Welcome back. Day 2 (ok so its a day late, I got busy at work... you know, working).
Not sure what's up with me, but this prompt series is starting out a lot darker and more introspective than I normally write.
Comments always appreciated.
Toriel
The light flicked on, revealing a bedroom.
She slipped in, stealthy as a thief, her shirts flaring around her ankles. Slipped in, shut the door behind her, leaving her alone,
Still alone.
She stayed silent, her ears lip and flat against her skull. The faint mustiness of mold hit her nostrils and they flared fractionally. She'd have to see if she could source some more baking soda from the Waterfall dumps.
It didn't matter that the room had been uninhabited for - her mind took a sharp left turn away from an exact number.
Too long.
No matter.
She worried the rag she carried between her hands, then took a deep breath, stepping forward. Ledges were wiped clean of dust, the headboard slowly wiped clean.
She took her time, letting the gentle lemon scent from the cleaner on her rag sooth her. Monotonous things did that for her, now. Once she been active, rambunctious, even as an adult. Now…
Now she would spend an entire day cleaning a room that belonged to a dead child.
She had no idea how much time she actually spent in Asriel's room. It didn't matter, not really. Time passed strangely in the Underground, and with no natural light to let her know the passage of time… well, it didn't really matter. The cleaning relaxed her, soothed her in a way she knew she shouldn't enjoy… it was creepy… but she did anyway.
Every week.
Every. Single. Week.
She turned, again her skirts flaring out, then constricting tightly around her legs before settling again. Three quick steps had her hands on both the doorknob and the lightswitch, half out of the room. She paused, fingers tensing around the knob, then ducked out, the door clicking softly behind her.
The room sat silent, as it would for another week, as it had for countless weeks before, silent as a tomb. Dust motes settled slowly back to where they had been swept from.
On the dresser, a single picture frame hadn't been touched. Two adult goat monsters stood, a child in the middle of a swing, supported by the arms of the elders. The dust sat thickly on the frame, and the colors of the picture were nearly hidden behind the wall of dust.
It would sit that way, as it would for another week, as it had for countless weeks before, a memorial in a silent tomb.