The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Fascination Uniformed

By Mr. Scade

Chapter 9: Family Undercurrents

The table was a single long and thick plank of hard wood, older than the house, with four legs curving inwardly. A delicate mantel, embroidered with flowers in patterns of two and three hid the wood from the world. On the table there were plates of fine china, a gift from a long-dead relative two generations back. The cutlery came from a cheap store, so as to not tarnish the silver they kept hidden in a box in the spider-web-covered cupboards. Mounted on the wall behind Martie, a Goya reproduction added a bit of colour to the room, and on the wall across from her, where her mother sat, there was a clock inlaid with fake gems. Its hands were moving slower than any clock’s had a right to, Martie thought. Barely five minutes since she sat down to eat with her mother, and already she could feel the white hairs growing on her head.

Martie stared at her mother’s face. She so much wanted to slap that stone of a face. Amongst those things Martie had learned from her mother, being able to turn a deaf ear to those she was supposed to listen to would be, perhaps, the third highest skill in her toolbox of skills, topped by struggling for what she wanted, and followed by butchering a chicken. A girl had to know how to feed herself, didn’t she?

Martie’s mother was a woman with a hard face, lined with expression lines that spoke of disappointment, frustration, and laughter four decades gone – and that if it had ever been there. She was a woman you could not please, even if you singlehandedly saved humanity from its doom. Do that, and Martie’s mother would twist her mouth, and tell you how you should not have bothered if you were not going to lay down a ten-year development plan, with duplicates and signed copies, before committing your resources. That twist of lips, a twist that made the expression lines seem more like expression crevices, was on her face. Martie was used to that twist, and the tirade she was half listening to. Lesser hearts would tremble at the sight of that twist.

“Trees? Really, Martie? You could do so much better, you could,” The older woman said in a voice that implied that she thought little of what Martie could do at all. Martie didn’t need to hear the muttered “not that is much, with the girl” to know that it was implied. The woman went on, “A potential partner has to take you out to dances, and buy you dresses, not have you climb on trees. That is what animals do, it is!”

Humans are animals, Martie thought, bored like. The fork in her hand was warm, and the food on her plate cold. She still amazed at how someone could turn something so delicious as pork, spices and potatoes into the blandest meal you could ever have. Then again, that was her mother, right there. The woman could make a star going nova seem simpler than a match being struck.

“And what kind of name is Barbo, if that is even his real name.” Her mother’s long, painted nails barely touched the fork as a minute bite of potato went into her mouth. “Obviously, it is him makes you dress like that, innit?”

Martie wanted to throw the fine china against the wall, upturn the table, slap, punch, and scratch out her mother’s eyes with a knife. And perhaps Martie would’ve done it long ago if she knew it would change anything; somehow Martie knew that her mother wouldn’t even react to it, wouldn’t even begin to imagine that it was she who had overstepped; instead, she would demand an apology, have Martie grounded for a month, and then once more tried to throw away all the things Martie had bought with her own money just to drive the point.

Sighing, Martie rose from her seat. Be patient, and know which fight to fight and which to ignore, her father’s voice said. The man had more experience dealing with the shrew, better to listen to him. How her father loved her mother, was beyond Martie. But, then again, if she really thought about it she loved her mother in some fashion; all the more reason to stop her. “We’ve discussed this before. There is little else to add.”

Her mother’s eyes went wide and her mouth twisted like no mouth could twist. There it is, Martie thought proudly as she walked out of the room. Martie won’t hear the end of it come the morning, but she was in no mood for any confrontation right now. Sometimes Martie could swear her mother just wanted to have a fight with her daughter, no matter what. It was as if the older woman needed it.

“Where you think you’re going?” She said, curtly.

Martie stopped at the door frame to look over her shoulder. She could see her mother half obscured by her own red and green hair. The sight made her smile, and the smile made her mother’s mouth twist even further. One day her mother would be able to make her mouth spin in place. “To my room. Thanks for the meal, it was as tasty as air.”

Martie heard the familiar hissing intake of air that came just before a tirade and ducked out of the room. She went into the kitchen, hoping Jenny, her mom’s new face in the long line of “ineffectual half-maids”, wasn’t there. The woman was too eager to please her mother, in Martie’s opinion, disturbingly so, and wouldn’t allow her to have anything but what her boss cooked. Luckily, the kitchen was empty and Martie managed to spirit away a banana and some ham and cheese, before walking into her room. Once there, she wolfed down the small meal. Only then did she allow worry to down on her. Do not think about Barbo. He is wonderful, and attentive, and a bit of a gorilla but I can work on that. Martie had force herself to remove the dumb smile off her face. She hated how doe-eyed she looked when she thought about her gorilla of a boy. She tried to suppress it, but couldn’t. Argh! Control your face, you’re an actress! She screamed in her head, kneading her cheeks.

Martie finally gave up. If the smile wanted to remain when she thought about his thick arms then so be it! She wasn’t going to deal with it, not now. She sat on the bed and something touched her thigh. Her smile fell off like leaves in a drought.

A folded piece of white was folded on top of a purple piece that had a metallic shine to it. Martie had nearly managed to get the whole uniform off the packaging without any visions of the like this time before her mother called her for dinner and insults. In a way, she was glad her mother had knocked on her door at that exact moment, and then started insulting her lifestyle choices. It was amazing how debasement of ego could clear your head. And anger. Anger was good, in keeping you focused on anything but the... well, the uniform!

The Perfect Schoolgirl Uniform had been in her thoughts a lot, lately. Ever since she had... taken it without realising it—I did not steal it, I did not!, she thought – it had been like an itch she couldn’t find; something she was aware of, but could very easily ignore. However, after a visit to that website Lizardeyes had talked about the itch had been replaced by a full-body rash.

“Perfection...” Martie whispered before lying belly down on her bed, her head on her hands and the folded pieces of the uniform close enough to smell. They smelled of new clothes, black nail polish and, strangely... acceptance? Pride? How could clothing smell of that? Probably it was all in her head, but somehow Martie knew that what she smelled was the exact scent of acceptance and pride coming from someone she cared about. How she knew this, she couldn’t tell, but she did. And that was that.

“Lizardeyes, one day I’ll kill you for putting these thoughts in my head.” Though, after what she saw – felt – the first time she touched the uniform, she wasn’t so certain it was a simple as that. Just like how she knew the scents off the uniform were not exactly all in her mind, Martie knew that the uniform had made her see, no, experience something real; perhaps a vision of the future. The uniform, or whatever it truly was, had shown her something she would never touch with a ten foot pole. Yet the smell she now got off the uniform seemed so... appealing.

Martie blinked as if from a daydream. “Urgh,” Martie grunted and rolled off the bed.

Her room wasn’t too big, not for the disappointment in the family, but it was spacious enough for what she had and needed; a bed, a wardrobe, a nightstand, a hamper and a tiny, tiny desk to put things on. And a mirror. The reflection on that mirror usually made her smile and feel ready for a fist fight, but other times it made her twist her mouth. Currently, it was twisted as she looked onto the four colours of her hair, the eye shadow, purple lipstick and eye liner she had on her face. Her clothes were evening-lazing-about best, yet now they felt more like an avoidance of... something. She sighed, leaning against the wall besides the mirror. She couldn’t look at her reflection any more. Could her mother be right? She had been fighting what people thought she should look like for years, and fighting her mom’s need to control everything about her daughter’s life for longer. It was her body, so Martie would dress however she wanted to. It was about her comfort and peace of mind and that was it! Yet...

A glossy crown of black hair, a smile on her lips, compliance and joy in her mind. Everyone was wearing the same. She was happy, she was perfect. The school was perfect. Everyone was perfect. No one laughed at her, no one asked her dumb questions about her hair, her clothes, her believes. No one bothered her because she belonged with them. She was uniformed. Everyone was uniformed. They all obeyed the rules, those that made them good students. They were students, the uniforms told them, and the world complied to the uniforms. Martie belonged in a classroom, mind uniform with that of hundreds of other students...

Martie gasped, taking a deep breath. She found herself way too absorbed in thought when she remembered that vision. But, ever since having that... vision, or whatever it had been Martie had started to doubt the reasons why she tried to be different. Every time she put on a pair of tattered jeans, or a new piercing, or got a new hue in her hair, she always worried about people’s reactions. Oh, she always had worried about that, but she had learned not to hope for acceptance, but to look for wide-eyed gasps of horror on the faces of conservative old women. But something changed the day the uniforms gifted her with the vision. Since, every time Martie looked at her own reflection, her style, she would smile, think about what others would say, as usual, but then the worry would start. The worry that hadn’t been there for years. A gnawing worry. And she would try very hard to quench it, too hard. It wasn’t the doubt she was starting to feel that irked Martie, but the fact that she had to work very hard to suppress it. But, was it worth it? Did she really feel better as Martie the Punk Rocker, or had she simply become too wrapped up with the character? When was the last time Martie had broken character?

What was she looking for?

Always aim for perfection, and you will do better than I ever did, Helena Flowers’s words came to mind.

Perfection.

“Perfect.” Martie caressed the word, tasted it, as if unsure of its existence. The idea of perfection made her feel... happy. Not happy like how Barbo did, but happy in a different way. Deeper? She couldn’t tell, not yet.

Martie turned to the uniform on her bed, and the packaging half-abandoned by the foot of her bed. Maybe she would be able to get some more of the uniform out, without having any other visions. Maybe. It was during her mom’s tirade that she had realised that if she didn’t think of it, the uniform rewarded her with those visions. But if she did expect them, she would be able to remove the items in peace. She laughed then, a rich, echoing sound. It was as if someone had written a magic system! It made little sense.

“I am looking, searching.” She told herself. And for now, it was enough.

She put the uniform back into its wrapping and then put it back in her wardrobe.

She was Martie, and she still didn’t feel desperate enough to see if Hildegarde’s fantasy could be real or not.

“To be perfect...” She whispered and felt a tingle nestle between her legs at the words.

* * *

The hammock rocked from side to side, lazily, lethargically—like a pendulum Ysolda rocked in place, pushing herself from the wall with her leg, not paying attention to anything but the worries that crowded her mind. She was looking up at the ceiling, lost in the passive, all-encompassing mental state that repetitive bodily motion caused. She saw not the cracks in the paint overhead, but her own present and future, and the ghosts of memories; getting her degree in business management; moving out of home after so many years of threatening to do so; how her father had reluctantly helped her with the boxes, moaning about it all the way. Ysolda recalled opening the store, recalled the hardships of owning it. She remembered buying this house and bringing a young Hildegarde home. As well as she could remember those events, she also had batches in her memory; little holes that, for one reason or another, she never thought about, never seemed to matter at all. Like water over oil, her awareness simply slipped off them. She could not explain why it didn’t bother her that she could never recall Hildegarde’s father, though she knew she shared many years of her life with him. Or did she? Thinking about him brought a reflexive smile to her face, and just like thoughts lead to other thoughts, Ysolda forgot about what she was thinking and began to consider how best to proceed with opening a new store. Once more, she suddenly didn’t even thought about the lost time.

Ysolda considered her options: she could continue as she was, earning a lovely figure because her name was on the documents, until the day Hildegarde moved out of the house. But that day was just around the corner. She understood her daughter might study in one of the local universities. If that did happen, then she would have Hildegarde in the house for another three-to-four years. Not that it wouldn’t be lovely—indeed, it would be many types of lovely to still have Hildegarde living with her for years to come. But lately Ysolda felt trapped, as if she had assumed one yoga position for too long and finally needed to change. She knew that Hildegarde was grown-up and didn’t really need her anymore, but she didn’t like the idea of going away while Hildegarde still depended on her financially. She had been a mother, had been a business owner; now she wanted to go out and travel and meet new people, but she didn’t want to leave Hildegarde alone.

But what if she decides to go abroad? Ysolda’s eyes widened and she sat up on the hammock. If that indeed were to happen then she would most definitively have to go back to work. She got enough to maintain them as they were, plus whatever else was needed or craved, but sending her daughter abroad would require a lot more. And it depended on where Hildegarde would want to study, and if she got a scholarship. Not to think about housing!

Ysolda shook her head. Too much to think about, too early. Regardless of what she wanted, Ysolda knew Hildegarde was going to have her own life, and she still had at least fifty years to look forwards to. Why spend them sitting on the lonely chair in this old house, either way?

Years ago she had seen an opportunity to expand The Power of Art beyond the borders of one building, and increase their economical situation along with the idea. She had declined in favour of being there for Hildegarde. Some people had said that had she sacrificed time with her daughter during those early years both would be quite wealthy. But how could she have sacrificed so many happy, and enraging, memories in exchange of some extra coins?

Ysolda sighed, sinking into the hammock, the coarse fabric swallowing her like a cocoon. As it was, her decision would be almost symbiotic to Hildegarde’s. And getting a concrete answer out of that girl was like mining hellium-3 with a spoon. Yet, Ysolda realised, she couldn’t just opt to remain as detached from her business as she was.

“Have I ever thought about myself?” Ysolda asked herself.

Eyes opening wide, everything seemed clearer all of a sudden. She sat on the hammock, elbows on her knees, and felt as if years had slipped off her shoulders.

Why was she making such a big deal of it, Ysolda wondered, if she had already started working in the store? She might not be actively doing anything but moving like a seagull trying to steal bread from people in the town centre between aisles, relearning the ropes and details of her own creation. Years away had withered her business sense, and she really didn’t know what people liked these days, or who her clients were. That is key, she thought, recalling a very basic lesson she learned early on. Working as a ghost that moved all over the Power of Art was also a great opportunity to learn about Miranda, and to see the woman at work. Ysolda did not regret hiring the young woman to manage the business—she was a keen manager and downright obsessive about accounts and employee organization—but Ysolda suspected that Miranda might be up to something Ysolda had not approved of. There was an obvious change in demeanour in Miranda, compared to how the woman had acted in last quarter’s meeting; and in four days working from that tiny inventory room Ysolda had also caught up the scent of strangeness in the store’s atmosphere.

Hildegarde didn’t know where her mother spent the time she wasn’t at home. Ysolda had yet to tell her, and she tried to convince herself it was because she didn’t know how Hildegarde would react, or overreact, but, truth be told, she liked having the little secret, and she suspected Hildegarde was more than happy to have the house to herself. Ysolda knew just how much she had interrupted in Hildegarde’s life by being in this house all the time.

Anything regarding Hildegarde would have to wait. Everything regarding Miranda was but speculation. And everything to do with her life was such a difficult decision that she found herself both hating and longing to go back in time and see her husband’s face instead of not being able to remember it. Why can’t I even remember his face? Damn you to all Hells, why did you do this to me? And just like that, the longing went away, and the memory of a memory, and the ghost of a thought, and Ysolda found herself thinking about all the friends she had not contacted in weeks.

Perhaps they could give me some advice. She thought. Or at least go out for a drink.

* * *

Headmistress Shiva Valiente’s schedule had three appointments for the day: one with the Science Department, another with the school’s bus drivers, and another with a representative from a State branch of education that she really didn’t think much of. She had already been to two and only had one to go, and already she was utterly fed up with life. The man from the Municipal Education Ministry—or whatever the hell he said he worked for—had nothing to say and just came along to be a stick up someone’s ass and to justify his four-figure salary. Monkey’s turd, she thought at seeing him, and again when she had to give him a tour of the facilities. If he actually cared for his job, he would’ve given the school a horrible mark and a warrant for closure. But what do those Government functionaries care about? If only it were sociably acceptable to throw people off the second floor...

The bus drivers had been a little better to deal with, but not by far. They wanted an increase in salary, better buses, better schedules, better routes... How could they even ask for better schedules, when they knew their schedules were dictated by the fact that all schools in the world had nearly the same opening and closing times? Idiots!

Not a week had passed since she had hired an excellent concierge and janitors that at least showed some dedication—given time they would keep the school clean and maintain it on habitable levels—and all of a sudden everyone had decided they needed, needed, needed something. And it always is, Shiva would think, one thing that would add nothing to the general well-being and improvement of the school. Selfish monkeys, the lot of them.

She sighed heavily, shoulders slumped, and then looked at her reflection in the old mirror. She ran her fingers over her cinnamon-coloured cheeks, and noted how it stretched and wrinkled as she did so. Her eyes were surrounded by nearly unnoticeable black rings, but she knew her body and she could see them like a mountain in the middle of a savannah. Exhausted, sleep-deprived, prone to eating at odd hours.

“This job is getting to me. No wonder no one else wanted it.” Shiva groaned in annoyance.

Cool water touched her face and seemed to take with it some worries and tiredness from her body, just like a river takes away the dried leaves and trees at its banks with the first flooding of the rainy season. Taking a deep breath, she tied her long black hair in a bun, retouched her red lipstick and black eyeliner and went out to face the greedy, unsanitized maws of the dying beast.

* * *

The phone’s metronomic ringing turned into a shrill scream, followed by a mechanised female voice that spoke of ritualistic commands on how to leave a voice message that, knowing the utility of voice mail, would remain unheard for months. Maybe it would become one with a long line of phone records and messages that future generations will find incomprehensible. Ysolda cut the call before the company would charge her for the message she never left.

She gripped the phone in an iron grip, sighing deeply, raggedly. She let go of the phone before she could smash it against the wall. With a trembling hand, she ran her fingers through her hair. How many friends could one have that have a mobile just for show? Amazing how modern mobile communications work: you either can’t call, or cannot be called, or your battery life makes a mosquito’s lifespan cosmic in comparison. Or, and Ysolda loved this one, people simply didn’t carry it around with them. If there was something that pissed Ysolda off, was people with useless apparatuses. Useless people just pissed her off, in general.

With little else to distract her, Ysolda began moving around the house, tiding and ordering the little things she had ignored for the past week. An upturned cushion here, a stray book there, orange peels and plates in the office. There really wasn’t much to tidy, in a house with only two persons in it, and eventually Ysolda found herself staring at a clock, and listing everything she had done in the day. The faint, clicking sound of the clock filled the room as she was, once again, swallowed in thought.

Today had been lazy, with little work done, and she didn’t have to go to the Power of Art until well in the afternoon, when people out of their jobs for a couple of minutes would rush into the place to buy presents for loved ones, curiosities, of materials they needed. It was a curious rush hour that showed just how much the store had grown. Ysolda would go around one, and work ’till six. Rush hour traffic jam notwithstanding, she would be back before Hildegarde did; if the girl did indeed go to visit Liv. I wonder how that girl is doing—last time I saw her she looked shaken. Ysolda thought. Maybe it would be prudent to have a deeper talk with the blonde girl next time she came over. Ysolda really liked Liv, and she had seen some tell-tale signs that were particularly worrisome.

Ysolda blinked, realising that she was holding a broom. She shook her head and stretched.

“I’ve been thinking too much lately.” She told the empty house. She began to sweep the floors, if only to kill time and tidy up a bit more.

As she moved her lethargy and gloom slowly receded, like low tide revealing a beautiful beach Ysolda found herself filled with a sudden burst of energy and desire to work. One moment she was in a normal, lazy morning mood, and suddenly she had changed into something more comfortable and was cleaning the entire house. Hildegarde did a wonderful job of keeping the place neat-looking, but Hildegarde did not understand that you have to get down on your knees and properly scrub things thoroughly. Ysolda did, and hoped that one day Hildegarde would learn that a house needed more than wiping the tops to be able to last this long.

Time later, with most of the cleaning done, Ysolda moved on to the laundry room. She was putting in the week’s share of clothing into the machine, separating her and Hildegarde’s into appropriate piles. She was tired, sweaty, and free from haunting thoughts that only made her self-worth seem less than what it was.

Putting an old, black t-shirt into Hildegarde’s pile, Ysolda noticed something odd. Ysolda had stopped noticing Hildegarde’s growing collection of pantyhose – by Jove, she couldn’t yet believe Hildegarde wore those – and shirts; but today she saw that there were new items that stood out even more. Obviously, her daughter had started wearing the grey hose, perhaps to combine with some other items—Hildegarde might not admit it, but she liked to combine her apparel—but now there was an obvious increase in white, black, red and blue pantyhose. Strangely, there was also a decrease in number of the usual laundry load’s toll of Hildegarde’s coloured socks. Strange, indeed. Ysolda must question her daughter about that matter, and how, after so many years, there were skirts amongst Hildegarde’s dirty laundry. What caught Ysolda’s attention about this was that she had not seen Hildegarde wearing a skirt in the past week, and she saw her nearly every morning. Or am I being so self-absorbed I haven’t noticed it? She wondered. Whichever the reason, it was high time she at least made a friendly query about Hildegarde’s change in style.

Curious, Ysolda picked up a pair of nylons off the pile, and immediately let go of it. “Ow!” She exclaimed, feeling her fingers where the static bit into her skin. Static shock? Ysolda’s brow furrowed and she moved to pick it up once more. Nothing happened. Shrugging, Ysolda put one load of undergarments into the machine. She turned around and went on with her day. She had to shower and eat something before going to work, after all.

* * *

Imagine working on an academic paper about a very difficult and specific subject, which needs to be written so the non-scientific population will be able to understand it and yet the professor who was teaching you how to write it did not moan about a single, small detail Now, imagine that you were working with someone who’s mastery of the English language was on par with Silvester the Cat’s. Now, take that scenario, and add the patience and understanding of an heroin addict.

Liv, was feeling worse than the hypothetical scenario already presented.

They had all the information needed, courtesy of many science books kept around Liv’s house and some magazine’s from Marilyn’s part. They had summarized, highlighted and referenced, and the only thing left to do was to put all the data together and write something coherent that will secure them a perfect grade, which meant that the rest of the term will require much less effort. Thank you, Maria Cardenas for being such a clever teacher, Liv thought. Liv was an expert in writing coherent things, or so she liked to think, but things had gone wrong the moment Marilyn said she wanted to control how things would be phrased.

“Imma just a-saying that we should start with some of them teasers, ya know; like movie teasers, about our endings—”

“Conclusions.” Liv corrected, her eyes closed as she attempted to shut herself from the world. The world was very noisy, though. Noisy and annoying and near incomprehensible.

“Ya sure that’s how it be said? Well, you be better at English than moi.” Marilyn shrugged, and the thickest parts of her body shook with an unappealing rhythm. “As I was a-saying, I thought it good to give a teaser of them conclusions at the end of the paper. Sorta like a tasty treat at the beginning of a meal. Then, we can get all the flowerish letters and what-not where you want them.”

Liv had lost count of how many times she had sighed, or how many times she had pointed out why that was a bad idea. And it was! Who gave a teaser of the conclusions at the beginning of an essay?

“Okay, Marilyn, I don’t care anymore.” Liv opened her eyes, slowly, to stare daggers at the jiggly-fleshed girl. “You want to write it like that—even thought it makes no sense to write a paper like that, and the professor specifically said she wants it in the format she gave us—go ahead and by all means fail the subject. You know how important this project is for the final grade.” She finished, raising her eyes to meet Marilyn’s. A stare sometimes said more than words could.

The heavier girl frowned in the way people who are blind to their faults can frown. “What be you sayin’? That ma method be wrong?”

It was difficult to picture Liv’s eyes opening wider, but they did. Liv was unable to believe that just now that girl managed to understand what she had been saying for days. And days. And days. Of course you stupid cow! Liv thought as she stood upright, abruptly. How can you even communicate when you have a cat stuck under your tongue! She imagined saying, as all the muscles on her right arm tensed. Liv looked at Marilyn straight in the eye, and in that moment she regretted ever having talked to the girl in the first place, all those years ago, and sharing a chocolate bar.

“Allow me to say it in a way that you will understand,” She began, softly. “Professor Cardenas told us to do the report like I have been telling you for days. Exactly in that way! If we do not do it like that, we will fail, because she is a hardass that will not allow any creativity. I know you don’t care either way, but I cannot fail. I can not fail!” She took a deep breath, and shook her fist in front of Marilyn. “You can do whatever the hell you want, but if I fail any subject I’ll be in huge trouble. I cannot be in huge trouble and do not want to be in huge trouble! Now, either you start listening to me and shut your mouth, or start walking out of that door.”

Liv’s nostrils flared as she breathed in air and breathed out fire. She wanted – needed – to strangle something. If only it was socially acceptable to wrap her fingers around Marilyn’s neck and squish the life out of her. Her neck is so thick, my hands wouldn’t suffice...

Marilyn stared back, her lips still as steel, her eyes unfaltering like stones in the face of a storm. Marilyn looked around the room, eyes moving away form Liv’s as if scared. She looked around Liv’s studio room, noting the many books and maps and other items. When she leaned closer to Liv, her semblance was as soft as the skin around her legs.

Liv noted the change, but didn’t notice what really happened.

“Okah. I get what ya mean. So, Imma gonna see if I canna extract all that information outta the books, and send it ya way, and ya do all the fancy wording words?”

Liv frowned. “You are going to summarize everything and send it my way. Without a word of complaint?”

Marilyn nodded. “Indeedy Imma gonna.”

Liv looked her over before settling on those crystal-clear eyes. There was a fire burning under all that fat, she could see, but she didn’t care for it. Honesty and conviction and all of those fancy things people called morals came to mind, but Liv didn’t care for any of those. Words were words, and wind was wind. Actions was what she wanted, and what she could use. History had taught her that Marilyn, as good a person as she was, could not be trusted in certain things. Schoolwork was one thing she could not be trusted with, but the girl needed to learn a thing or two.

“Okay. I like that.” Liv managed a lopsided smile. “You do that, I write everything.”

Marilyn nodded.

In silence they picked things up, and soon enough Marilyn was out and away from Liv’s place. Finally in peace, she looked out the window at the disappearing figure until there was nothing to see. Had it been up to Liv, she wouldn’t see that girl ever again.

* * *

Night fell with a kiss of cold and a breath of wind. The streets released their contained heat, and the critters of the night poked their noses out of their hiding holes. Rats, racoons, toads, mosquitoes, possums came out in waves, basking in the life of a city at night. The city didn’t sleep, and the poetry of traffic could be heard if one cared enough to hear. It was this poetry that Ysolda felt like destroying.

Driving used to be such an enjoyable thing and, truly, it might still be an enjoyable activity if one lived in a place that could still hold its population. But, no! She had to live in a city of horrible design, overcrowded by foot and tyre, and she had taken the horrible decision of driving to work.

Now she looked at her car’s digital clock and for the hundredth time cursed, trashed and screamed. It seemed to help, and the other drivers be damned! She wanted to look like a madwoman. She was mad, after all!

Ysolda turned the music up once more, drowning out all sound from the outside. Late, late, late. Not moving a millimetre for more than an hour, and now late. Ysolda checked her phone, if only to do something, but that something only reminded her that she was late. At least it was a distraction; it reminded her that Hildegarde should’ve called by now, or would call soon. It wasn’t everyday that her mother wasn’t at home at seven in the evening. And usually her mother honestly tells her where she had been. Damn me and my decent upbringing. Ysolda put her forehead against the car’s wheel. Now, definitively, she would have to give Hildegarde some sort of explanation of where she was spending her time. She knew the girl was catching up with her sneaking away, and was starting to get suspicious. After all, she was no spy.

A car honked behind her and Ysolda realised that the line had moved. Finally feeling relieved, she pressed down on the accelerator and didn’t let go until she reached home.

* * *

Headmistress Shiva Valiente looked at the clock mounted on the wall. 1:34am it read, and she moaned loudly. The woman stood, stretching until joints popped and tendons cramped. She let her arms and hair and head drop heavily.

“I am straining myself.” She told no one as she straightened. The stress digging into her shoulders made her cringe, but she stretched it away.

The Headmistress started to stack papers on top of each other, ordering and cleaning up a bit until she realised that she would have to scatter the papers the following morning once more. Following? It is that morning already! The answer to what she needed to do for the school would not make itself apparent if she took work home, just like it wouldn’t show itself if she kept working here. She let the mass of papers on her hands drop loudly on the desk.

“That is how my body feels.” She told no one.

The Headmistress grabbed her purse and didn’t even care to look at her reflection in the mirror. Tired, sleep-deprived and bored she walked out of her office, locking behind her. She didn’t even turn off the lights, nor hear when the night guard greeted her. She was in her car before she realised it, and she was inside her home without even recalling driving there.

The Headmistress performed the usual rituals before going to bed; showered, combed her hair, creamed her skin, prayed a bit, and hit the pillow with a sigh to make Aphrodite envious. The guise of Headmistress was removed.

Sleep didn’t come.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

And after much trashing about, Shiva gave up. She went to the kitchen. She drank cold water until her belly sloshed and the idea that she didn’t really want to drink any water came to her.

“What is going on with you, Shiva?” She asked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Three A.M. and you cannot sleep. Fucking work. Fucking life. Why did I accept that job?” She rolled her eyes. “To make that school better, duh. Fuck me.” Hmm... wouldn’t that be a good thing? Haven’t had any in months. She banished the thought before it could remind her of the many things she had given up since becoming the Headmistress.

She walked back to her room. In the dark her home looked gloomy and lonely, contrary to being bright and lonely during the day. The light cast from a nearby window upon the workout machines in the corner turned them into a dreary, ghostly sight; it haunted her thoughts, and she grabbed at the tyres of fat that had formed on her belly in disgust.

“Well... I am not going to sleep, that is for sure. And I am not going to get to work early no matter what happens.” She told no one as she walked into the dark room, turned on the lights and stereo. Pleasant, upbeat music filled the room. She could feel energy coming from somewhere within her body already. That was a change. “Might as well use the night.”

Sweat, heat and life flowed. There was something subtle and powerful about letting the music fill her and command her body on the machine. She pushed, pushed until her muscles burned and pushes even more.

When Shiva stepped down from the machine her entire body was hot and sweaty. Her breathing came in long, deep pants; and she thought she would be vomiting any time soon. She braced herself, took a deep breath, and straightened. The world spun under her feet but she did not vomit, blessedly. She made her way to the bathroom and saw her skin, like wet copper, shinning under the white of the light bulbs. She still looked like she had an hour before, with tyres and wrinkles, but something had changed.

“I needed that. I need to do that more often.” She told herself. It was the first time in months she could meet the eyes of the reflection in the mirror and say she recognised the woman she saw.

Smiling, Shiva showered.

The answer to her troubles came unbidden and at random, as if the stream of hot water had been its vessel.

Shiva Valiente squealed in delight.

* * *

Ysolda sat across from Hildegarde, hand wrapped around a cup of tea. She pulled the cup close and breathed in; bergamot and vanilla filled her nostrils with heavenly sweetness. The scents allowed her to ignore that musky scent her daughter was giving away. Ysolda did not want to think about what she had interrupted. I should’ve waited... You never meet with someone who takes ten minutes to answer her bedroom door! But I need to tell her. We need it.

“Hildegarde, do you know what you are going to do after you graduate?” Ysolda’s eyes moved over her daughter and she had to contain a giggle. Hildegarde surprised easily, sometimes.

Hildegarde tensed, her pupils were a flint of black stone against a field of gold. The subject wasn’t to her liking. And obviously she hadn’t seen it coming.

“I... I don’t know, really. Art, perhaps?” Hildegarde blurted out, voice quavering. She didn’t meet her mother’s gaze. Her voice steadied. “Can’t think about it, now. Need to study for the now.”

Ysolda frowned. That’s an odd thing to say. She sighed. Figures. Though, I did drop this out of the blue. “Hildegarde, you need to decide soon. You have almost a year before you need to find something to do, and that is a long time, I know. But months will come and go, and before you realise it you are wearing your gown. You need to choose soon.“

Hildegarde’s lips twisted, her head sighed. “I know. It is just that... that school doesn’t give me many options, mom. It is a pisshole and I don’t care about it... as a student should.” Hildegarde looked up and raised her hands before her mother could protest. “Don’t worry—I won’t fail. What I am saying is that... I sort of have a plan for the now. But for my future... first I need to put the guise of a perfect student, become one and graduate.” Hildegard seemed to stare at something not on this world. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I feel like it is too soon.“

And there it is. The barrier, different this time but still there. What was that about a perfect student? That sounded disturbingly Eldritch-like.

Ysolda knew when her daughter clammed up. It was easy to see, easy to notice, even if you didn’t know Hildegarde. She placed her hand on Hildegarde’s and smiled. “You don’t have to choose now, Lizard Eyes. Don’t worry. Besides that is not what I wanted to talk about.”

Hildegarde looked up. Whatever her daughter had thought of made her blush, and Ysolda shook her head. “I...” Ysolda paused then continued. “Have you wondered why I am not at home as often as I used to be?”

A pause. “A lover?”

Ysolda moved back, eyes wide. Hildegarde looked with a serious face before a giggle escaped her. Ysolda lightly slapped Hildegarde’s hand. “Hildegarde!”

“Sorry; I couldn’t resist.” She chuckled. “Why have you been sneaking out? I figured it had to do with the store.”

She is a sharp one, I’ll give her that. “It is precisely that. I am going back to working full time.“

Nothing happened for a full second. Then, suddenly, Hildegarde stood and wrapped her arms around her mother in a tight hug. “I am happy for you.” She said.

Ysolda appreciated the touch, but Hildegarde stank of things too girly to name in the kitchen. Softly, she pulled away from Hildegarde’s queer show of affection. Ysolda wasn’t really prepared for that reaction.

“So... what do you think?” Ysolda asked.

“You need it.” Was all Hildegarde said.

Ysolda decided she didn’t want to push it. Hildegarde had clammed up, and she would say what she needed to say eventually. Forcing the matter wasn’t going to help.

“Thanks for understanding.” She said. Truth be told, Ysolda didn’t think Hildegarde understood the whole thing, but at least the girl understood some of it. She felt better already, way better. Less stress to deal with, at least.

“Hey, if you cannot tell me then who could you tell?” Hildegarde smiled. “I am going to take a shower now.” She turned and added. “And do some homework.”

Ysolda watched her girl go up the stairs, and found a smile painting her face in bright hues of joy and pride.

She felt liberated.