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princess maker - ☆ZRAEL
[ When you insert the key and open the door, you'll find inside the room looks small, cramped, just one living space without any doors—you can hear noises of the bustling life outside, as well as other people beyond the thin walls. the space bends on the walls, and a basket sits on the table in the center of this studio room with a blanket folded into it.
Inside, a baby stirs restlessly - you hope she goes back to sleep soon, and you play your flute in hopes of lulling her back to sleep. Unfortunately, a sharp knock sounds from the ceiling - the tenants upstairs don't like what you're doing. You take a more drastic measure, singing softly to your baby as you rock the basket back and forth and hope the tenants don't complain again. ]
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[ Slowly, the scene changes, fading in and out with various silent scenes—the baby cries, and in turn, the upstairs tenants knock at your ceiling again; she finds her way to your flute, tooting happily though no noise comes out; a little toddler, she becomes attached to a stray cat; you decline her request, and she storms out to run away for a little while as you regret; she returns, covered in cat hair and ignores everything you say; then the wall becomes opaque. ]
[ In the corner of the room, a young girl the age of 10 crouches, looking away from you. she holds a cat in her arms, petting the creature constantly.
You wish you could have done better for your baby girl. But, this is what you love to do and maybe you'll get a gig that pays well enough that you two can move out of this shithole - hopefully. You tried your best to rear her, but with how infrequent you're in the house, working odd jobs in the day and performing at the pub at night, you're not sure anymore. You know she is capable of anything if she puts her mind to it - even becoming a princess - but you also know it's not easy to become a princess, and she's horribly equipped for any of that. Then again, if anything your little tyke is tough, and if anyone could be a rags-to-riches princess, it would be her. Thankfully, you've emergency savings - for her schooling, of course. You have a lot of regrets, but maybe it's not too late. ]
Inside, a baby stirs restlessly - you hope she goes back to sleep soon, and you play your flute in hopes of lulling her back to sleep. Unfortunately, a sharp knock sounds from the ceiling - the tenants upstairs don't like what you're doing. You take a more drastic measure, singing softly to your baby as you rock the basket back and forth and hope the tenants don't complain again. ]
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[ Slowly, the scene changes, fading in and out with various silent scenes—the baby cries, and in turn, the upstairs tenants knock at your ceiling again; she finds her way to your flute, tooting happily though no noise comes out; a little toddler, she becomes attached to a stray cat; you decline her request, and she storms out to run away for a little while as you regret; she returns, covered in cat hair and ignores everything you say; then the wall becomes opaque. ]
[ In the corner of the room, a young girl the age of 10 crouches, looking away from you. she holds a cat in her arms, petting the creature constantly.
You wish you could have done better for your baby girl. But, this is what you love to do and maybe you'll get a gig that pays well enough that you two can move out of this shithole - hopefully. You tried your best to rear her, but with how infrequent you're in the house, working odd jobs in the day and performing at the pub at night, you're not sure anymore. You know she is capable of anything if she puts her mind to it - even becoming a princess - but you also know it's not easy to become a princess, and she's horribly equipped for any of that. Then again, if anything your little tyke is tough, and if anyone could be a rags-to-riches princess, it would be her. Thankfully, you've emergency savings - for her schooling, of course. You have a lot of regrets, but maybe it's not too late. ]
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First, we must die.
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Fufu...
God does as she wills, and right now she wills the strength to go along with this militant charade. Trust me, for I am God, that God listens to nobody.
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[GLAMOROUS HAIRFLIP]
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