I kind of tweaked with Vera's past and personality... a lot. Enjoy it, anyway. :)

Nothing Less Than Perfect

Little Vera Claythorne was nothing less than perfect.

Perfect looks.

Perfect marks.

Perfect family.

But one couldn't help but wonder what went on in the child's mind. Her governess regularly found her seated by the windowsill, staring off into the distance, her toys abandoned on the floor before her. Occasionally she found bits and pieces of the child's bears and dolls; broken off, ripped, shredded, sawed off with a pair of scissors.

Her teacher was a worrier. Little Vera was nothing short of impeccable, however, something about her simply made him dread to see her, each day. She stared at him with blank, unseeing eyes as he taught her, answered his questions in a dull, flat tone and quite regularly spaced out. He noticed she had a penchant for tearing things to bits. It seemed like a subconscious movement – she didn't seem to notice it herself. When he'd first met her, he'd asked her if anything was wrong, to which she replied quietly, "Nothing," and flashed him an all-too-bright smile that made him uneasy.

Even her parents were wary of her, despite trying hard to hide it. She often caught the looks they shared with each other whenever she said something they found strange. Not to mention the subtle attempts at leaving the room if they were left alone with her. It was a strange family; a strange situation. And little Vera Claythorne was the centre of it.

More than ten years on and little Vera Claythorne was still perfect. Only now she wasn't little anymore.

She was working as a governess. A job which ended badly and abruptly due to a terrible incident with her charge that was most definitely not her fault. Most definitely. There really was nothing to explain why he was terrified of her. It wasn't her fault. Not her fault at all.

She moved on to being a teacher. An occupation which suited her, in her own opinion. Little children milling all around her. Nothing unusual. And she'd tell them the greatest stories, watching their faces, noting the looks of (horrified) fascination. Some of them switched schools. Such a shame.

She got fired. Not that she remembers why. Strange things happen all the time, so she shrugged it off and went home, only to find her mother distraught and a complete mess. Her father was drinking again, empty bottles had been thrown carelessly into the corner of his study.

Vera Claythorne's pretty little lips frowned. Her eyebrows creased ever-so-slightly. And she thought: This isn't a perfect family.

A flash of insight came to her. A brilliant plan. A perfect plan. And throughout the next month she carried it out to perfection.

Miss Vera Claythorne was the pinnacle of perfection.

Perfect looks.

Perfect marks.

Perfect family.

And now she'd found the perfect husband. Dear Mr Hugo Hamilton. The only problem was that he had no money to his name. Just a small little nephew who stood in the way of power and royalties. That's right. His nephew. The child had literally stolen poor Hugo's inheritance.

They were at the beach, by the shore. And she had taken the liberty of letting the child roam as freely as he wanted.

"Miss Vera! Miss Vera! Can I go swimming? Can I? Can I?"

Vera Claythorne couldn't help feeling that this situation was familiar. She shrugged off the feeling and stared at the bright, joyous child bouncing on his feet before her. Her eyes were drawn to a rock far off shore, and, in a daze, she pointed at it.

Miss Vera Hamilton. She thought. Miss Vera Hamilton.

"Alright Cyril. You can swim to that rock and back. Is that okay with you?"

Miss Vera Hamilton. It sounds perfect.

"Yippee!" And off he ran.

Still quite dazed, Vera Claythorne watched as the boy swam halfway to the rock. She watched as he stopped swimming. She watched as he called for help. And she watched as he sank.

And then she went to sleep.

There was a most terrible problem with perfect Miss Vera Claythorne.

Her dear Mr Hugo didn't want to marry her anymore. Something about his nephew, little Cyril Hamilton and that unfortunate incident where he drowned at the beach.

It wasn't her fault. Not her fault at all. It was just a terrible, terrible accident.

Miss Vera Hamilton. If she couldn't have that, it wouldn't be perfect. Not quite conscious of what she was doing, she began to write a letter. Long, elaborate, incriminating. There was evidence, too. Then she walked up to her dear Mr Hugo and showed him. She watched as his face fell. She watched as his eyes slowly rose to meet hers. And then she told him her conditions.

Miss Vera Claythorne received a letter one day, inviting her to a leisurely night on an island, without her husband. The letter was addressed to Vera Claythorne, not Vera Hamilton and didn't mention him whatsoever, so she took it as an invite just for her.

She set aside a note for her dear husband and left in perfect silence.

Miss Vera Claythorne was nothing short of immaculate.

Perfect looks.

Perfect family.

Perfect husband.

But she'd just left her perfect life behind to go to this perfect (she hopes) little island.

She meets quite a strange collection of people. And then the storm hits and simply terrible things start happening.

Not to mention that horrid record saying she did such a dreadful thing.

It had all gone so wrong. What had happened?

Miss Vera Claythorne was the epitome of perfection.

Her hair is a mess.

Her clothes are dripping wet.

And now she has blood on her hands.

Dr Armstrong's body lies dead on the shore and Lombard, shot through the heart, lies not much further away.

Exhausted, Miss Vera Claythorne wearily makes her way to her room, dropping the gun she'd pick pocketed from Lombard on the dining table.

She enters her room to find a fascinating piece of rope hanging from the ceiling. A chair sat directly beneath it and a little figurine was sitting on her windowsill, all by its lonesome.

"Now how did you get here?" She wonders aloud.

And the last bit of the rhyme comes back to her:

One little Soldier boy left all alone;
He went out and hanged himself and then there were none.

She was standing on the chair and before she knew it, she'd slipped her neck through the noose. Always perfect, she was. Perfect, pristine, Miss Vera Claythorne.

Perfect husband.

Perfect family.

Perfect life.

It was with a smile that Vera Claythorne kicked away the chair. It was with a smile that she hung herself. And it was with a smile that she died.

After all, it made everything simply perfect.

A/N: So yeah. This is what I was doing while I was meant to be studying... ehehe... :)

A few things to make note of: I know Vera Claythorne wasn't psychotic or a perfectionist and I hope I didn't offend anyone who liked her character. As I said earlier, a tweaked with her past and personality a lot. And yes, I did notice that my version of Vera has the tendency to use the same adjectives. It's all about being consistent, I say.

For anyone confused about the bits and pieces I've left out (specifically the rhyme and murders): Read the book! It's a good book. No, it's a great book. :D

And c'mon guys! Review! Reviews make my day! Even the bad ones. No, seriously.