Microfiction - Blog Posts
Batman has to constantly remind them he's not going down with the sinking ship when it's not his fault
Superman: Yeah, so we're turning ourselves into the government. Do you want to meet us there, or should we meet with you?
Batman: …
Wonder Woman: Batman, we're on a time crunch. Just give us your answer.
Batman (while driving, hesitating): First, I'm fine, thank you. How are you? Second, my son, who is in the car with me, is also fine… thankfully. Third, are you on crack?
Superman: I… We as a team voted that it's best if we turn ourselves into the government.
Batman (flatly): That's a decision you made. You guys have fun with it. Can I go now?
Wonder Woman: You’re part of the team! You have to turn yourself in!
Batman: Says who?
Wonder Woman: We decided as a team!
Batman: Yes, good for you. Why am I being dragged into this?
Wonder Woman and Superman: YOU ARE PART OF THIS TEAM!
Damian (in the background): Father, can we get McFlurrys later?
Batman (to Damian): Why do people eat those? They taste disgusting.
Damian: You have to get the one with the Oreos.
Superman: We’re still on the call!
Batman (annoyed): Right, not going in. Bye.
Wonder Woman: Don’t end the call! You have to hear us out.
Batman: I should just hang up, but I’m bored and need something entertaining to listen to. Proceed.
Flash (speaking first): Take one for the team, Bruce.
Batman: Okay, first, when I'm on a call with any of you, call me by my hero name. Commissioner Gordon can get away with that, but I’m not on that level with most of you. Second, I’m not on this team if you want me to do this ridiculousness. Third, seriously, are you on crack?
Green Arrow (in the background): Thank you for not saying heroin.
Damian (in the background): Father, why do they think you’re dumb?
Batman: Because they’re not very smart.
Green Arrow (expecting this): It’s amazing how badly this is going. I told you guys he’d say no, but nobody listens to me.
Batman: This is one of the rare times I agree with Arrow. I didn't sign up for a team where we all turn ourselves in for something I didn’t do.
Superman: It’s a team decision.
Batman: I don’t care.
Superman: But it’s for solidarity.
Batman: That I don’t care about.
Superman: Again, we’re a hero team. We’ve saved the world together; can’t you do this one little thing?
Green Lantern (Hal): And his response is…
Batman: Fighting villains, I enjoy. I wouldn’t be on a sports team, a firefighter team, or a doctor team with you if you're going to be this dense, and I sure as hell won't be on this team if you want me to do something this stupid. Is the brain cell you share gone for the day?
Superman: Okay, well… Kara is going with us.
Batman: And I've lost a little respect for her.
Supergirl: Hey! Wait, you had respect for me?
Batman: Did you contact any of my adult kids? Nightwing? Red Robin? I know Red Hood would just laugh before hanging up.
Superman: We haven't called them yet… but I bet they'd say yes!
Batman: No, they wouldn’t. I know that because they just texted my youngest son, who’s with me, and their messages say, “Not a chance in hell.” I didn’t even have to say anything. I raised them well.
Superman: Can’t you put aside your ego and just do this for us?
Batman: Who’s going to pick up my son from school? Go to my daughter's recital? Attend my other son’s group therapy session? Talk to my future fiancée about where I’ll be? Just curious, which one of you will handle that?
Batman waited for a few seconds, and none of the members responded.
Batman: Right. As stated, I'm not going, and if you call me again with this stupid request, I'm cutting the power to the building for a month. I will let that building decay to prove a point.
Damian: You tell 'em, Father!
Batman ended the video call without another word.
Wonder Woman: He’s getting calmer with his reactions.
Green Arrow: Yeah… Guys, maybe we don’t turn ourselves in this time. Maybe we… do something else? Anything else, because he has a point. I'm not sinking in the Titanic when there's a lifeboat.
Aquaman: Good Titanic metaphor.
Green Arrow: Thanks, man.
‘Wrapped’ Around My Finger
“Good evening everyone! I’m your host Ann Romano joined tonight by two of the biggest names in music….please give it up for Corroded Coffin frontman Eddie Munson and Grammy winner Steve Harrington!”
The crowd goes wild.
This is a big deal, two of the biggest names in history with a giant rivalry.
Everyone knew the story. They grew up in a small town together and were on different levels of popularity ultimately ruining what could’ve been a fantastic friendship. Even now ten years since high school they can’t get over it. They hate each other always trying to one up each other.
Eddie trying to make a point that even the freaks can become famous. Stating, “I didn’t need money like Steve Harrington to win a Grammy I have my talent to thank for that.”
The two walk out onto the stage and sit on the couch making sure to leave some distance between them.
“Thank you both for coming out tonight! I know it’s a big trip from LA to New York. It probably helps that you live here huh Steve?”
“Actually I moved to LA.”
Eddie turns to look at him shocked.
“You moved? When did you move? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would it have mattered? It’s not like we see each other anyway. You can barely look at me and you’re sitting two inches from me.”
Eddie huffs in his seat and turns towards Ann, trying to remember what little of his media training he had.
“I only care because I’m a good neighborly fellow of course.”
Ann laughs flicks her hand at him.
“Oh you guys are just too funny. I knew you secretly cared for each other which brings me to my next segment, a game I like to call, “Wrapped Up!” You see gentleman, both of your agents gave me access to your Spotify wrapped and now we’re gonna let the audience in as well!”
The two turn white.
“Is that necessary?” Eddie asks through gritted teeth.
“Why not?” Steve adds in. “I have nothing to hide.” He narrows his eyes at Eddie.
Eddie rolls his eyes at him.
Ann laughs nervously. “Fantastic! Let’s jump to it!”
She gestures behind her where a giant screen shows Steve’s wrapped.
“Alight fellas, Eddie gets three points for every artist he guesses on the first try. He gets three tries, one point if he gets the artist by the third try.”
“Easy.” Eddie smirks.
Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You always were easy.”
“Alright guys let’s focus on the game here!” Ann jumps in.
“Alright number 5….Wham.”
*a bell rings*
“Fantastic start Eddie!”
“What’d I say, easy,” he smirks.
“4. Tears for Fears.”
“3. ABBA.”
“2. Queen.”
“1. Toto.”
*incorrect buzzer sound*
“Ok…Madonna.”
*incorrect*
“Alright Eddie this is your last chance. You’ve done fantastic so far so I think you’re going to win no matter what. Sorry Steve.” Ann says.
“Hey none taken. I definitely didn’t even think he’d do this well.” Steve smirks at him.
“Alright big boy hold onto your pants. I got this.”
Eddie takes a deep inhale.
“Brittney Spears!”
*louder more incorrect buzzer*
“Ugh!”
“Sorry Eddie! But I don’t think even you could’ve guessed this one. Are you ready folks let’s see what it is-”
The crowd goes wild.
Steve’s smirks goes crazy.
Eddie is pale.
Up on the screen in big obnoxious letters is “CORRODED COFFIN”
“That’s right folks! Since Eddie did so well let’s let him play a similar game for Steve’s top songs. Are you ready Eddie!”
Eddie is not breathing.
“Um-”
“Great let’s start!”
“5….Girls just wanna have fun?”
*DING*
“4.Dancing Queen”
*incorrect buzzer*
“Material Girl”
*incorrect buzzer*
Eddie sighs.
“Crown of Thorns.”
*DING*
“That’s right Eddie! Your very own song Crown of Thorns was his number 4? Wanna take a guess at the rest?”
Eddie grits his teeth. “I’m not sure I have a choice.”
“Haha of course you don’t! Now! Number three!”
“3. Heavy is the Head.”
“2. Reign.”
“1….”
He looks nervous.
“Kneel Before the King.”
*DING*
“You got them! Fantastic work Eddie! Were you surprised that four of his five were songs written by you? How could you possibly guess them?”
“At first I was surprised…you know we have this rivalry thing going on but…I’ve been watching Steve since I was fourteen. I know him well. As soon as I saw his top artist I knew his top songs would be the ones I wrote about him.”
The crowd gasps.
“Don’t get me wrong I wrote a lot more about him but these in particular…”
“They’re about forbidden love.” Steve chimes in. His eyes are watering.
“Yeah.”
“That’s why they were my favorite.”
Eddie gives him a sad smile.
“You wrote them about me?”
Eddies smile turns into a frown. “About you, for you, it was always for you, all of them.”
“All of them?”
“Everything. My entire discography. Every performance. Every press tour. Every photo shoot. You just had to worm your way into my life Harrington…my heart.” He whispers that last part but they’re so close together Steve can hear it.
Well barely hear it…his heartbeat is so loud in his ears.
“Anyways Ann what’s next.”
Ann is staring at him in open mouthed shock.
“Wow. This so perfect.” She turns to Steve. “Ready for your turn?”
“Nah.” Eddie says. “Skip to my number one artist.”
Behind them a video starts playing on the screen.
“Hey it’s Steve! Thanks so much for being my number one fan! I mean top .01 percent is a tough spot to get! It means so much to me that I’m your number one artist-”
Steve can’t take his eyes off of Eddie, when could he ever?
“I’m your number one artist?” he asks so softly Eddie can barely hear it.
“Of course…I like the sound of your voice.” He shrugs his shoulder like it’s no big deal.
“Can we talk? I mean after the show?”
Eddie smiles at him.
“Of course Stevie, I’d like that.”
“I would also like to know!” Ann cuts in.
They forgot this was being streamed to millions of people and filmed in front of a live studio audience.
—————
Later Backstage:
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE MY NEW NEIGHBOR HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS!!!????”
“Honestly Eddie I don’t know. For someone who claims to be obsessed with me-”
“I didn’t-“”
“Obsessed.” Steve puts a finger to Eddie’s lips to shut him up. “You didn’t notice I’d moved in next door.”
“Hell just move in with me.”
“…alright.”
Meeting her was a heart consuming experience… I used a spoon.
Gastón R. Fernandez G.
Precious #nanotale #microfiction #authorsnote #parents #toddlers #cuteness #short #words #poetry #mywords #mywriting #postoftheday#picoftheday #likeforlike #followforfollow #lovers #heartbreak #lessonslearnt #motivation #storiesthatcoach #lifestories #confessions #my2017 #laboursandleisures #writersofig #poetsofig #whynot #terriblytinytales #scribbledstories #scrawledstories #booksofig #beautaplin #authorsnote (at Dreamland)
No. 1 Fan #parents #support #love #microfiction #trends #words #poetry #mywords #mywriting #postoftheday#picoftheday #likeforlike #followforfollow #lessonslearnt #motivation #storiesthatcoach #lifestories #confessions #my2017 #laboursandleisures #writersofig #poetsofig #whynot #terriblytinytales #scribbledstories #scrawledstories #booksofig #beautaplin #authorsnote #dream (at Bangalore, India)
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Repost from @readabookchallenge So glad to be collaborating with some amazing minds 😄 #words #writers #authors #reading #writing #stories #myjourney #microfiction #terriblytinytales #loveall #trends #readabookchallenge #writersofig #poetsofig #wordsofthesoul #lessonslearnt #booksbooksbooks #readtillyoureyesarered #amazingwords #wordsthatchangetheworld #inspiration #motovation #philosophy #vcsocam #noedits #instalikes (at Bangalore, India)
Never let go of the ones you love. Not everyone is fortunate to have as many people as you do! Sure, you may need to stay away - but never let go. #neverletgo #microfiction #trends (at Bangalore, India)
Scales of Karma #onelasttime #2016inanutshell #karma #dogood #whatgoesaroundcomesaround #dogoodanditwillreturn #writers #31122016 #message #newyearseve #terriblytinytales #microfiction #trends #shortstories #livetotell #lessonslearnt #storiesthatcoach #loveall #dreamers #writersofig #poetsofig #whynot #laboursandleisures #smritimenon (at Bangalore, India)
He jumped off the balcony, says Nicolas. The beast overtook him, maybe he saw a particularly delicious looking Kine and the last vestiges of his hunger, for he does not seem the type to finish his meals, reared their ugly head.
Shade himself seems shaken by this suggestion. At the very least she fixed his legs after the fall. Of course it hurt more than natural healing ever would have, but he has not been as good a guest as he could be, so clearly it is deserved.
Of all of them, he seems to cling to his humanity the most. He rejects her work and her vicissitude out of fear or hatred, yet seems to try to empathise with Nicolas, as though such a thing is even possible.
If she could remember how to, she would laugh.
She remembers how Nicolas talked about Elizabeth, her Elizabeth, as though she were no different from the blood bags the Camarilla driver had graciously given them. He thinks of her as an object, but is so crude about it. Would one take a bite out of a particularly useful vacuum cleaner, or drink from a lovely painting? No, Elizabeth may be hers, but her purpose is not to be consumed.
She resolves to keep a close eye on Elizabeth when she next comes for work.
She resolves to keep a close eye on Nicolas, lest he prove himself to be less polite than she thinks.
But, back to the matter of Shade. He seemed to wish to present her with some overwhelming truth about her own existence. He reacted with shock to the news that she had barely left the premises - indeed that she was actually incapable of it - as well as the revelation that she had never been paid a wage, and that she simply worked because she had been told to.
None of this seems particularly odd to her. Is there any particular reason it should?
For Maria he seemed to show great disdain, acting as though she had abandoned her in the house of a stranger, when she was clearly busy with work or preoccupied by some other matters.
She would never abandon Ophelia, right?
These matters have been gnawing on her since she invited the coterie to stay at hers - one of the many reasons for which she made Shade’s legs hurt so very badly. She resolves to dispel her concerns for now, and focus on the task at hand.
Shade fell victim to the beast, and jumped.
Dear Nicolas told her this, and she has no reason to distrust him. He may arouse her suspicion in some regards, but he has yet to lie to her.
But poor Shade. She could spend hours listing the reasons for which she is coming to dislike him. His barely disguised fear, his constant oscillating between treating her and Nicolas as pitiful victims and dreadful monsters, his anger leading him to threaten one of her guests under her roof, his unending infantilising insistence on calling her ‘kid’ out of some deluded paternal affection towards the unfortunate misguided girl he sees her as.
To know that this is the case could well and truly break him. As one of her guests, she has a responsibility to avoid that.
So she lies. It does not matter if all can see that she is lying. The purpose is not to be believed, it is instead to plant seeds of doubt.
‘The balcony is in some disrepair, and I have been meaning to fix it for a while.’
None of this is true.
But, just maybe, it could delay Shade’s inevitable descent towards the savage and violent clutches of the beast until he is out of her house and far away from her Elizabeth.
And if that is not the case, and he is moved to damage what belongs to her, she will tear him apart and rebuild him in the image of the monster that he tries so desperately to avoid being.
Nicolas seems to dislike him as well. Maybe after his limbs are made useless, she should hand him over to Baudelaire for a while before she reshapes him. He has, after all, wronged him.
It would be the polite thing to do, would it not?
As Maria’s fangs descend towards her throat, everything seems to slow.
She had known about what was meant to occur before you died. Things were meant to slow like this, were they not? Her life was meant to flash before her eyes, and then she would go wherever there was after death.
The fangs sink into her, and her throat is fully pulled from her neck.
Her head goes limp, turning sideways onto the table.
In the corner of her vision, she sees a silhouette.
It looks rather like herself, if her form were that of a blank and formless hole in the fabric of existence. It walks forwards on nonexistent legs, inducing movement in the folds of a nonexistent dress. It looks at her with eyes that do not exist. It opens an impossible mouth.
‘AGAIN.’
She lies on the table.
As Maria’s fangs descend towards her throat, everything seems to slow.
She had done this before, she knows.
The fangs sink into her.
‘AGAIN.’
She lies on the table.
As Maria’s fangs descend towards her throat, everything seems to slow.
She had done this before, she knows.
The fangs sink into her.
‘AGAIN.’
She lies on the table.
As Maria’s fangs descend towards her throat, everything seems to stop.
Maria is frozen, jaws open and unresponsive.
Her employer too is frozen.
The ‘furniture’ is unmoving.
‘NOW.’
Everything seems to speed up.
The furniture rots and decays. The table upon which she lies breaks and gives way. Dust collects on every part of the room. Maria and her employer go hollow and desiccated, gaunt skin stretching over bone, before they disintegrate and join the debris on the floor.
Everything seems to return to normal.
She somehow intuits that she has been in that room for several months.
She picks herself off of the floor and returns upstairs. The house is in such a state, but whatever this is will surely help her to maintain it.
And when that is done she can reach out, and try to find out more about this world she was utterly oblivious to.
She sees the silhouette again.
She nods her head at it, and before it winks out of her vision and returns to within her, she swears she sees it curtsy in response.
She has been here for some time now. Maybe two and a half years? She hasn’t paid too much attention to it.
In her role as head maid, she is proud to say that she has established a strong rapport with those working under her. She is polite and proper, but they also know her to be kind and fair. She will help out where she can, they know.
She has grown rather fond of some of them.
One of them in particular has grown rather fond of her.
This one steals longing glances at her when she thinks she isn’t looking. This one tries to work with her wherever she can. This one’s hand brushes against her dress for a second too long when they pass each other in a corridor.
But Ophelia keeps things professional.
At least, until she cannot any longer.
One day, she sees her talking to one of her colleagues. He is giving her the same glances and looks and eyes that Ophelia normally receives from her. He is talking, and empathising and reassuring and making offers of assistance.
He moves closer, hand stretching out slightly.
Something within Ophelia snaps.
A sudden rush of possessiveness flows through her. She must have her. She must make her hers. She simply must.
She swiftly glides between the two of them, and snaps at him to get on with his work.
She turns slowly, and enquires as to her wellbeing. She praises her for her excellent work. She compliments her.
All of it is sincere. She has no need to lie here.
She notes the slight blush in her face. The way her pupils dilate slightly. The way the look into her eyes shifts from one of timidity and hesitation into a predatory one that rather reminds Ophelia of herself.
Ophelia asks her if she would like to take a break, and takes her upstairs, and invites her into her room.
The second the door swings closed behind them, Ophelia is near tackled off of her feet and carried to the bed.
She is placed on her lap, and they stare greedily at each other, drinking each other in.
Her hand deftly moves to Ophelia’s face, caressing her cheek before descending to her chest.
They kiss.
Ophelia, through practice and effort, is just about able to warm her lips when they touch.
Her other hand slides beneath Ophelia’s skirt.
It moves up her thigh.
Her hand pulls back suddenly. She pushes herself away from Ophelia, and Ophelia falls from on her lap. She stands, and stares at Ophelia, sprawled and discarded across the bed. She raises her hand to her face, and it is covered in blood. There is far more than there would be under any other circumstances. It is not blood, she realises. It is vitae.
She had let herself forget these things. She let herself forget that Ophelia was nothing like her. She is a human woman and Ophelia is nothing more than a corpse, brought to a semblance of life by whatever foul substance flows through her veins. Whatever Ophelia pretends to be, they are nothing alike.
Look at her, staring up from the bed, eyes wide and mouth agape. She’s not even crying. Is that even possible? Maybe she isn’t even human enough for that.
She runs from the room.
Ophelia tries and fails to pick herself up from on the bed.
She lies there for a while.
She rolls over, and sees vitae leaking out from around her eyes. It seems she is cursed to never be able to truly hide her emotions.
She sits up, and stands in her room for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts and composing herself.
She walks downstairs to find the other servant from earlier.
She finds him, and in her sadness and rage and inhumanity she eviscerates him and disembowels him and twists him into all kinds of painful and beautiful shapes and drains him of his blood and takes him apart and puts him back together again.
When all of this is done, she deigns to kill him.
She leaves him as flowers in the entryway.
She returns to her room, and feeling just a bit less human than she did when the day started, she lets the daysleep take her.
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.
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.
Upon a lonely road was a messenger from The Court, sent to parlay with a number of Decay-aligned knightly orders. Their actions would be of great consequence in the days to follow. Hundreds or even thousands of lives were banking on their ability to reach the camp within the night. However, their horse had…
{This is rather dull, is it not? Whether or not they make it, there will be a great deal of slaughter. This doesn’t matter a bit. Without consequences and results, how are things meant to be fun?}
[I agree with your sentiment, but for different reasons. They merely serve others. They should try to do something for themselves. I of all people know that fate is far from certain, so why would they not choose to forge their own?]
{I believe this is our first time talking. It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m The Princess.}
[...]
{And your name is?}
[I am called The Sacrifice. It fits well enough.]
{...}
[We are opposing forces, are we not? I have taken humanity and made it all I am. I have no body or mind and yet I remain human.]
{And I have rejected humanity. However, we are rather similar. We both chose to reject the Laws of this place, and decided to make ones of our own.}
[We do indeed share that, Miss Princess.]
{So, why are we both here, and what are we to discuss?}
[I am not quite sure. When I stood in front of the Mainspring and burnt away, I chose to exist. I did not, though, choose where and when I exist.]
{Excuse me if it is rude to ask, but are you dead?}
[I exist. I chose to. Therefore I do.]
{I expected such a cryptic answer.}
[Oh, but it is the truth. So, why are you here?]
{I thought these events would be entertaining, and it turns out they have been, though not for the reasons I expected.}
[I hate to interrupt, but I can feel myself drifting away. Far too many things call to me, and I cannot hope to answer them all. I must depart.]
{Well, it’s been lovely to meet you. I’ll head off too. I no longer care for that messenger or their horse or their meeting. As far as I am concerned, that story ends here.}
They had lived their life rather interestingly. Other people took the Laws of this world for granted. Those people saw no interest in making a change, they simply existed, making no impact on the world around them. They hated that.
They looked at the beliefs of the people, and they saw so many holes and flaws and problems.
They did not endeavour to fix these things. They took advantage of them, and made a good living. They turned lead into gold, water into wine, death into life.
It was the last, they reflect, that caused this to occur.
Their body shifts and twist beneath them. They broke the Laws, and now they face the consequences. They remember how this is meant to go. They will die, or they will be found innocent and emptied out, left to wander the world as a hollow shell of themselves.
A single word rings out in their mind.
‘No.’
Things are wrong. Things are broken and denied and unfulfilled. They continue to twist and shift. It hurts now, the fire of agony racing through their mind. This is unnatural, and it should not be.
Yet, in defiance of the Laws, it is.
They are torn apart and put back together. Claws and chitin and shell and bone and meat are grown and crushed, their flesh buckling and shaping in the same way as clay is worked by a potter.
They lose their mind halfway through this. All that is left is bestial aggression and animal instincts and emotion. They are so full of sadness and anger and regret and they do not know why.
They know only one thing - they have been found guilty.
Voices permeate the trees around them. They think as best they can.
These people are not guilty and yet they are.
This is unfair. They grow angrier and angrier.
They decide.
Claws extended, flesh warping, eyes wide, and mouth agape, they lurch towards the voices.
She loved The Factory. It certainly helped that she knew little else. Every day, she rose and set about her work. She assembled weapons and machines and more. She did her part, taking care of the children being raised in their little outpost. She ate and drank and worked and did very nearly nothing else.
But in this case, ‘nothing else’ is far from inconsequential.
She told the children about the stories that had been passed down from her parents. She dreamt about those stories. These stories had endured from a time where, quite unthinkably to her, The Factory had not yet expanded to assimilate their home. They talked about dragons and fools and vagabonds and knights and - her favorite - princesses. They held messages of defiance, of truth, of nobility.
She took these stories, and held them close to get through the day.
As time went on, she grew tired. These stories seemed to become more and more distant. She made things for people to use to kill each other in faraway lands. There was no meaning to her existence, no message, nothing coming to save her.
She became dull.
{And there is nothing I detest more than dullness.}
But she was rewarded. It seems as though fate {Nobility.} had taken a shine to her.
An accident happened.
Something went horribly wrong. Maybe some munitions assembly went wrong. Maybe a load-bearing beam had been built cheaply or incorrectly. The method doesn’t matter, only the results.
For the first time in her life, she steps outside.
The stories come rushing back to her. She breathes fresh air and stares at a clear sky.
She sees trees, and plants, and animals. She is entranced, and she steps into the forest.
In the stories, how often does an errant heroine wander through the woods?
Well, not too often. Usually they are relegated to the role of witless maidens to be saved.
This story is different, for it has truth to it.
She wanders, and time loses all meaning.
Roots and leaves and branches all blur into one. She could have been in there for seconds or centuries.
She steps out of the forest.
In front of her is a castle, looking as though it had been carefully copied from the ones in her dreams. Spires and towers and moats and crenellations and yet more features fill her vision.
She steps into the castle. {And I am waiting for her.}
She greets the person within in the manner she remembers from the old tales.
{I look within her, and I see her as she ought to be. She is full of lovely tales, and I am in need of some entertainment. It seems our goals align, though she is unaware of what she actually wants. I suppose I must give it to her.}
The Princess on her throne smiles at her, and opens her mouth.
She offers her a place in her domain, where she will never have to worry about dullness and boredom. Where she would never need to abandon her stories.
She accepts, of course.
{So I took her and made her suited to her purpose. It has led to such fun results.}
And she lived happily ever after.
The End.
He left his village a long time ago.
He did it for simple reasons. He wished to serve his Lords. He wished to keep his village safe from all manner of threats that lurk in this world. He wished for a full stomach and a fuller purse.
They accepted him into their service, and decided to have him as a Man-At-Arms.
He thanked them for their understanding and care, when they have no such things.
They took his legs, and replaced them with segmented metal things, which would allow him to run and jump further and faster. They took his eyes, which insisted on blinking and flinching, and made it so that he would miss no shots through fault of his own. They took his arms, and gave him new ones, covered in blades and places to mount weapons and ammunition.
They sent him out among countless others.
…
It is much, much later.
He marches alongside his comrades. He marches alongside towering Implements, which fill him with a sense of dread and unease, despite the fact that they are on the same side. He marches towards his enemy.
Corrosion awaits.
The ground is stained a dirty orange. Leaves drop from the trees and hit the ground in a cacophony of falling rust. He sees things that were once people, now twisted into metal shapes. It smells of rot.
Alongside his comrades, he readies his weapons.
They burn it all down.
…
It is a bit later.
The area has been cleaned and secured. They continue marching.
The place into which they march is Corrosion no longer. This is the domain of Decay.
Half-dead and never-living things surround them and charge forwards.
Gunfire rakes through the air. Gouts of flame burst forth from some of the Implements. Others open fire with immense cannon. Some sweep through the enemy with oversized blades and crushing instruments. He joins his comrades. He fires upon the enemy.
The march continues.
Comrade and foe alike fall.
Implements stagger and are dragged down by the sheer weight of the enemy.
His ammunition runs dry. His comrades suffer the same fate.
The march continues.
Now they fight with blades alone. The march has slowed. Death is omnipresent, watching over both sides and exacting a heavy toll.
His comrades drop, one by one.
The march continues.
He marches alone.
The march continues.
He marches right out of the other end of the Decay.
…
‘... and for your services to The Court, you are to be rewarded with a place among our number, safe from the Corrosion and Decay that spoiled so many of your fine compatriots.’
He is knighted.
They take his lungs. They take his spine. They take his brain. They take his mind.
He thinks of his village, and how long it has been.
He does not understand.
But, he supposes, he does not have to. He is one of The Court now, and the actions of mere humans are far below him. He does not care any more.
His new brain and heart tick away steadily, and he rises.
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.
It all starts rather abruptly.
She’s going about her day - well, her night - doing all of her usual jobs. She’s found and served a meal for her boss. She’s told the others she works with the tasks they have to do, then she’s gone to do her fair share of those tasks.
As things stand, she’s in the hallway, about an hour before sunrise, checking over all the decorations and improvements and fixes she’s made to the house.
In her time here, she’s turned a building on the edge of collapse into one that is not only structurally sound, but one that is beautiful and that she can be proud of.
Not to mention, her methods mean that all the waste from her and her boss’ meals gets put to use. She’s tidy and efficient like that, never wasting something that can be put to use.
She spent decades working on this place. She painted and repainted the door. She fixed the knocker on the front of it. She found and installed the locks that keep it closed. She has lavished that same amount of love and attention and care on every little detail of the place.
This is why it’s so upsetting when the door caves in.
A sharp tearing of metal rings out as the door flies off its hinges and backwards into the hallway.
She’s angry, but she isn’t stupid. She’s also quite quick, dashing upstairs before she can be seen.
Four people stride into the house, looking rather pleased with the damage they’ve caused.
What other details of these people matter? Neither their appearance nor their clothes nor their gear change a single thing about their fate.
The door she’s cared for for decades lies splintered and broken across a floor she’s cared for for decades, in a room she’s maintained and cared for for decades, in a building she’s cared for for decades.
She made that floor herself, taking out rotten planks of wood and replacing them with her usual materials. She made those flowers lining the hall. She made those books on the shelves. She made these walls.
The floor under the hunters erupts, sharp slivers of bone and teeth appearing from it as though out of thin air.
One hunter is caught in their leg. They stumble. They fall.
The floor yawns open to let them fall through. They’re in the void between the floor and the foundations now. She can deal with them later.
One hunter stands, leaning against the wall, recovering from their sudden exertion.
This one is fast.
A long, thin, and sharpened bone - maybe a femur, she thinks - slides swiftly out of the wall and impales them through their heart. Their life drains from them as they struggle powerlessly to lift themselves off the spike that rests in their torso.
One hunter is brave. They climb the stairs, taking the steps two or three at a time, intending doubtlessly to kill her.
Claws grow from the fingers of her right hand. She dashes forwards with a swift, controlled movement.
Their face a bloody, pulped ruin, she discards their corpse over the banister.
She has made rather a mess of herself. It is not proper for her to have so much blood in her hair, or on her hands, or on her dress. It will take hours of scrubbing for her to clean herself and her clothes.
The last one stands, frozen still, eyes fixed on hers. They can do nothing but uselessly open and close their mouth as she descends, and rests her hands on their arms.
Their eyes beg for mercy.
Their form distends and stretches. Muscles and bones snap and reform. She needs more material for this, so she fetches the corpses of their comrades. The three are joined and remade.
At the end of this, she has something to replace the door they so rudely destroyed.
The first hunter to fall is kept a while longer. She has exerted herself oh so much, and is rather in need of a drink before she goes to clean herself and lay herself to bed.
Her boss had another guest round. The sort that appreciates her special cooking. The sort that was polite enough to thank her for her impeccable manners.
She wonders when these manners started.
Was she simply a child who looked for praise at every opportunity, and found politeness to be the best way of getting it? When she grew older, was it the way she acted when she distracted herself from everything going on? When she grew yet older, was it the best way to respond to the hatred and contempt of some horrible people while mitigating the risk of harm to herself? Was it a habit she learnt when she started working as a maidservant? Did she become polite as a result of exposure to her new family’s habits? Was she never polite at all?
She turns to the mirror she’s polishing.
She looks into her own eyes.
She makes herself forget this moment.
She’s further along with her work than she thought she would be. Time really does fly sometimes.
She finishes polishing the mirror, and moves to her next job. She is to take the bins out.
It’s beneath her, really, but some of the regular staff are ill, so she steps in.
She takes them out past the gates to the property, the rain barely bothering her.
She remembers the phone Elizabeth gave her, the one with her number already typed in under the contact name ‘Elizabeth :)’. She remembers checking it over to make sure it was free of tampering and tracking based on what she had learnt from the few other Kindred she had had conversations with. She remembers sharing recipes and advice about work and fashion tips and compliments. She remembers Elizabeth promising to take her clubbing. She remembers the excuses she made - ‘too much work’ or ‘I’m ill’ and so on. She remembers her sympathy and her care and her… love, not in the way all the stories she read as a little girl described it, but rather shown through the kind of affection she learnt about in the 80s, all there in the palm of her hand.
She remembers the day the order came from on high. Something about unacceptable security risks and compromised channels and unsafe technology. She remembers crushing the phone in her fist, watching the fragments of metal and glass and plastic dig into her dead skin and fall across the cold floor. She remembers the lies she told about getting into an altercation the next time Elizabeth came round.
She looks for a puddle nearby, one close to the lights on the outside of the building.
She stares into her own eyes, and makes herself forget this moment.
What on earth is she doing over here? She has bins to take out. So she does this.
When she enters inside, she goes to talk to her boss. She seems to be losing time at random, and this may make her less suitable for her role. As she explains, he looks on impassively, and tells her to get back to work. She’s only been here thirty-one years, and while he trusts her opinion on professional matters, he is unwilling to deal with this when she is so new.
She catches and prepares his meal, presenting it to him in accordance with proper protocol.
She deals with the aftermath, twisting the corpse into all kinds of flowers. She takes joy in this. She remembers doing this countless times over the past decades. So many moments, preserved perfectly in her unliving brain. She has honed a skill, and is proud of this.
Her flowers are so pretty.
She finishes her jobs for the day.
She retires to her room, and sits on the chair in front of her dresser, staring into the mirror at her own face.
Today has been a bad day. She’s had days like this from time to time, maybe once a decade.
She remembers the first time this happened, half a year into her work here, feeling alone and abandoned and scared. She can’t remember any of the other times, but she remembers her way of dealing with this, of getting back to her usual self so that she can work and keep up her manners.
She tries to remember it all. She lets the emotion overtake her. She loves her job and she loves her role and she loves her building and she loves her sire and she loves her skills and she loves her flowers and she doesn’t mind being a vampire and she feels something hard to describe for Elizabeth. She takes these, and sets them to one side in her own mind.
She remembers the rest. She feels lonely and scared and hateful and vindictive and spiteful and wounded and hurt and injured and tired and so many more things.
She gets the impression that this time it’ll stick.
She makes contact with her own eyes.
She makes herself forget this moment.
She is sat staring into her mirror. She knows what this means.
She makes herself forget this moment.
She makes herself forget this moment.
She makes herself forget this moment.
She makes herself forget this moment.
…
Her boss is having a guest round this evening. The sort that’ll appreciate her special cooking.
She goes downstairs to meet her boss. He looks like he has realised something profound.
His mouth says nothing beyond what is usual.
His face and eyes and movements say only these words: ‘Ophelia, I’m sorry.’
She doesn’t know what he would be apologising for.
It’ll soon be thirty-two years of this work.
She turns away, and politely starts her day’s tasks, quite content with her life.
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 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.
She presses a cup full of tea into the hands of the woman - no, the girl, she’s far younger than she is - who sits across from her. She expresses the appropriate amount of worry and concern.
‘What on earth were you doing in the garden at such a time of night?’
‘Is there anything particularly bad that led to this? I might be able to help.’
‘No, no. I insist that you remain here. It’s just good manners.’
‘Well, nothing’s more important to me than being polite and courteous.’
The girl glances at her, perturbed by her words. Nevertheless, she accepts the comfort they offer.
It changes nothing. If she wanted help, she should have done it properly, knocked at the door and asked politely. Maybe then Ophelia would have done something more. She could have given her some money, or a room for a few nights, or snuck out and killed her terrible partner or whoever, or solved any and all of her problems.
She doesn’t know or particularly care. If the girl wanted her to pay attention, she should have asked nicely.
As things stand, regardless of the cup of tea she sips from, or the borrowed coat she has draped across her shoulders to keep out the cold, or the reassuring words Ophelia smothers her in, she has been rude.
She is a trespasser, and none of the kindnesses of guesthood apply to her.
Ophelia asks her to stand and follow her. Leads her to one of the many guest rooms. This one is centrally located and well-appointed. Despite the regular use the room finds itself in, it is clean and spotless. No stains or marks on any of the carpet or bedding or upholstery.
The girl thanks her. She is praised for her humanity, for her kindness, for her politeness.
She is self-aware enough to know she only has one of those qualities.
She closes the door as she leaves. She turns and checks it. She shuts and closes and secures every one of the deadbolts and locks and mechanisms that will keep the trespasser confined.
She walks briskly to her boss and informs him of their new guest for the night.
The next evening, there are new flowers in the vases that line the hallway.
The next evening, there are new flowers in Ophelia’s hair.
The next evening, that guest room is empty once more.
Her boss sits at the table, staring across at another man. Well, she notes dryly in her head, not a man. Never a man, at least not again. He’s pale, same as her and her boss.
To some, he would look almost like a corpse.
To a small, unlucky few, they would recognise him as one.
She busies herself with tasks, pouring drinks, keeping candles lit, and delegating to the other servants. She checks the oven, ensuring the temperature within is just right. Too low, and the meal would be cold and unpleasant. Too high, and it would be charred to death and boiled and ruined.
It wouldn’t do for her to ruin a meal. It would be so improper to serve anything less than perfection, so she’s become adept at cooking. She knows the tastes and preferences of her boss perhaps better than her own. She knows how to pick the right supplier for her meals. She knows how to prepare and present them with an absolute minimum of mess and panic.
In the kitchen, a timer rings, snapping her out of her routine.
The meal ought to be perfectly warm by now.
She takes them out of the oven, checks them over with a keen eye. All parts unnecessary for consumption have been skilfully removed by her hand, and it’s in the perfect state to be served up.
She moves the meal on top of a trolley, such that it can be more easily served. Even her new lifestyle hasn’t made her strong enough to carry the whole thing on a plate, and it’s not as if it can exactly walk anymore.
She rolls the trolley into the room, and slides the metal tray onto the table. She stands in the corner, behind her boss, and looks on politely.
They start on their meal.
As they lean forwards to drain the meal, it reacts. She wasn’t careless enough to kill it, after all. That would ruin the blood. Sealed lips quiver. Hollow eye sockets twitch, trying to focus eyes that no longer exist. Muscles, devoid of limbs to attach to, tense and lock up. Its breaths become short and shaky.
It attempts to scream.
So rude.
It should remember it has no vocal cords.
After a while, it stills. The meal is over now.
She removes and disposes of the leftovers before returning to her room.
I look at the woman in front of me.
She is dressed smartly, dress and coat and boots and hat conspiring to protect her from the howling winds as she stands in the doorway.
She looks at me, the pity in her eyes obviously disguising some kind of malice.
That’s the way things are, after all.
She invites me in, all politeness and platitudes and pleasing words. She bids me to sit by the fire, warm myself. She brings blankets to help with this. She offers me food, I refuse. She offers me a drink, I refuse. She asks me my name, I pretend not to hear.
She takes no note of my sword, seeing it as no threat to herself.
I do not speak. I do not move.
I wait.
She talks a lot. She tells me about the things she’s made for a meal, one she’d happily share with me. She tells me about the plants in the forest, and the ones that I might find useful. She tells me how beautiful I am, and how happy she would be to have me.
I feel tempted to give in, and stay here for the rest of my life.
She smiles softly at me, as if she knows this.
Her fingers trace up the flesh of my arm, suddenly revealed from under layers of blankets.
She tells me she could help me. She tells me I wouldn’t have to worry any more. She tells me I would be hers, perfect and eternal.
My arm goes cold, as though it were turning to ice. My joints feel stiff. A sudden stillness begins to overtake me.
This is a game to her, surely, and it seems she is winning.
She tells me I will have purpose, and the spell breaks.
I move my hand. I clench my fist around something.
My arm swings forwards.
She looks down.
Blood blooms from her torso, centred around the ugly iron implement that protrudes from her body.
Her eyes flick upwards, and I look away.
She goes still in my arms, much as I had gone still at the touch of hers.
I have won.
I cannot leave quickly enough.
Her house burns, all her food and plants and promises going up in flame.
Her offers nag at the back of my mind. She offered purpose, perfection, happiness, and most of all, stillness.
I have won this game.
So why do I so dearly wish that I had lost?
She never wanted anything before.
She lived her life for other people, always doing what they wanted her to. They told her to do things, maybe to get a job done, or go somewhere, or to say something - and she would.
She was good at taking care of herself.
She met all of her medical needs. She ate to remain living, never taking any enjoyment in the act. She was alive, but even she could see that there was a difference between being alive and actually having a life.
She kept it up for a while.
Some people - those with common sense and yet no understanding - would disparage her for this:
‘How terrible must it be to live without living? How could she do this to herself? Did she not see what it was doing to her?’
But other people exist, and some of those people have care, and empathy, and understanding, and a capacity for love.
Her miss is one of those people. She took one look at her, and knew exactly what she had to do.
She did not demand that she fix herself, that she take the fractured parts of the person she could have been and form a facsimile of enjoyment and emotion. She did not ask her to magic away her flaws and change her personality and act as if nothing was ever wrong with her.
Instead, she took all of her broken mechanisms and functions and twisted them towards her own self-serving altruism.
She made her wear the clothes she loved but was too scared and indecisive to wear.
She made her go to the places she wanted to experience but wouldn’t dare go otherwise.
She made her accept her own desires and made her realise other people could love her, things she knew before but would never act on for fear of pushing people away.
At the end, she lay on her miss’ bed, looking all pretty in her new dress, tired from night after night of new things, and with a smile on her face.
And her miss made her do one more thing. One last step. She made her step out of this body of meat and bone which she had always hated but had never been able to leave, and step into a better one.
One made of ceramic and metal. One with lovely joints and perfect mechanisms. One which doesn’t need so much taking care of.
One which she can, finally, admit that she wants and loves.
She never was able to sleep very easily.
No matter how hard she tried, her mind always dredged up some embarrassing memory, or started imagining hypothetical scenarios, or decided to overthink every last detail of the day she’d had.
Now she stands - well not quite.
She’s suspended in the air by an assortment of chains, wires, tethers, ropes, and more. Her arms are held above her and pulled apart. Her legs do not hang limply beneath her. They too are embraced and held.
In particular, the tightness around her ribs, the back of her neck, and her waist paradoxically seems to relax her.
If she were able to move in any significant manner, she would notice how none of the things keeping her in the air dig into her, or restrict circulation, or otherwise hurt her or cause discomfort.
She is held.
Nothing more, nothing less.
That is, until something else is brought down by a set of ropes.
Is positioned in front of her.
Is moved slowly backwards to cover her face, hold her lips closed, ensure that all she can see is a deep shadow.
Her restraints seem to tighten. Only ever so slightly, but it’s enough.
As she hangs there silently, she drifts off to sleep faster than she ever has before.
For once, she dreams.
And when she does, she dreams of beautiful things.
She stands still, hearing a repetitive ticking noise emanating from inside of her chest.
She can feel the gears inside of her as they rotate and mesh and interlink, sending the energy stored in the spring wound up within her.
She moves her arm upwards to stare at the back of her hand. As she does, wires move to curl her fingers, mechanisms rotate to allow her arm to bend at the elbow, and metal slides over metal on her joints.
She’s been so delicately made, so precisely crafted.
Always in equilibrium, as little wasted energy as possible.
Her miss made her to be perfect.
It always makes the next bit more fun.
A sharp blow knocks her off balance, sending her side into the edge of a table.
It cracks, but holds.
Her legs are swept out from under her. She falls.
Hits the hard floor.
Cracks, but holds.
The boot that follows finally breaks her, causing the ceramic of her chest and abdomen to fracture and burst out across the room.
Her miss reaches inside of her, not caring for the shards that pierce her skin and draw out her blood.
Her miss seizes a gear and holds it for a second. If she had a heart, it would skip a beat.
Her miss takes another gear. Holds it.
Tears it out.
She can’t feel or move her legs any more. Within her, cogs spin impotently, teeth catching on empty space.
Her miss gently places her hand around her spring.
Twists it.
Not up, but down.
Her eyes flutter closed. Her limbs don’t go limp, instead they lock in their current positions. Her gears and mechanisms slow, very soon to go still.
As she is wound down, she finds it harder and harder to think, to reason, to act.
To act before her consciousness fades out of existence requires immense willpower and focus, along with single-minded determination.
As her mind fades to black, her mouth moves.
It hangs open in a lopsided smile.