We believe villains are more than just two dimensional evil-doers. They're complex characters who rarely get to share their stories. The concept may seem silly, but empathy is a skill. If we can practice it here, we just might have a shot at understanding the 'villains' in our everyday lives.
Cruella de Vil Literature
Cruella de Void (poem)
Tiana Hennings
“Cruella De Vil, Cruella De Vil, if she doesn’t scare you,
no evil thing will!
To see her is to take a sudden chill
Cruella, Cruella…”
Window curtains drape across
my Persian Sarouk rug in the bedroom.
The bear head above my bed frame is my protector of the night.
My bedtime routine includes
my henchmen washing my face to clear out my pores,
a personal percussionist to help chime my way to sleep,
and a maid to smooth out my comforter that took 20 rabbits to sew.
I am the worst,
but I am also the best.
My walk is as fierce as if I split open the Red Sea with satin leather heels.
Every time I trot on London streets,
you tell your children to not end up like me.
I am a jailbreaker ahead of my time.
I strut in the path of suburban sidewalks
that are tired of the housewife’s cackles in the morning.
A pair of plyers spread your last logical reasoning for looking.
I know you cook by the stove,
your only subconscious wish is to be me.
You cook the meatloaf for the 3rd time this week.
You think, if only if you were as free.
You are the neighborhood’s trophy of hushed whispers
during your summer porch get-togethers;
I am every one of your guests’ secret daydreams on lonely Sunday afternoons.
I lie in bed by myself, emitting independence toward the sky.
Each night I feel a calming breeze,
knowing the only love I need
is the comfort of rabbit fur beside me.
How content I am in the basket of luxury.
But certain nights are different.
I smoke long Parliaments in bed, hoping the hours pass by quickly.
The memories are movie screens that flash on the ceiling at 3:00 a.m.
The letters, Winston Churchill, the Suez Canal.
My love’s sacrifice for them meant blood draining down the sand;
the war never blamed the Italians enough.
The only human I will ever love.
He was dust in a forgotten air,
a piece of filth in the quicksand of defeat.
He was a dog on a stick,
only the tags around his corpse shed light on his name.
The day the police in hats took my doorstep
is the day I decided life had to only be mine to own.
The cannons in 1940 killed my reason
to give precedence to those who are not human.
If you yearn to keep your animals,
why didn’t you people yearn to save the person
worth being good and tame for.
So I married the other one
and gained millions.
The clock has seen how often I stare at the fireplace glistening in the dark.
I work on forgetting late night disparities for good.
In the meantime, I step into polar bear and yearn to wear Dalmatian
because I own the world.
“She’s like a spider waiting for the kill
Look out for… Cruella… De Vil”