Boudica slept late. She knew that she'd overslept because by the time she awoke, the homeowner was already asleep. Precious time wasted, though she did not know how much. It was hardly a relief, anyway, when iron scattered about still made her skin crawl. Nothing she could do about it, even more helpless than she usually was.
Exhausted and hungry and aching. One more day.
There was no rule saying she had to stay another day. No reason, technically speaking, that she could not leave immediately to look for a new home. But she had given herself a deadline, and now she was perversely determined to last until then. She wanted to prove that she had done all that she could to try and make it work.
Even though no one would know. Even though no one would ever ask. But she would know, wouldn't she?
That was the problem with being alone, always alone and always working. Challenges made things interesting, time limits and things she wasn't allowed to use and ways she wasn't allowed to move. But it had become a habit, and a bad one, a source of stubbornness, a rebellion against no one's expectations but her own.
And now she was still here, because she did not want to lose a game that only she knew that she was playing.
The kitchen was swimming in wax again, but that was no surprise. She was getting used to that, now, scraping up the wax and polishing the surfaces beneath it and finding the candles hiding where they didn't belong to put them in their proper places.
Still nothing left for her to eat. That wasn't a surprise either, really. If anything, it was almost a relief. What would she have done if he'd left something? Would she feel obligated to stay, knowing that if nothing else she could keep her things and be fed?
But, no. Nothing, instead.
The various iron contraptions still had not moved. Those were going to be a problem, when it came time to leave. She would manage, still, but it was an annoyance. Was that why they were there? To keep her stuck without having to feed her?
Rude.
The piano was a wreck, again. This time, bending low to check, she could see that there was no one sleeping beneath it. The wear in the finish prickled against her skin as she ran her fingertips over it with a sigh.
More polishing, more waxing, on her hands and knees to get beneath it as best she could when her skirt limited her movement, twisting around her knees. It hardly felt like fixing anything at all, was as much of a fix as putting a bandaid on a papercut and trying to ignore a broken leg. Awful, hideous mess, and for the first time she understood the impulse to burn down the house she left behind.
She probably wouldn't. But it was very tempting. It would serve him right, anyway. It would be her right to do it, disrespected so terribly.
Rude.
When she stood again she needed to untwist her skirt, smooth it out over the curves of her thighs before it wrinkled. She slid her hands over her hair to fix her bun back into place, stretching out her back and her neck and up onto her toes. She smelled like orange oil again.
She still hadn't tried to touch those monstrous trunks. What they needed was to be buffed down to a bare gleam, but she always hesitated to sand away paint. Even when it didn't belong.
Maybe that was a peculiar place to draw the line.
He'd put the strings for the violin somewhere strange again, but just like the candles, they were easy to find. Put somewhere that they didn't belong, itching at her to find them and put them away, fix what had been broken. It was much faster than the first time, because she'd already started getting better at it. It was unfair, was what it was. Fixing an instrument she didn't even want to listen to, and instead of playing he just… broke it.
Well. He could enjoy his filthy house and his broken things when she was gone.
She placed the violin carefully back where she had found it, looking pristine once more. The violin was much less an ordeal than the piano, and so she did not need to fix herself the way she had before. She had even managed to avoid getting any stains on her blouse.
With a sigh, Boudica took a moment to sit on the enormous box in the dining room. What a strange thought, that she would leave, that she might never clean this house again. Thousands of nights cleaning the same house, and it was hard to imagine never seeing it again. It made her ache, though not in the way that so many things made her ache. This ache was something more ethereal, not a physical pain or a hurt.
She sighed again.
Exhausted and hungry and aching. One more day.
There was no rule saying she had to stay another day. No reason, technically speaking, that she could not leave immediately to look for a new home. But she had given herself a deadline, and now she was perversely determined to last until then. She wanted to prove that she had done all that she could to try and make it work.
Even though no one would know. Even though no one would ever ask. But she would know, wouldn't she?
That was the problem with being alone, always alone and always working. Challenges made things interesting, time limits and things she wasn't allowed to use and ways she wasn't allowed to move. But it had become a habit, and a bad one, a source of stubbornness, a rebellion against no one's expectations but her own.
And now she was still here, because she did not want to lose a game that only she knew that she was playing.
The kitchen was swimming in wax again, but that was no surprise. She was getting used to that, now, scraping up the wax and polishing the surfaces beneath it and finding the candles hiding where they didn't belong to put them in their proper places.
Still nothing left for her to eat. That wasn't a surprise either, really. If anything, it was almost a relief. What would she have done if he'd left something? Would she feel obligated to stay, knowing that if nothing else she could keep her things and be fed?
But, no. Nothing, instead.
The various iron contraptions still had not moved. Those were going to be a problem, when it came time to leave. She would manage, still, but it was an annoyance. Was that why they were there? To keep her stuck without having to feed her?
Rude.
The piano was a wreck, again. This time, bending low to check, she could see that there was no one sleeping beneath it. The wear in the finish prickled against her skin as she ran her fingertips over it with a sigh.
More polishing, more waxing, on her hands and knees to get beneath it as best she could when her skirt limited her movement, twisting around her knees. It hardly felt like fixing anything at all, was as much of a fix as putting a bandaid on a papercut and trying to ignore a broken leg. Awful, hideous mess, and for the first time she understood the impulse to burn down the house she left behind.
She probably wouldn't. But it was very tempting. It would serve him right, anyway. It would be her right to do it, disrespected so terribly.
Rude.
When she stood again she needed to untwist her skirt, smooth it out over the curves of her thighs before it wrinkled. She slid her hands over her hair to fix her bun back into place, stretching out her back and her neck and up onto her toes. She smelled like orange oil again.
She still hadn't tried to touch those monstrous trunks. What they needed was to be buffed down to a bare gleam, but she always hesitated to sand away paint. Even when it didn't belong.
Maybe that was a peculiar place to draw the line.
He'd put the strings for the violin somewhere strange again, but just like the candles, they were easy to find. Put somewhere that they didn't belong, itching at her to find them and put them away, fix what had been broken. It was much faster than the first time, because she'd already started getting better at it. It was unfair, was what it was. Fixing an instrument she didn't even want to listen to, and instead of playing he just… broke it.
Well. He could enjoy his filthy house and his broken things when she was gone.
She placed the violin carefully back where she had found it, looking pristine once more. The violin was much less an ordeal than the piano, and so she did not need to fix herself the way she had before. She had even managed to avoid getting any stains on her blouse.
With a sigh, Boudica took a moment to sit on the enormous box in the dining room. What a strange thought, that she would leave, that she might never clean this house again. Thousands of nights cleaning the same house, and it was hard to imagine never seeing it again. It made her ache, though not in the way that so many things made her ache. This ache was something more ethereal, not a physical pain or a hurt.
She sighed again.
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Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-17-2015, 11:49 PM
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