soul.
I wonder what you would think of this? You lived and died an idol. And ideal. A symbol. I think it would please you to know that in the gathered crowd, there was one soul who knew you, knew your face, and loved you as only brothers can love.
Fireworks light up the night sky. A Bonfire Night for the ages. As I watch, I can think of only one thing to say. Your words. Your wisdom. Your knowledge.
He was right. And so were you.
A word from the author: I've been a fan of the graphic novel for years. But I've written a movieverse story. The movie ending gave me pause for thought. During the unmasking of the V's gathered in front of Parliament, you catch glimpses of all the people who have died over the years (Valerie, Ruth, Evey's parents, the Little Girl, etc.) If you look closely, you see Hugo Weaving (who played V), pulling off his mask. I thought this was beautiful. Those who knew the actor, realized that in the end, we do get to see V unmasked. And he's just one among hundreds. And he's just as awestruck as his fellow countrymen. But as I thought about it, the what if that started this story came to mind. What if it wasn't V. What if?
Disclaimer: V for Vendetta is the property of its respective creators (Alan Moore and David Lloyd). I do not own nor am I making an money from the use of these characters.