You fell asleep in your costume again.
It might have mattered, long ago. Long ago you might have been relieved to transform out of it after a hard day's work. You might have been relieved to get back to your normal life, as a normal girl, with normal problems.
After a while you just stopped caring. The costume stays on. You don't even sleep much anymore, only in the times when someone gently reminded you of its reinvigorating - if ultimately pointless - benefits to the mind and soul.
Benefits that you never really enjoyed, simply because of the crying, pleading pinked-haired girl dying in your dreams - her cries echoed upon your waking by the shrieking hellscape outside the many-spired prison you've locked yourself in.
You look dreadful, you feel dreadful, and for what seems like the longest time, you find yourself unable to remember just who you are.
It's at the tip of your tongue. It's there, desperately close, but annoyingly out of reach. Like a splinter in your mind.
What is your na--
...
No.
You know who you are. You can't forget. It's impossible for you to forget.
You are who you made yourself to be, after all.
"You're back." A soft, clear voice by your side sighs in relief. You turn slightly from your seat - from your throne - to behold a familiar face, a youthful blue-eyed one. One obscured by glasses and framed with pale blonde locks brushed to meticulous perfection. "We were all getting worried--"
"Not all of us." Another voice interjects, just as clear, but rough enough to sound almost like a dog's ravenous barking. You turn again to behold a tanned face topped with a shock of crimson hair, nearly obscuring one single eye burning crimson with barely-restrained hatred. "I told you she'd wake up eventually, Invidia. You can't keep a dildo like her down for too long."
"Ira, hush. And we talked about that word. If you knew what it meant, you wouldn't--"
[1/2]
