Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters blah blah blah.
This is dedicated to Sara and Periacta (where are my brownies?)
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Magenta gently dipped her mop in the bucket, slowly watching the ratty gray snakelike cloths writhe across the pink tiles. Usually she hated cleaning, but in times like these of extreme pain and loneliness, it relaxed her.
She had been living with Frank for two years. Two years of rape and laundry. Two years of hell. Magenta only saw her darling Riff once a week and was usually too exhausted to truly appreciate his presence. She was always comforted by those brief visits; even if all she had done was sleep. Riff was the only one who cared; he was the only one who understood, most importantly, he was the only one who knew. Up until the third month Frank had been fine with her cleaning up after him and his lovers. Picking up his corsets, cleaning his sheets, mopping the floors of the blood that was shed when Frank got sick of a partner. They had told Magenta about it, sort of. "Must mop, sweep, launder, and dust the Prince's things. Must be a companion to him, comfort him when he is sad." Comfort. She hardly thought it a consolation to him when he threw her on the floor of the bathroom and took her, unconscious. Magenta didn't remember the act itself, just the unbearable pain afterwards. He left her lying there undressed, with his semen, sticky all over her and of course his clothes to be laundered.
As she got older, she assumed that Frank's girlfriends and boyfriends would keep him busy and away from her. But Frank liked to be given a fight and hated the slutty girls and boys that came backstage after his concerts. He was frustrated by peoples' willingness to screw him. This made his encounters with 13 year old Magenta more violent and more numerous. She soon became accustomed to wearing a great deal of white makeup on her face and black makeup on her eyes to cover the many bruises. Four fetuses of Magenta and Frank's were lost from being kicked down the stairs, thrown across the room, pushed off a balcony, and kicked in the stomach with a stiletto heel.
Frank wasn't just the Prince, wasn't just her master, he was the voice of her generation, a pop idol, a scientist, a god. Girls had posters of him in their lockers and on their walls and came to the castle, to get a glimpse of their lord. They would come in groups of four or five giggling as they rang the doorbell, frightened by the creepy looking maid that answered the door.
"Hello," Magenta would say, "How can I help you?"
The leader of the clique, they always did seem to have a leader would reply with something like, "We're here to see Dr. Frank N Furter."
The man himself would interrupt Magenta's reply of, "I'm very sorry, he's busy working on a new scientific discovery." He would wait until the right moment to burst down the stairs with a pen handy. He would sing a little, sign their blossoming preteen chests and send them on their way, swooning with delight. It was enough to make Magenta sick. If they only knew what he was really like.
Magenta swirled the mop in the water, watching the wisps of soap dance about. She heard Frank ring his little bell and dutifully put her mop and bucket away. While walking up the stairs she braced herself for the pain and horror she would soon endure.
This is dedicated to Sara and Periacta (where are my brownies?)
**************
Magenta gently dipped her mop in the bucket, slowly watching the ratty gray snakelike cloths writhe across the pink tiles. Usually she hated cleaning, but in times like these of extreme pain and loneliness, it relaxed her.
She had been living with Frank for two years. Two years of rape and laundry. Two years of hell. Magenta only saw her darling Riff once a week and was usually too exhausted to truly appreciate his presence. She was always comforted by those brief visits; even if all she had done was sleep. Riff was the only one who cared; he was the only one who understood, most importantly, he was the only one who knew. Up until the third month Frank had been fine with her cleaning up after him and his lovers. Picking up his corsets, cleaning his sheets, mopping the floors of the blood that was shed when Frank got sick of a partner. They had told Magenta about it, sort of. "Must mop, sweep, launder, and dust the Prince's things. Must be a companion to him, comfort him when he is sad." Comfort. She hardly thought it a consolation to him when he threw her on the floor of the bathroom and took her, unconscious. Magenta didn't remember the act itself, just the unbearable pain afterwards. He left her lying there undressed, with his semen, sticky all over her and of course his clothes to be laundered.
As she got older, she assumed that Frank's girlfriends and boyfriends would keep him busy and away from her. But Frank liked to be given a fight and hated the slutty girls and boys that came backstage after his concerts. He was frustrated by peoples' willingness to screw him. This made his encounters with 13 year old Magenta more violent and more numerous. She soon became accustomed to wearing a great deal of white makeup on her face and black makeup on her eyes to cover the many bruises. Four fetuses of Magenta and Frank's were lost from being kicked down the stairs, thrown across the room, pushed off a balcony, and kicked in the stomach with a stiletto heel.
Frank wasn't just the Prince, wasn't just her master, he was the voice of her generation, a pop idol, a scientist, a god. Girls had posters of him in their lockers and on their walls and came to the castle, to get a glimpse of their lord. They would come in groups of four or five giggling as they rang the doorbell, frightened by the creepy looking maid that answered the door.
"Hello," Magenta would say, "How can I help you?"
The leader of the clique, they always did seem to have a leader would reply with something like, "We're here to see Dr. Frank N Furter."
The man himself would interrupt Magenta's reply of, "I'm very sorry, he's busy working on a new scientific discovery." He would wait until the right moment to burst down the stairs with a pen handy. He would sing a little, sign their blossoming preteen chests and send them on their way, swooning with delight. It was enough to make Magenta sick. If they only knew what he was really like.
Magenta swirled the mop in the water, watching the wisps of soap dance about. She heard Frank ring his little bell and dutifully put her mop and bucket away. While walking up the stairs she braced herself for the pain and horror she would soon endure.