thecaptiveheart

[thecaptiveheart]

Monica is the head negotiator for the Writer’s Guild, a collective of Hollywood screenwriters who are edging closer and closer to a full on strike if the studios refuse to meet their incredibly reasonable demands. All the writers are asking for is fair treatment and compensation for their labor, but after a meeting with the greedy T-Rex CEO of Cobbler Studios goes south, a strike is called.

Now Monica and her companions are marching the picket lines and making their voices heard, working together to create better working across the film industry.

Unfortunately, this puts a terrible distance between Monica and her girlfriend Holly, who happens to be the physical manifestation of her own screenwriting. With no way to process these feelings, Monica looks for solace in the writing community itself, but will these efforts be enough to battle the cruel, money-hungry CEOs?

This important no sex tale is 4,100 words of collective bargaining as laborers organize to protest a nauseating dinosaur CEO with the power of solidarity and love.

----

AUTHORS NOTE: greeting buckaroos. this tingler is given to all FOR FREE in solidarity with writers guild buds who are currently making their voices heard and striking with incredibly reasonable demands.

the wga is asking that any donations go to the ENTERTAINMENT COMMUNITY FUND which is used to directly help those in the entertainment industry in need and who will feel the financial burden of not working during a strike. 

as i said this tingler is free HOWEVER if you have the means you can donate the amount a tingler usually costs (three dollars or MORE if you would like) to the charity fund and support. just click the link and when it says 'gift designation' select 'film and television'

DONATE HERE 

if you would like to know other ways you can support those currently on the picket line click here 

LOVE IS REAL - chuck

[thecaptiveheart]

There is an ache inside me.

I could spend weary days trying to find it’s source, but somehow that is worse. 

Instead I try to subdue it, work through it until it wears away against the angles of my skin.

I’m sure at one time I was soft.

There are small lines on the insides of my wrist that make me wonder if they will break.

I try to look at other things instead of the soft blueish lines there so very close under the skin.

I decide I hate them. 

I have just spent hours turning small contracted bodies under a sleeping curse.

It is arduous. They do not want to turn. Sometimes the smell of their skin wafts over you more like rot than flesh.

They will never wake.

I wonder if I am like that.

Memories swirl around in my head and I cannot pin them down. 

I bite back tears.

Their small bodies with distended bellies and contracted limbs unmoving in the cool darkness is more a reminder of what horrors lurk here.

I wonder if they know they are trapped here, asleep.

Somehow that is worse.

Being blissfully unaware might be just as bad, but at least you are not screaming to get out, unmoving, unable to do anything but let that single solitary tear slip out when the curse forgets to be all consuming.

I wipe my own eyes. There are no tears there. I do not know why I would be crying to begin with.

[thecaptiveheart]

I slam the door harder than I intend to.

It is not a quiet sound, but there is no disturbance in my quarters for I am the only one here.

I believe.

My head is become misty in my flight, but the details have not fully fled my mind. I trace them and trace them again, but they are dulled by the moment.

I should write things down. I should trace these memories onto something solid so I can preserve them before they slip away.

I am unsure what I was running from.

I know there was something I was after.

Something warm- no something… I do not remember.

I do remember it is morning.

I discard the swath of violet fabric. I should not wear that color. I know few things, but that is one of the rules.

There are clothes laid out.

They are simple. Utilitarian.

I dress myself.

No sign of the-

There was someone here before.

There was no one here now.

The garb is simple. I head towards the kitchens. I remember the way quite well.

I smile as I enter. There is a buzzing all around.

I take a seat at the large prep table where there is a vacant one. I sit across from a lanky long limbed creature who looks more tree than flesh. It is quite possible she is. I do not know how flesh works here to beg it different. Still, I smile at her. A simple baring of teeth that she narrows her golden eyes at. She does not look to take offense.

I watch her for a moment. It is only then that I begin to roll small strips of flesh into the shape of rosettes and lay them along the long line of others that have come before. I do not know what sort of creature the flesh has been striped from and I do not think too much about it.

The smell of freshly baked breads wafts through the air. It is a truly special gift to know there is no pretending here so the smells are genuine. The presentations are for later. The thickness of the glamour that fills the air at feasts to make everything marked in perfection is heady and heavy and it does not comfort like this simple moment.

I think I could eat this without question. Of course, I would always question if it was handed to me with the intention of me eating it. They are busily bustling about, but they are still cruel. The joke of making me think I was biting into soft baked bread and then coming away with a mouthful of some other inedible thing is never too far from me. So, I sit and work my hands away at forming little flowers made of meats.

It is an altogether pleasant afternoon. I like the work and the camaraderie. There is a feeling of accomplishment to it. At one point I am polishing spoons for what feels like hours. I do not argue with the task or even hate it. I actually find it interesting that this means a new feast is beginning. Usually, the food is well kept before the dancing goes on for days, the drinking  goes on for days, there is no one taking courses away as they rot and they are simply glamoured back to good.

I wonder if that is part of the reason most of them seem to rail thin here. I know it is not. Not truly. You cannot apply mortal rules in a court full of monsters.

The glasses are clinking as they are lined up and we wipe them down for an innumerable measure of times. I have felt useful today. It is a good feeling. As much as I cannot remember many of my days, most of the ones I remember are here. It is almost as if I am safe in the anonymity of the kitchens.

A small, slender boy whose skin bears a shade just too grey to be human brushes his hand against mine. I pull away sharply, though I cannot say why. He smiles at me with eyes like green ivy and throws me a wink as he peels off lost in another task.

For a moment, I feel like my heart should be racing. I feel nothing inside my chest though. Just a vague emptiness where there likely should be feelings. I can feel the frown on my face and do not bother to hide it. No one is likely paying attention to me here. A small relief, though never a guarantee.

There are days when everyone is just too busy to be bothered to torture a girl. No matter how mortal she may be.

I am carrying trays of oddly misshapen rounded pastries absently humming to myself when a small frantic arm burst forth from one of them. I thrust the tray out at arms length, but gratefully do not drop it. A thick, small green fellow with sharp teeth looks over at me. He approaches to inspect, grunts as he sees the tiny arm and snaps it off. The inside of the pastry rustles as if whatever is inside it is writhing in agony. He looks at me. I am sure I look helpless or distraught. I do not know what to do.

He clamps the small arm between his teeth, picks up the errant pastry and posits it onto the fire. There is something like a whistling pop which perhaps could also have been a scream. I stare for a moment before he grunts again. I pull my head down and continue with my tray unsure if my mood has been spoiled or not. 

I am perhaps more afraid of who I am if it has not been.

I try not to think about it.

When we are done, which we are never truly done, we sit about and pass out some odds and ends of food. I know it is not rotted, but I think of the small whistling scream from before and cannot bear to bite into it.

I do not know how long it has been since I last ate. I pinch the edges of the bun I am given and spread it into two halves. There is something small and jellied inside. I frown and close my eyes as I place some of the bread into my mouth. I am as guilty as all of them in this. I should not pretend I am too proud. It will anger them.

I still feel sick and cannot eat much of what I am given. 

A tall raw looking creature with a long pointed face takes it from me when it sees I am not eating. I let it. I think how it looks like a large rabbit without fur or slightly like a lizard. It’s large nostril sniffs at me briefly as it takes my food and grins. I wonder if it is thinking what I might taste like. Some days, I wonder why they do not try to find out. Other days, I am simply grateful they do not.

Things are being brought up and I slip away from the bevy of serving trays and myriad of creatures. I could likely stay, mix among them, serve at the banquet tonight. It would keep me safe from dancing and prying eyes. No one looks at a servant.

Well, that is a partial truth I have learned. Both a blessing and a curse, but it often gives one a heads up as to when to disappear.

Instead, I walk the halls knowing I will likely not be missed. It seems like I am searching for something some days and it always feels like it would be easy to find if I could just remember what it was. 

Perhaps tonight I will remember.

[thecaptiveheart]

I awaken in a bed that is not my own. It is grand. I do not remember how I got here. I am not alone. I slip over a landscape rife with stray limbs and scurry to the floor as dull movement echoes the room and settles like the sleep of the forest after snow.

I thread through piles of fabric on the floor before giving up to slip away. My feet are bare on the cold stone. It is an interesting choice to keep the stone cold, I think. The stones in my room are always warm.

I drape a long violet robe across my shoulders and pull the hood down. It is not so long that it reaches far past my waist. It seems sturdy enough if the color is prohibitive. I only need it to get back to my rooms. They are not so far from here. I glance around the room and pause.

There are a wealth of gems scattered about the table by the door. I pause at the entryway, my eyes searching for something. Something that feels close by, but that I couldn't possibly be sensing. I feel the sting of my teeth as I draw my lip between them, sharp points digging through the soft flesh there. When I taste blood, I stop myself. I remind myself there is nothing here. There is a wild cacophony of beauty in golds & silvers, but not what I am looking for: a ring with a thick red stone. It vaguely resembles the shape of the human heart.

My fingers thread through the slivers of silver and gold adorning the table. It is not here. My thoughts cloud and it is hard to remember what I am looking for. I hear a soft chuckle from behind me.

I turn.

There is someone there. My step backward is caught by the edge of the table. I hear my breath hitch before I realize I have done it. He stands, lean and pale with his heavy robe hanging open. I can see the pale line of his body in the richness of the fabric. He does not seem to notice his undress. Sometimes, they don’t bother to.

There is a grey sheen to his skin. It is surreal to see even when I am used to it. His eyes though are bright. Bright and cruel. Bright and cruel and amused.

Never catch their attention.

I have caught his attention.

I lower my head in deference. I make to curtsey when the small of my back scratches against the table and there is pain. I feel the wince before I can stop it.

He does not remark on my misstep. He does approach me. I keep my eyes fastidiously on the ground. I am all deference and submission. I hope the tremble does not betray me too much. Or perhaps he will like it. Somehow, that is worse.

His fingers brush the side of my face. They stroke down to settle under my chin. His grip is cold steel. No, not steel. There would be nothing of iron in this man, but something stronger and older than it. Metallic and icy, his touch is less caress, less request than it is simple demand. Like he is moving a doll. I obey without question. There is little else to do when being broken like scrap of porcelain is an option on the table.

As he lifts my chin, I am no longer bowing. I have lifted to my toes to not slip from his fingertips. He pushes me back and I find myself sitting on the table’s top like his collection of discarded gems. His head has turned to the side as he regards me. It is almost as if he is searching for something inside my countenance or perhaps inside my skin. I pray he will not carve me open to retrieve it if he finds what he is looking for.

His spindly grey fingers slip from my chin to push down the hood of the violet cloak and bury themselves into my hair in the process. I have forgotten to drop my eyes and find myself staring into his. They are pale and also grey, but grey in the way that a human’s are blue. It is eerily close to eyes I have seen before, but in the moment my memory will not move to tell me where.

He is very close. There is a calculating curiosity in those eyes that holds a mixture of terror and excitement inside the center of my chest where the cold darkness usually rests. This feeling is also sharp like the slice of a blade against skin. A feeling I have come to know well. A feeling so cold it burns enough to almost feel like warmth.

There is a rational part of me that knows I should flee. I am in danger here. There is a sane part of me that knows I would be caught even if I did. There is a small sliver of me that wants to stay here under his regard, a curious need to know what he would do. That part sours my soul with its existence and drowns me with its insistence. I hate that part of me. It makes every punishment here a test of endurance. It makes my captivity willing.

In truth, I do not know anything else.

He brings a second slender hand up to my far cheek as he slides the first out of my hair and down my jawline. He holds my face what could be gently or just as if I am very fragile. It makes me feel very fragile regardless. I am that here. 

I notice a soft ruby glow from behind the second hand. The angle of it does not let me see the source, but I can guess now. The touch of his too too long fingers are still corpse cold but there is something warming about them. Something that oozes into me with a ruddy ruby pull.

He bends his head and I have no time and all the time to react as he drops his mouth to mine.

Soft.

Cold.

There is a sharpness about him.

I have no memories to compare this too, but I feel like I should. Everything in my head feels locked away. I have no recourse. I am not sure that I desire one. I let him kiss me.

His hand slides down. It follows the folds of my neck and comes to rest in the center of my chest. There is something like a flash then, a connection, a smattering of scarlet light that beams and breeds through my chest.

I am kissing him back before I realize it. All his sharpness melts into the warmth that pervades me in this moment. I would laugh if I could. I feel joy. I feel freedom. I burn in this moment.

In fact, I do hear laughter. I laugh against his mouth as I wrap my arms around the tops of his shoulders burying myself closer against him. My back arches up to meet the line between us, my heat to his warmth when he steps back suddenly and without warning.

The laughter is gone.

I have nothing but an empty memory of the heat that exploded from my chest moments ago.

I realize I have forgotten to look away from his face. I cannot read his expression.

There is space between us and I risk slipping off the table. 

He does not stop me.

The room seems extra grey bathed in pale darkness of forgotten light. Everything looks like reflections cast off silver. Everything is somehow more in focus and somehow weaker from reality.

I flee.

A fool’s move.

A cowards move.

He lets me.

And as I run from his rooms, I remember the pale glow of a red rock gleaming darkly on his finger. Vaguely in the shape of a human heart.

[thecaptiveheart]

Entangled

The vines pulled at her skin. They tore in places. It was not much of a deterrent from her work. She aligned them all in the proper order. They hung, dripping, easing, all to the central line.

There were smiles there. 

It was not much.

It was all she needed.

Her leg was caught. Pressed between something firm and the trunk. She did not shirk her duty.

One thing she had learned, do not shirk your duty. A thousand more severe punishments await.

She pulled the vines free of their entanglement.

She saw them all to hang. Individual. Lively. Full of juice and life.

There was no response from the tree beneath her, but she slept most days.

She pulled on the short vest and the withered skirt she wore to attend.

No response was a good thing.

It meant no disapproval.

She stowed her smile and continued to ensure the vines did not entangle. A full time endeavour.

The creature in the center did seem to smile. If smiling could be said to be a thing that they did.

Vague approval.

Continued life.

It continued like that.

She smiled for her.

The warmth of the pale cold twig an imagined feat, but satisfying nonetheless.

Her fingers still sticky, she kept on.

There were worse tasks than this.

The quiet made her pensive.

The pensive made her disquiet.

Still, she carried on.

Head empty, full of thoughts.

She kept on.

Entangle, disentangle.

There was a way for every line.

She kept track of them in her head like patterns weaving to a song.

Until they circled back again.

Grateful, she let the day slip away.

Dreaming once more of the night.

Dreaming once more of being close to her heart.

Lost so long ago.

Forgotten.

What was it she had been searching for?

She could not remember.

[thecaptiveheart]

I do not know the point of the revels tonight, but it seems a special theme. They are lacing hooks through my skin. Small metal points tear through my flesh and small chains are being strung between them. It hurt at first, but now I embrace the warmth that comes with every tear. A warmth has spread through me which welcomes the pain. There are worse things I have endured.

Mostly, I like the way it eases my restless mind. My mind seems elsewhere today like it needs something I cannot give it, like it is on the verge of remembering something important I have forgotten. In honesty, that hurts more than the pain of the silver hooks.

I am told to stand so they must be near finished. As I do, I am light headed and my misstep in an attempt not to fall is hissed at. I have made a faux pas by showing them I am affected by the treatment they have given me. 

So I smile.

And I laugh.

Lightheartedly.

They watch me with sharp eyes. Sharper than the needles in my skin.

Then when I am breathless and sure I will be punished, they resume.

Small curves of metal bury themselves in my legs now, too.

There is little left for me to do, but endure it.

I do.

I endure.

There is something to be said about enduring it. I feel a strength inside me with every submission. A small, cold hand strokes at the inside of my leg. I hope they do not pierce me there. It will be harder to walk effortlessly if the sharp ends of the hook buries itself between my thighs with each step. I am grateful when the touch moves on to other places. They could pierce the soles of my feet and force me to walk on them and I would be without much choice.

I do not fight. They seem contented to keep the chains entwined around my body draped in a purely decorative aesthetic without much concern for torture. The relief is vast, but I do not show evidence of that lest they change their mind. I stay still like a doll hoping they think of me as such. It is easier that way.

[thecaptiveheart]

I do not remember much from last night.

I am gloriously able to sleep in. There is a slant on sunlight that hits the wall across from my balcony. It is open to let the warm breeze from below in.

I am sore in several places so it is likely better that I do not remember as I roll over onto my belly and unleash the tightness wound across my skull into dark waves across my face. They feel soft against the skin. I long to lay here until I forget what time is and am forgotten in the ageless depths of the court. I long to both never scrub another floor, nor wear another gown and the two feel like they should sound different to me, but still sound the same.

Not all bondage wears a pretty face, but it seems I should prefer the ones that do. I do not.

There is food though. I can smell it in my foyer. It even might be edible if I am smelling it before I see it. 

I slip from my bed noting the warmth of the stone under my feet. The room is empty, but the fireplace is lit. It is not lit most days. I am not attended most days. I hope no one lays in wait here, but I do not see anyone at first glance.

Just the glow of the fire and the tray of food. It is a relief to be alone. I curl up in the worn velvet of the chair I like and test the food I should not be eating. I am so hungry though and I do not know the last time I have eaten anything. Still, I grind the food in my mouth slowly to check the consistency matches the appearance. It does and I relax a bit. Only insofar as I have ceased caring if the food is what it says it is. I am so very hungry. 

The warmth from the fire bathes my toes and I think on what I could have forgotten last night. It cannot be terribly important. It could be entirely important. I decide I am likely grateful to forget it and turn my thoughts to other things.

I wonder if I will be disturbed at all today. Days like these could be gifts if it wasn’t for the penchant of being forgotten for longer stretches of days. Days that bleed on in infinity until I wander out and find some trouble I shouldn't have and immediately regret my ventures. Every blessing here is a curse.

There is a small scuffle from the corner followed by a small sneeze. I turn my head sharply with the unpleasant knowledge of not being alone. It is invasive and I frown.

“Apologies, mistress,” a small voice coos.

“Fuck,” I say without thinking and can feel the disapproval from the far corner before I can even see her. She is small and very pale, almost translucent. Her skin looks like its made of ladyslipper petals and I get the feeling of fragility that I hope is not the case as she does what appears to be sweep the corners of my room. I clamp my mouth shut before I can utter something equally as vulgar. The folk do not like when I am vulgar. I have some small scars to remind me of this.

“Who are you,” I ask instead. The pert petal curtseys gracefully with every millimeter of her stature. She looks small and regal at the same time.

“I am Mustardseed, Lady.” She blinks at me a moment. “Of the rushy brook.”

I do not know the reference. She seems frustrated. I am unsurprised by both her displeasure and my ignorance. She goes back to working. I do not know what sort of punishment she has earned or how long it will last, but I hope it is brief and she regains enough favor to not be sweeping out my rooms. I dislike having to share my space. It makes me feel like I am being watched. Which I likely am. There was a time when I did not have rooms at all. That was also worse. I do not remember much of then at all. I do not remember much from day to day. Somethings remain familiar and some things disappear before I forget them. It is an odd way to live.

I wait for Mustardseed to finish her tasks, but she takes a very long time to accomplish anything being so small. Instead I sit by the fire and watch the flames lovingly. I tell myself a story in them. There is a dragon inside the flames. There is a princess to be rescued, but not like a real princess. I have met those. No, one from a story. Maybe not a princess after all, maybe just a girl in need of rescuing. It takes me a while before I discard the fantasy as madness and think of other things.

I try to remember how I came to be here. I cannot. My throat hurts from the memory though. I cough as I feel the ghost of something sliding up my throat. I feel like I am going to gag and tears spring to my eyes. I quickly throw my thoughts elsewhere.

Something inside me still wants to cry though. I cannot know what it is.

I have been sitting here long enough that there is another tray brought in. They leave it quietly without speaking to me. I do not speak to them to give them something to answer, but now I have seen the food before I smelled it and do not know if it can be trusted. I will likely eat it anyway. I delicately sniff at the tea I pour. It seems safe enough. I want it to be safe enough, that is part of the problem. It tastes a little bitter as if over brewed. I like that. It likely means it is real. When things taste too good to be real, they likely are. When things taste just bad enough to still be good, I feel that is more reliable.

I drink the tea.

I pace the room as I drink. 

Mustardseed still watches me as she works.

“What did you do?” I ask her quietly. She may not answer.

“Pardon,” she replies after a minute which has stretched on to the type of minute that lasts here.

“What did you do to be cleaning my rooms? I can’t think that’s a very highly sought after position.”

She is quiet for another long minute.

“I lost a bet,” she continues. I do not know if the statement is related to my question, but the implication is vaguely there.

I would tell her I am sorry for her, but I should not. Saying that angers them. I nod simply instead. She sets about her work. I slip back into the room with my bed glad to be alone.

There were no clothes laid out for me, so I am not expected anywhere. There is nothing to do to find out if I will be expected anywhere, but I have faith that Mustardseed would look badly if I was left unaware so she will wake me and I curl back up in bed. It is much cooler in here with the open balcony and the unlit fireplace, but i like it under the softness of the duvet where I can pretend that I am home somewhere far away. Someplace I do not remember. Someplace I no longer know.

[thecaptiveheart]

Silver & Sensibility

I am part of the court today. 

I do not know how or why they decided. Perhaps I am just not forgotten today. 

It is better to be forgotten.

Attendants arrived at my door before the moon had set. My hair is plaited and twisted and steamed and the color has been altered. Black. Thick like midnight sky. It was dark before, but I do not think they like the small smatter of twisted white that pops up at points like stars or like glitter on the surface of a lake.

My face remains strangely ageless. I cannot tell how long I have been here, but the only sign of the passage of time are the small streaks of white that pop up from time to time. I do not know if they are a true judge or just something that happens to mortals like flamingos who don’t eat shrimp.

I don’t entirely remember what flamingos are so the reference sits strangely inside my mind.

The dress is like starlight for different reasons. It is all whiffs of insubstantial material and I am too exposed. I do not like it, but I will bear it. It is not like I have a choice. I am glad the dress fits. My body has been altered before to appease the confines of stricter choices. It is harder to play the part when you are in large amounts of pain. Sometimes, I wonder if they don’t know I feel the pain or if they ignore it because it amuses them. I would wager on the second. It is better to anticipate cruelty than ignorance in this place.

When I am brought to court, I am escorted. I see many familiar and strange faces there. We wait in line to greet him. I watch the indifferent look on his face as he greets those before me, a smile for some, a frown for others. When I approach I hope for indifference, but there is a calculating cruelty to his eye. Almost as if he remembers me.

I do not think he does. It is better if he does not. A cruel trick of my mind anyway. There are so many these days. Others have kissed his ring. The large sparkling red stone on his finger wound in metal that gleams in the light. The stone could hold blood for all it shines in the starlight cascade that reveals my burning cheeks. As those before me, I kneel.

There is no offer of ring to kiss. Perhaps he does remember something of me. He places a gentle hand on my brow. I dare not look up. I cannot tell if this is favor or failing. I do not know enough. My face burns with it. Anything different than anyone else is a bad sign. My eyes stay firmly on the ground. I should look up. I should raise my eyes, all questions and charm. I should play. I keep my eyes down. Suddenly, the air around me is too much. Everything hurts. It is nothing but my own embarrassment. I keep my eyes down.

Swiftly, thankfully, it is over. His hand recedes. The warmth it bestowed gone. I am grateful.

Though, there was a moment, just an instant when I imagined I could hear my heart beat.

I move on into the crowd. They are mingling and the sounds of strange chatter fills the air around. There are sounds which seem speech-like yet aren’t and sounds that do not, but are.

There is also dancing.

I watch the dancers. I almost envy them. The first thing I learned here was not to dance.

There seem to be one or two unlucky new arrivals who did not have the benefit of watching one of their kind unable to stop themselves. I still know the laughter. I hear it some nights. There were screams too, but I hear those less. I hear them farther away. I would forget those screams if I could, but I will never forget the laughter.

They had thrown out sharp rocks, small jewels underfoot. She had been unable to stop. They had thrown out hot coals from the fire. She had been unable to stop. They had thrown out what looked like bone shards, what looked like small bugs. It had been whimsy and revels all around while she screamed and tore at herself and was unable to stop. Until she did. Then she did not move again. I could replay it in my head, but I do not need the reminder. I need no reminder of that night at all.

I stand much as I did then. On the outskirts.

I do not drink here. I do not eat.

I cannot trust that it is anything at all. I cannot trust that it is so grateful a punishment as rotted food. I have cleared these rooms the night after. I know what they serve when the glamour has gone.

I slip silently between the small parties in and out of the edges of the crowd. I do not dare leave so early. There will be speeches later and performances throughout the night. I will hide as best as I can and endure.

It is not all bad. They are a wonder to watch.

A woman with dark skin like tree bark and white hair stands with cascades of gems that look like fire draped around her. It is odd to see the contrast. I have aided her before. She is kind to me. To others, she has not been. I suppose there is some luck in that. She has a quick tongue and I am grateful to move away from it into the sea of faces.

A small round woman I do not know with hair painted down in order to not look stringy stands a small distance from me. I do not know who dressed her, but she looks vaguely damp and mean in a way I associate with bitey. I give her space as well.

A tall man who looks dapper and friendly smiles at me. He is handsome. His kind frightens me most of all. When they do not look monstrous, I have found them to be the most monstrous. I feel a soft shudder run down my back into my legs and to the soles of my feet, bare on the floor. I suddenly feel rooted to the spot and turn my gaze quickly to scurry away. I pray he does not follow. There is a dark feeling in the pit of my stomach when he looks at me that I have come to trust.

Putting some distance between the last gentleman has emboldened me. I slip closer in. Sometimes, It is easier to be forgotten if you do not lurk at edges. This is a dance in itself. One I choose not to get carried away with and keep my senses keen.

A small pad of furr rubs against my leg. It is soft and I look down. A black cat-like creature is there. I smile at it and move quickly away into the crowd.

This dance of my own continues for how long I cannot tell. The faces have begun to blur and hte voices have all run together. I have felt no small share of pinches in the crowd which I cannot place when I turn, but I am used to it. It is custom and nothing unusual. If anything, part of their fun which does not frighten me.

There is a way to move through crowds when you are a guest and a way when you are attending. I honestly do not know which I am tonight so I aim for a mix of both.

My breath comes heavier as the heat builds into the night. Shimmers of it bathe my skin in passing and I try not to react having learned that reactions are… interesting to the folk.

I can hear the hush of the crowd and hear him speaking through the din. I am grateful that we are at the next progression of the evening. It will be soon that I can slip away. My senses already overloaded from the glamour of the night, fraught with the smells and the scents that I cannot place and even worse, those that I do.

I will be grateful to see my bed again. It is even better when I am allowed to sleep in the next day like I am forgotten in the transition. The only sign that I have been in attendance, the coloring of my hair. One hopes.

After all, the night is not done yet.

[thecaptiveheart]

Hello..?

Can anyone hear me??

I suppose not.

It’s been days here. I think? I don’t know how days spend anymore. I’m not sure how time works here. It flows like water sometimes. Other times…

Are you here? Somewhere else perhaps then?

I don’t think anyone can hear me.

I’ve been trapped here. I don’t know if I’m trapped actually. I just don’t know how to leave.

I serve instead. There is nothing else to do. And they feed me.

It’s unusual here.

I used to think thoughts that might have been everyday things. Now, I…

Today, I was sent to the rooms of the Calet.

She is a hulking creature. She sits dourly and frowns at me for a while.

“How dare you,” she tells me. “How dare you people think you that after I’ve spent my whole life not needing help, I would need yours.” So, I help her. I do not like being called you people. I do not mention it.

The spoon is small and silver as I raise it to her lips. She has eaten most of her meal herself, but now she wants me to feed her. I do. One bite. Two. She turns her head away, “enough.”

She bids me throw the food away.

There is a second mouth in her belly. It growls and spits into the dirt. The wide splitting grin frightens me, but I know I cannot show fear. I cannot show disgust. I must smile. I must play nice.

I do not like the days I attend her. She can be callous and cruel. Sometimes, she seems fond of me. Nothing connects these two points. There is no way of knowing which I will receive. The worst of it, she lies. Not real lies, but small sharp things that are lies shielded in half truths. They make me feel ashamed. They make me angry.

I can only do so much to serve her.

She sleeps for most of the day. I sit by the door grateful for the reprieve.

Before too long , there is a rumbling in the bed. I know I must attend her. I know I must go inside. 

I do not want to.

Slowly, I approach. The gaping mouth set in her belly is worse than I remember. I do not like this part. I wash it with damp cloths. I try not to let my fingers too close. I am afeard that it shall bite me. I do not think I would last long here without fingers.

There are bodies she has collected in small nooks and crevices. They are small piles and I do not want to think too much about them or where they come from. I do as I have been taught. I peel small thin layers of the skin from their corpses with a practiced deftness I try not to think too much about. The knife is sharp. It is easy work, but there is a lot of it. One by one, I place the thin layers of rendered flesh atop her gaping belly mouth. It hisses at me as I drown it in skin. It takes hours.

When I am done, she almost looks human. She is intact and displeased, but indifferent. Perhaps I have hurt her layering the skin, but she does not seem angry. She has a hushed and muted air about her now. You could not tell there is a mouth there. I think of the last heel I have cut skin from and try extra hard not to frown. She may look more human, but I am far less than I was.

She will look intact tonight though- until that mouth eats its way through the flesh from the inside out. My work will not last long, but I hope it lasts long enough that she will dismiss me.

I can smell the stench of decay on my skin and in my clothes. It clings to my hair with an acerbic viciousness I cannot bear. 

I smile and step back.

She smiles at me.

I have done well.

She dismisses me.

There are no words of thanks. 

There never are.

All I want to do is bathe and stop that smell.

It clings to me.

I wish for chocolate.

I do not know exactly, but I may have not eaten in days.

It is hard to tell because time runs oddly here and because you can never know if it is real food that you’re consuming.

I think for a moment that if I do bathe perhaps I can slip inside the revels tonight.

Not close enough to  join, but close enough to catch a glimpse of him.

And where my heart sits.

Sparkling on his finger.

[thecaptiveheart]

hello…?