Almsworth-worm - Normal Person Do Not Read My Mind.

getting murdered but i can’t even afford the name brand stuff so im getting snawed in half and scrabbed to death and shit

THE BEAUTIFUL BASTARD RETURNS!!!

the achilles tendon is the most iconic one to sever

She so resents when they have to get help in. She so resents having to stay up so early. She so resents having to deal with someone who must be coddled and kept at arm’s length so they don’t run screaming to the police or worse.

All things considered, Ophelia Cooper is in a foul mood.

But this was her idea, after all. She is a caretaker, and if this will help to keep her boss and the house safe, she’ll suffer with a smile on her face, no matter how forced.

Her guest has arrived outside. There’s a van full of tools and mess and clutter sitting on the doorstep of a place she’s laboured to keep clean for years.

They knock at the door - using the ornate door knocker and not crudely knocking on the door itself. The intercom activates, and before she can get a bad-tempered word out, they speak - they ask if they can come in. Not only this, but they ask ‘please’, and when Ophelia gives them their instructions, she says a short ‘thank you’. And they close the door behind themselves, keeping the dreaded sun out.

Her bad mood having suddenly evaporated, she descends to meet her guest.

Her guest stands in the hallway, not unsettled in the slightest by the flowers or books or furniture or ornaments that adorn the interior. She is oh so beautiful and oh so polite, and Ophelia feels something stir within her. It is not the artless whispers of romance that she gave up long ago, or the brutal covetousness she often feels - this is something else, something strange and rare and new and odd. She is utterly entranced by this woman, and hangs on her every word.

‘Where’d you need the hob installing?’

Back to work then. An electric hob is so much safer than a gas one, reducing the risk of random fires and avoids provoking The Beast since no flame is present. It took her a while to persuade her boss that this was a useful measure.

The two head into the kitchen, and names are exchanged, as is polite and proper.

‘Ophelia Cooper, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Elizabeth Smith, lovely to make your acquaintance’

There is something she felt once, back when her sire tore out her throat and turned her. It was an odd feeling, a certain emptiness in the stomach, and an uncertainty about whether or not to run screaming, no matter how rude it would be.

As she watches Elizabeth set about her work, proceeding tidily and methodically and leaving no mess and making polite conversation and always saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and using proper manner and etiquette, she feels it again.

When the work is finished, she knows what she should do. She should Dominate her, clouding her memory of these events and making her forget this house and these people forever, or drag her to her boss for him to do the same.

She is at war with her own mind here. She wishes to see them again. She wishes to know her better. She was so polite and well-mannered, in a way that reminded her of Maria, wherever she is now.

She comes to a conclusion that appeases her need to do her job, her need to be polite, and her need to preserve this lovely thing in front of her.

After leading Elizabeth into the hall and allowing her to leave, she goes to meet her boss.

Sure, he’ll be annoyed if she wakes him at this time of day, but he’ll trust her ideas, and maybe the sleepiness will make him acquiesce sooner.

They really should replace that gas oven, it presents such a risk. Oh, and the boiler, that’s also gas, and it’s not as though Kindred need the warmth. Oh, also work on the roof should be done to stop the sun getting in. And security systems could keep him safer.

And before he knows it, Elizabeth Smith may be as much a part of his household and maintenance team as Ophelia is.

And then Ophelia never has to stop looking at her. Never has to stop basking in her politeness and manners.

She could maybe introduce her to her sire’s boss, that ‘Dragon’. After all, how many havens could be refitted to reduce the risk of fire and sun and humans.

And if the Dragon finds her polite enough and good enough at her job, she could have Elizabeth Smith for eternity.

They call it “boymoding”. Yeah all the girls are doing it. It’s when your nipples poke through your shirt no matter what you do

They’ve been walking around for a while now. Not really sure where they’re going, not really sure why. Their legs start to ache, and they can walk no longer.

They come to the front of an old building, well-maintained yet clearly showing its age. They ignore the gardens, and do not dare to cross the fence. The cold and rain bite into their face.

They need to stop. They need to rest. They go towards the doorway, and sit on one of the steps there, protected from the elements.

They sit there for a while. It is so late at night, and they are so tired.

They sit and stare into the night.

They do this for a while.

The door behind them opens, and they wake from their reverie. They quickly lift themselves off of the step, and turn to face whoever is in the doorway.

How can they describe the sight that awaits them?

A beautiful looking young lady stands there, wearing an elaborate dress they swear they’ve seen in a museum somewhere. Her skin is pale, looking almost dead. Her hands are clasped together in front of her, and they do not move. Her eyes appear as though they do not need to blink, and she stares at them and through them. She does not appear to be breathing.

The most horrible detail of her appearance, though, is her smile.

It appears kind, caring, almost loving. But it is clear as day that it is only an appearance. There is no feeling behind it. It is a smile born of manners and propriety and nothing else. They imagine it is the kind of smile serial killers give their victims before they plunge a knife into their chest.

This is not to mention what lies beyond the threshold of the building. The hall is warmly lit, yet is cold and uninviting nevertheless. The aroma of flowers fills the air, and it reminds them of the bouquets people leave at funerals or on graves. They can see some of the flowers themselves. They are so beautiful, yet so horrid at the same time.

She has some of them in her hair.

They wonder if she is a ghost of some kind. If she is one of the Fair Folk, here to torment and torture them. If she is human at all, or ever was.

She opens her mouth, and the sound that emanates is so sickly sweet as to be smothering.

‘Are you quite alright?’

The words themselves should be comforting. They should fill them with warmth and reassurance.

But the tone…

There is nothing behind it. It is the tone one hears from a clock chiming the hour, or a music box repeating a song. Words that should calm and help instead fix them to the steps.

They stare at her in terror, even though they cannot put a finger on what is amiss.

Maybe it’s that everything is amiss.

She steps forwards, and it is this that breaks them. Her movements are so measured, so perfect. She does not shake or twitch. It is as though something has placed a hand on her and moved her.

The smell of her flowers fills their nose as they inhale. Maybe it is their imagination, but there is an undertone of flesh and meat and blood.

Her shoe hits the step.

They turn and run into the night. At least whatever monsters await them in the shadows do not pretend to be something else. They do not wear a dress that is centuries out of fashion. They do not act with such inhuman grace. They do not gut and flay kindness and dress their words up in its skin.

Those monsters would tear them apart, and at this moment they would find it a mercy compared to whatever fate she would promise them.

As they sprint away as fast as their legs can carry them, they wonder if she is following them. They wonder if she will catch up with them. They wonder if she will ask them what exactly caused them to leave so suddenly, utterly oblivious to her own wrongness.

The thought terrifies them.

She sits on the chair, legs crossed, waiting in anticipation.

Her friend takes an object, shows it to her to reassure her.

Explains what it is, how it works, what it does. Something to do with electromagnets, currents in the brain, and depth of stimulation.

Explains how it can have an impact on activity in specific parts of the brain.

She doesn’t understand half of it, but she gets the gist, and it sounds fun.

A couple of switches are flicked. Maybe a button is pressed, or a large dial is turned.

Her friend moves the object back, holding it to the side of her head.

Nothing happens.

She opens her mouth to enquire, and gibberish falls out. She can’t even form a word, let alone a sentence.

Her friend smiles.

She blushes.

She does not collapse, or raise her hands to cover her face. She wouldn’t be a good test subject if she did that.

Her friend moves the object to the back of her head, and flashes of light appear in her vision.

Her friend moves the object to the top of her head, and she jolts a little bit, her senses feel off.

Her friend moves the object to the front of her head.

Her mind goes blank.

If she could plan, or reason, or imagine, she would hear the pleasure in the voice of her friend as she explains the role of the frontal lobe in complex thought.

As it is, she sits limply, eyes open and empty.

The object is removed, turned off.

Thoughts rush back into her mind.

Her friend takes her hand.

Moves it up to her lips.

Thanks her for being such a perfect thing to study.

Kisses the back of her hand.

Once more, her mind goes blank.

She smiles, stands, and together they sweep out of the room.

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