Can't Be Bothered To Start A New File For What'll Probably Be A One Off So This Is The Result.

I’m a big fan of that post-laundry feeling when you’ve got all your A-list clothes back in the game.

trying to make unlikable characters

She invited him in, of course. He asked for her help, and this is one indulgence her boss allows her. Where people are nice and polite - all too rarely she must admit - she can help them if he deems her methods fit. Sometimes they dine at the small table in the kitchen with her. Usually, they are unsettled enough by both the house and her way of acting that they make excuses, and borrow a room for a few nights while she helps in whatever way she can.

It rewards good manners, and the supply of unmissed blood and bodies it gives her boss is a bonus.

There’s a third kind of person, she thinks. Someone who can put up a facade well enough to appear polite, but not enough self control to keep acting in the proper manner.

This man, for she will not grant him the perceived innocence the word ‘boy’ would bring, talks to her. He tells her he needs their help to eradicate evil from this world. Surely the owner of such a large building could spare some funds to ensure that the deviants and monsters and unnatural abominations are kept far from polite society. Surely he, her boss, - for no woman could have a role in the ownership of this beautiful structure - is a man of god, and wishes to uphold his holy words. He recites some scripture, bits she recognises from her time as a mortal in the 80s.

For the first time in a while, she thinks back to those years. She remembers some of the boys and girls and in-betweens and boths and neithers and more she used to know and hang around with when off work. She remembers some of the posters and slogans and verses that said the same things as this man. She remembers seeing it on TV, hearing it yelled at her on the street, reading it on the front page of the papers.

There were people who taught her about herself, who made her realise the things she felt and the things she most definitely didn’t feel, then held her as she cried and made her see that none of this made her any less human, any less worthy of being alive.

She remembers how some of these people cracked under the near-constant pressure. Some of them moved across the country. Some of them found twisted ideals to believe in. A couple paid lump sums to a programme that promised to make them normal, to make them normal and banal and regular at the same time and as soon as possible.

She never saw any of those people again.

Now, stuck in this room with a man full of nothing but hate and false pretenses and bad manners, she feels lonely. If there is a god, he abandoned her at birth and at her rebirth in a basement in Bath. There are indeed monsters and abominations in this world and she is one of them, but this is not because of who she is, it is because of what she is - Kindred. She will never again have that community or that love.

Now she feels angry.

She asks if he will join her in her room. She knows how he will see this, and she knows he will take the bait, and she knows she can make a mess there with no repercussions.

She could never make him hurt enough. How much hurt was doled out on the people she loved by ignorant fools like him? How much hurt was doled out not just to them but to people like them and like her?

He has been a bad guest.

He has been so much else, but this is the very last straw.

The screams last for hours.

The pain lasts for days.

The stains last for weeks.

When she meets her boss downstairs the next evening, he seems proud of her.

She placebo on my effect til I feel like something happened

daily affirmations: you'll slay that job interview. you're gonna walk into that interview room and cut the interviewer in half, as well as the table, with one clean swing. you won't leave a soul alive in there. blood on the walls and everything

guy who thinks that being forced to live in a human body is a form of divine torture surprised to learn that she actually quite enjoys living in a girl’s body.

i should figure out how to homebrew white monster actually

I'm going to make it so you can NEVER be forklift certified

i love when characters lie to themselves in the complete privacy of their own minds

‘May I have your name?’ I enquire.

‘                 '

It rings hollow. It disgusts me. It is a lie, and there is nothing we detest more than lies.

But it proves that he is a fool. So I demand more.

‘May I have your assistance?’

‘Of course. Anything you want me to do.’

So his fate is sealed.

I ask him back to mine. To tidy up and arrange the place. To help in my work. Of course, he is inept at first. He was not raised to place flowers in vases, or use a broom, or organise a library.

So I make him adept. For each of his failures - each mote of dust out of place, every fallen petal in the garden, all the slight imperfections - I change him. He is the first thing to go. The mind follows shortly after, with the body trailing behind.

She is now hollower than ever, yet no longer hollow at all. She is adept, her porcelain fingers better at the housework than ever, her new shiny joints no longer complaining from long hours working in the garden, her unblinking eyes finding every little detail to correct and make proper.

Her new voice, light and musical, no longer elicits such disgust in me, for it cannot tell the same lies that the old voice, so coarse and grating, could.

After a certain amount of time, which I do not care to describe for time means little to us, she tells me this:

‘I’m happy, miss.’