I'm currently dealing with trace amounts of anger and frustration which would be dangerous if left unchecked, so I wrote this when a Paramore song struck a certain chord, and, for some reason, my least favorite moment in the movie became my best friend in this.

Please excuse if the French is very off. I speak very little aside from the very basics, and my friend isn't fluent but she knows more. And if you feel miffed about all the untranslated French in this story, then too bad. Why don't you go and read some Ian Fleming and then tell me how lost you are THEN. Dude throws around French words like I throw hot peppers on food.

Ignorance

Well, you treat me just like another stranger

It's nice to meet you, SIR.

I guess I'll GO. I best be on my way out.

–

It felt all together too good, too satisfactory to feel the heel of her palm crash against his smart jaw. Part of her would even say that she reveled in the feeling it gave her, the release of energy and anger, and deep down she felt like laughing.

Instead tears came to her face, hot, thin tears that seeped from the corners of her eyelids that she could barely feel over the heat of her face. Satin coats of black and velvet dresses of rich colors blurred into a dark rainbow as she picked up the train of her own dress and ran. Her feet felt tight and clumsy in her shoes, and as soon as she reached the end of the staircase she tore them off and threw them at the marble floor. At first her feet slipped on the polished tile, but soon the angry heat traveled down to her toes and she found the traction to flee. If only her dress weren't so confining, her skinny legs would be flying over the cobbled streets of Paris.

She stumbled and almost fell far too many times to count. By now her toes were purple and bruised from stubbing them on the slick stone, and the soles of her feet were red and irritated, ready to burst. The wind that rushed at her face smelled of faint gasoline and fresh summer blossoms, and yet it did nothing to console her. Gasoline was replaced with the smell of river water the farther she fled from the opera house, and when the wind constricted her side until she could no longer run she embraced the wet brick of a building, hugging the craggy walls so she would not upset any passersby. That's when the thin tears turned thick, and she found herself sobbing against the wall. She didn't quite understand why. Yes she was betrayed, but she was still here, wasn't she? She was in Paris, she was out of Russia, and she had...some knowledge of the city to help her navigate around. It wouldn't be so bad to find her real family here, especially not after the complete failure of the last ten minutes.

That wretched devil, she wrinkled her nose in a hateful snarl, To hell with your grand duchesses and con artists.

And then for some reason it became painful to cry.

Anya wait you have to know the truth!

I already know the truth.

She sniffed and wiped snot on her gloves.

You're not the truth.

There was more than what was visibly seen that had been a lie. Yes everything they had taught her might've been true, for a duchess, but she wasn't the duchess. That was a lie; every action, every step, every repeated phrase and memorized family member that wasn't hers, all lies. But there was more to it. So much more. So many underlying layers to the journey she had just traveled, all she had believed to be true, all that was a lie.

And he. Him. He was the greatest lie of all, and how she wished to feel him in the palm of her hands now, just so she could rip him in two, crumple up the remains, and toss him with the rest of the litter on the street. Where he belonged. That's where he came from in Russia, anyways; it turns out taking one man and putting him in another country doesn't change anything.

She began to walk slowly, neverminding where she was going.

Taking anyone out and putting them in another country doesn't change anything. She was back at the beginning, back to being poor little orphan Anya with no past and no future. No fiery and radiant young woman here. She rubbed her eye with the back of her wrist and heaved a sigh wreathed with hidden sobs. Out of everything she just wished she could get that damn man out of her head.

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle?"

Anya stopped and turned her head, eyes tired with being angry yet only amplified by the harsh creases her hopeless frown created on her face.

"Avez-vous perdu?"

She sighed and lethargically approached the man in the vehicle. The last time she trusted a stranger with an interest in where she wanted to go she ended up in Paris, the absolute worst this man could do would be to take her back to Russia. And at the moment, that didn't sound too bad. Maybe they still wanted her at the fish factory.

"Da—oui." she corrected herself before speaking in Russian, "Oui."

The man picked up on her accent and motioned to the seat with raised eyebrows. Anya sat down, rather, she plopped down onto the seat and muttered a sullen but sincere merci to the man.

"Où dois-je prendre vous? Á où?"

Anya unrolled one of her gloves and took out a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it, and nearly crushed the paper when she saw that it was in his handwriting. The man was patient, thought, as she gulped down her hate and quietly translated the address from Russian characters to French. The man nodded, confirmed a few things under his breath, and shifted the car in gear. It was loud and rickety, but the man knew where he was going. Anya rested her head against the window and stared forlornly out at the blue-green streets of Paris lit up with glowing fairies in the lamp posts. Tears continued to stream down her cheek, quietly this time, but still no less painful. The driver was polite and quiet, and when they approached her apartment he brought the car to as soft as a stop as possible next to the cobbled curb.

"Mademoiselle." The man said as soon as the car was safely parked.

"Merci," Anya thanked, no more than a meek whisper.

"Vous êtes beinvenue."

She stepped carefully onto the wet cobblestone, but before closing the door again she poked her head back into the compartment.

"Paiement?" She asked somewhat nervously, for she had no francs or money to her name.

"Quois? Non, mademoiselle! C'est la bien."

Anya twisted her mouth and reached behind her neck, unclipping the diamond necklace and holding it up to him.

"S'il vous plait, monsieur," Anya persisted, "Prenez ceci?"

"Non, je ne peux pas."

Anya sighed, then dropped the necklace on his seat. There was a headache pounding from both sides of her head, and she gave up on her French and reverted to Russian.

"Please sir, it's yours now. Just for something to go right for once today."

The man stared mystified at her fluid language, and could not reply before she had closed the door and turned to climb the steps up into the apartment. It wasn't long before she heard the car restart and putt away into the dark streets of Paris.

The anger returned to her as she was ascending the stairs, and by the time she unlocked and threw open the door to her room, all reason had left her mind. Tearing the sparse clothing she had from the drawers, she opened up her suitcase and started throwing it all in a heap, dress, pajamas, old burlap sack, everything. Pooka cocked his head at her curiously, and she only paused in her anger-driven motions to scoop up the small dog and cradle him in her arms, quietly crying into the tufts of fur on his forehead. The pooch whined; he knew something wasn't right, but Anya by and large ignored him just so she wouldn't have to face Pooka and tell him that everything they had endured was a lie, and the little dog was right to distrust him from the start.

The blue in her eyes was stormy and raging with such fierce energy that the dog was almost afraid of her as she cuddled him for support. Her fingers inadvertently dug into the dog's soft, warm skin whenever thoughts of him would pass through her mind, and Pooka leapt down from her arms, reluctant but remaining as loyal as possible. At first it looked like she was going to blame the dog too, but she softened (if that was even possible) and resumed packing.

"Back to Russia, Pooka."

The dog whined.

"There's nothing for us here."

Pooka barked sharply in surprise and wagged his stubby tail. Anya was silent as she stared at him and she sighed.

"Fine. We'll stay for a few days and then...,"

The rose Sophie offered her had somehow found its way between her fingertips and her face flushed red in rage. Her knuckles whitened as she crushed the stem between her fingers, and Pooka backed away to a safer distance, eying her in worry. She growled through gritted teeth and squeezed a few more tears from her eyes and threw the rose into the waste basket.

All that wasted time.

All that wasted time talking to him.

Pooka let her be for the rest of the evening as she packed, watching carefully to make sure she would not accidentally harm herself in her blinded anger.

Then a knock came at the door and Anya snarled, fire in her veins. She knew he'd return, and she had prepared for this. Lashing out with her venomous tongue, she masked the tears in her voice as she ignored the door and continued to pack.

"Go away Dmitri."

The door opened despite her warning and she straightened her back, curling her hands into tight fists. She was going to do more than slap him. She was going to scream and shout and punch and rake at him with her nails and bite if she had to, just so he would know how much she hated him now, how much she hated his ignorance and betrayal and how much she hated him down to his very being, just the thought of turning around and seeing his snarky face made her want to fly into a barbaric rage which she swear he wasn't going to survive from when she saw who was at the door.

"...oh. I'm sorry, I thought you were...someone else."