My apron is dirty. I do not know what time it was, but there have been many two o'clocks in the mornings when I can remember feeling this way.
Frank's lavish bedchamber, my domain for the past few days, seems to soak up my emotions and my tears like some deranged sponge on a bloodlust. I cannot define my emotions right now. I feel...numb. I feel nothing.
Frank is gone of course. He is never here by the time I awaken.I must admit, I marvel at how he does it nowadays, seeing as I sleep less and less after these ordeals.
At first it was wonderful, back when our mission was fresh established and I and riff were fresh meat, it was exquisite pleasure, being taken in like this. Frank was the first one to really make me feel...accountable, for something, anything really. I can safely say that I loved him at some point.
But not now. Now he has been getting in more and more groupies and taking me in less and less, and the silence between us grows ever longer as I realize that the only love I have ever born for Frankie must have been an exquisite sort of lust, mingled with the shameful loyalty of some dog for its vain, deliquent master.
I have my brother now; he is all I may have that means anything to me any more. Of course Riff is the love of my life. I am more than convinced of that fact. After all, who else is there? Especially now that we're out of Transylvania. Here in this planet dominated by the male human race and by subordination and by pain. I am the perfect servant. That's where it stops. when I run my long fingers through Riffraff's greasy hair he likes it. It keeps him going. Everyone needs that; everyone is somewhat entitled.
The Master has a particular new groupie he takes in frequently now. I have not yet learned her name, but she wears a long sparkly coat and top hat, and her hair is short, bright red, and androgynous in style. Her sex appeal is beyond comprehension. Just by looking at her, I can feel her weight move against me.
I want to start fresh; something new, something different and perhaps a little less difficult. Both Riff and the Master are so particular in their choice of favors.
I glance at myself in the darkened mirror of this oceanic, smoky chamber I know so well. Tufts of wild hair poke out from beneath a dirty doily, angry streams of deep crimson attacking the air around me. Blood-colored lips, smeared and ever-frowning, shift pensively over long, vampiric white teeth. My fangs. They only pop out occasionally. I have yet to show Riffraff. I wonder if he actually would be truly displeased. I toss my head back and fake a cackle in the dead faltering silence of that room. Sex droid in the glass laughs back. I am undone, I decide. By losing it, I will have won.
The door behind me opens a sliver and a long, pale pair of fingers extend in a beckoning pinch.
I turn. Riff opens the door widely, grinning from ear to ear. Sister...sister dear. Come to me.
His sinewy smile suits well his cadaverous, carved-of-marble features. I smile as well, recognizing each inch. Perhaps it is better to stay with what one has always know so well. I go to him, letting him caress my arms and lips and thighs and neck. I don't mind, of course, all this is old news. Sex droid, that's me. I toss back my head and laugh again as my licentious brother gnaws lustfully on my ear lobe. It's the only thing any sane madwoman would do.