The physical bruises that Richard leaves on his friends represent the emotional bruises they sustain as a result of his abuse and cruelty. He leaves his mark on all of the fourth-years, one by one—he throws Meredith and Filippa onto the stairs, hurls Wren across the yard, hits Oliver and Alexander during the assassination scene, and spends weeks turning James’s arms black and blue. Although the physical bruises eventually fade and Richard ultimately dies after his peers fail to save him from drowning, the psychological effects of Richard’s treatment of his peers lingers. Meredith cries herself to sleep, for instance, and Oliver is haunted by visions of Richard for ten years. Moreover, the bruises that he leaves seem to spread, almost as if his violence infects the group even after he’s gone. Some of the fourth-years self-destruct in different ways—Alexander struggles with substance abuse, for example. James starts to mimic Richard’s senseless violence when he hits Oliver in the face during combat rehearsals, just like Richard turned stage fighting into real fighting.
Bruises Quotes in If We Were Villains
The lake, the broad black water, lurked in the background of every scene we played after that—like a set from a play we did once, shuffled to the back of the scene shop where it would have been quickly forgotten if we didn’t have to walk past it every day. Something changed irrevocably, in those few dark minutes James was submerged, as if the lack of oxygen had caused all our molecules to rearrange.
“I won’t hurt you,” [Meredith] said. She came cautiously closer, as if she were afraid of startling me. I was paralyzed, watching the silk move like water on her skin. A bruise was already swelling beneath her collarbone, and I couldn’t help but think of Richard’s hands and how much damage they could do.
“I can think of someone who might,” I said.
“I don’t want to think about him.” Her voice had a raw, tender quality, which I didn’t immediately recognize for what it was: shame.
The delicate line of her wrist was marred by tiny blooms of purple, like budding violets on her skin. Older marks, weak as watercolors now, showed where a heavier hand than mine had touched her, where phantom fingers had squeezed too hard: the nape of her neck, the curve of her knee. She was every bit as bruised as James.
That little prick of sadness burrowed deeper, touched me at the quick. How well I’d been trained to mistrust her. And by whom? Richard? Gwendolyn? I glanced over my shoulder at James again. All I could see was a shock of his hair sticking up behind the arm of the couch. It didn’t really matter where I slept, I decided. Nothing mattered much after that morning. Our two souls—if not all six—were forfeit.