I’m A Big Fan Of That Post-laundry Feeling When You’ve Got All Your A-list Clothes Back In The Game.

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It is the first bit of normalcy she has had since her boss vanished.

For three lovely days and nights, she was able to play the role of host, and Drakan the role of valued guest.

She gave him a room, she kept him well fed, and she was as polite as always. In return, he taught her the rules and laws of their clan. He told her how their particular variety of hospitality functioned.

After three days and three nights, he left.

He gave her a gift.

He gave her a knife.

It’s an old thing. It is so very sharp, and comes to a tidy point. The handle is worn and aged, yet the blade shines as though it has never been used.

She takes it in her hand, holds it.

Her cold skin matches the cold of the metal hilt.

She makes a few attempts at cutting and stabbing with it. Her movements are clumsy, lacking her usual grace. No amount of skill at needlework or using a broom has prepared her for this. Even if she were to find herself in a fight, she would much prefer to grow claws or twist and reshape the bodies of her opponents.

But she has been given a gift, and she intends to accept it in every way she can.

She needs to practice.

She goes to one of the spare rooms. She fixed this one herself. She made the bed. She fixed the walls. She crafted the decorations.

For now, none of this matters.

She takes all those raw materials, and shapes them into the thing she needs.

She builds muscles and a skeleton and vocal cords and eyes and teeth.

She takes a brain, but leaves it as empty as it was when she made it into that pretty thing over the fireplace, and puts it inside the body.

Soon, her preparation is done.

She lashes out with her new knife, embedding it in the dummy’s eye.

It jerks and twitches. It screams. It does not fall or move backwards.

She is satisfied.

She removes the blade, and fixes the dummy.

She lashes out again. She cuts its throat. The cerebrospinal fluid it is using as a surrogate for blood spills out.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She moves around the dummy, and crouches swiftly, striking at its legs. She cuts the muscles that keep it standing, and it tumbles to the ground. It cries out again at this.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She walks back around to its front. This time, she strikes lower. She draws her blade through the skin of its belly. Guts come tumbling out. Tears fill the eyes of the dummy.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She plunges the blade into the flesh between its neck and shoulder.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She strikes it under the arm, nearly tearing it off the joint with the force and precision of her blow.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

This goes on for a while.

By the end of her practice, she has become quite adept with a knife. Her movements are exact and calculated. She is graceful again.

She has grown rather fond of this knife.

She fixes her attention on the dummy. Tears stain its face. Viscera and cerebrospinal fluid tarnish the floor around it. It is covered in scars, borne from wounds that have been too rapidly healed.

Its eyes seem to plead with her. She ignores it, and returns all of the materials to their proper places.

She leaves the room with a soulless smile on her face. She wonders what it would be like to practice on something that could still act and think.

But first, she has made a mess, and it is her job as a maidservant to clean it up.

oh this is also an old one

after despair comes joy

someone mentioned cannibalism and my ears perked up like i’m a dog or something bruh fuck my life

gundam brainrot is taking me through every meme format this week apparently

She stands in the hallway, her boss in front of her.

She has stood here every day for the last year. She remembers it well. It is, after all, the anniversary of her arrival.

She has stood here for three hundred and sixty five (and a quarter) days.

She has taken the steps down from her room three hundred and sixty five times.

She has worn this uniform three hundred and sixty five times.

She has met her boss here three hundred and sixty five times.

He has told her what to expect three hundred and sixty five times.

She had gone about her day, sorting meals and making flowers and cleaning and dusting and repairing, three hundred and sixty five times.

It has been a year.

There will be so many more.

Maybe one day she will stand there, in three hundred and sixty five years, and look back on how three hundred and sixty five days seemed like so much.

Three hundred and sixty five sets of three hundred and sixty five.

The thought does something she thought impossible.

It breaks her composure.

Not all that much, but it certainly does.

Her movements, normally so precise and measured and perfect, fail her.

She stumbles slightly, despite standing still.

She keeps the same polite and impassive smile on her face as she rights herself.

She stands up straight and listens.

She feels something on her face. She does not move to wipe it off. Her movements would be unsteady, and even if not for that it would be rude to do so while listening to her boss.

She feels it move down her face. She does nothing.

She feels something fall onto her dress. She ignores it, waits for her boss to finish, then goes about her work.

Some of the other servants, particularly those ghouled, are looking strangely at her.

If she were anyone else, she would be able to interpret these glances and stares of pity and confusion and fear and - in some cases - hunger.

But she chooses not to care, for she has a job to do, and she must do it well.

The feeling on her face continues. Her dress seems to be getting heavier. She is getting hungry far faster than she typically would.

When she comes to her meal, she does not drink with her usual restraint and propriety.

She drains her meal of blood and throws its empty husk against the far wall of her workroom.

The strange sensation on her face persists even now. She does not know why and she does not want to know why. She wishes to not have to think about this. She wishes it were gone.

She finishes her work and climbs the stairs to get to her room.

She walks in, and catches herself in the mirror.

She is a mess.

Twin streams of blood pour out of her eyes and flow down her face, falling off of her chin onto the uniform below. They have started to dry and crack and scab and peel.  It is so very improper.

Her dress is ruined. What was previously white material has been indelibly stained by blood. Where material was previously black, it now appears a deep crimson. In some places, the vitae has settled and is turning a more rusty red in colour.

She shakes her hips slightly. Blood splatters over the floor, and thin sprays of it settle over the mirror.

This simply will not do.

It is rude and improper and impolite to show herself in such a state, let alone go about her daily work looking like this. To show this emotion compromises her role as caretaker and maidservant. She cannot allow this to happen again.

This will hurt, she knows, but she accepts it as her punishment for a job badly done.

She raises her right hand to her bloody face and holds it to her bloody right eye.

She screams in agony as a sharp pain pierces through her above her eye and close to her nose. Her lacrimal gland and lacrimal sac and lacrimal canals are either excised, falling out into her waiting hand, or they knit closed, torturously and irreversibly.

She repeats the process with her other eye. She screams much the same as last time, but she knows that she deserves it.

The flow of vitae from her tears is supplanted by the flow of vitae from her fresh wounds, before she excruciatingly closes them with her vicissitude.

She removes her outfit and steps into her shower, hoping to scrub all reminders of this day from her body as surely as she has erased her ability to cry and show sadness from her face.

Maybe this will make the next three hundred and sixty five more bearable.

i saw a giant billboard for a plumber that was basically just this

I called a boy in my class a 'fucking twink version of dracula' and I feel fulfilled