The Novel

Reginald

She sat there, sharpening her weapon collection as she has done every night before at 10:08pm, this was prime weapon sharpening time if you asked Reginald. She was a simple gal with an innumerable number of weapons, including numb chucks , daggers, and the odd gun out, but her favourite was the mighty katana.

It was a beautiful thing. Handcrafted by monks in the amazonian rainforest with intricate gold snake designs imprinted on the handle, with a glimmering silver blade that holds hope, power and murder. Reginald had received this marvellous blade from her mother before she died. Reginald was only a babe, burdened with the responsibility of a mighty blade and her mothers distant memory.

Reginald has been by herself since the ripe age of three, living off of tree nuts and otter pelts. It was when she was five when she got hooked into the wrong crowd and had to start making decisions for her life. She murdered for pleasure, safety and sport. It was a hard life to live, and she's a little fucked up.

But as Reginald sits there and sharpens her knife in the small room incased with suffer and pleasure, she is reminded of her tragic past and gruesome future. Her bedroom sits atop the kitchen in a small apartment located in the quite suburb of  Czechoslovakia. She lives with three other mates to which she both loves and hates. If you ask Reginald, they are nothing but mere work acquaintances. 

It was only when the blade made a deep gash in her palm did she realize that she was still sharpening.

Reginalds bedtime is !):#@pm SHARP (she's very cryptic). She takes a glance in the mirror and smirks at her reflection, mocking herself. Reginald is a lanky lad with arms and legs too long and much to skinny. At a quick glance you would think she was almost invisible to the point of transparency because of her lack of girth. The only thing that sets her apart is her razor sharp, aligned bob, but the bottoms naturally floof and curls upwards to form a cloud like appearance at her jaw. Not to mention the wispy but also simultaneously thick bangs that hang down to her sad eyes. They seem to be full of colour, like a rainbow or oil on water, but also colourless and empty, like a finished can of barbecue flavoured Pringles.

As she undresses she runs a long finger across her snake tattoo that peaks out from the collar of her shirt and twists down her lean body in magnificent ways. She does not know the origins of the beautiful tattoo, all she knows is that she woke up one morning planking atop a fire hydrant, abs burning to find the insanely detailed tattoo splayed across her body, she is quite a heavy sleeper.

Reginald climbs into her bed that is unironically a hammock, as she puts her body to rest she thinks of the past lovers that have spent the night in the hammock that hangs in her small room. She does not remember their names or faces, only the sweet musk of cologne that lingers, that she has grown to love over the years. Remembering only leads to caring and caring only leads to hurt, so Reginald choses not to sear their faces into her mind.

The last thing Reginald notices as she drifts off into a deep slumber is the faint smell of burning and a piercing shout from the kitchen below, but if you recall Reginald is a rather good sleeper and was not alarmed by the noises or nauseating aroma. 

Goodnight Reginald.