prologue
My hair is a tousseled, knotted mess, as it usually is when I wake up at precisely 6 am every morning. Except for sundays. Sundays are wonderful. Showering is dull, yet pleasant. The water is warm, but not hot enough for my taste. I prefer it scalding enough to leave my skin reddish. I dry off a bit, wrapping the damp towel around my hair on my way to the full body mirror.
I look at my naked reflection, taking in my curves, and my pale skin. I am looking pretty fantastic, I suppose. I usually am. My thin fingers grab at the slight pudge from my hip. I'm gaining weight; I resent the idea of me being disgustingly fat. I should begin dieting again.
Walking back over to the bathroom, I let my hair fall from the towel, tossing it aside hastily. I snap on the blow dryer, and the noise drowns out the classical music from the my old record player down that hall a bit, but not entirely.
My hair is dried fairly quickly, volumunously bouncing around my shoulder in cornsilk blonde tresses. I do like my hair, it's quite fantastic.
After I dress in black stockings and a thigh-length, greek-style white dress, with long, slit-sleeves, I look once again in the mirror.
My dark brown eyes are sunken and tired; how disappointing, yet predictable. I strongly dislike my eyes; brown is such a typical iris shade. Nonetheless, I brush my naturally long lashes with black mascarra. I am running low, I will need to restock soon. I dust my eyelids with a light brunettes, along with lining my lids, adding a cat eye finish. My lips are plump, and I very much like those as my best feature, I think. I slowly, carefully, run candy-red lipstick over them, as I always do.
Slipping into a pair of black boots, I look once again at my reflection in the fullbody mirror on my way down the hall. I look so typical for myself, but I am certainly fantastic.
One of my servants is waiting for me in the grand kitchen with tiled floors like a checker board. I must admit that I do like the decor my father chose about fifteen years ago. Indeed, I have been raising myself since age five. Needless to say the both of my parents are long deceased.
I am served a typical breakfast of fresh, cherry scones and wine. There is a sudden distruption to my typical chewing, with an abrupt crack.
"There is a pit in this cherry...," I murmur, slipping it out of my mouth and swallowing the rest. I examine the pit, balancing it between my two long fingernails. There is a chip in my mauve nail polish. This is not very fanastic.
"I am terribly sorry, madam," my servant replies, dubtifully. "I am afraid one of the chefs must have made a slight mistake."
"A slight mother fucking mistake," I sigh, leaning back in the zebra-print chair. In a wink of an eye, I draw a clean, silver blade, and slide it tastefully into my servant's chest. There is a satisfying sound which comes with it. This is so typical.
The servant is dead, of course, and drops pathetically to the tile floor, his blood spewing slowly around the wound, and pooling beneath of him. How ungraceful.
"I recommend someone clean that up," I say, half to myself, standing after dabbing at my lips with the cloth napkin. I would hate to ruin my lipstick on eating. I am supposed to be dieting, anyway.
I continue across the room to the balcony, making sure to adorn my black fedora hat on my way. It was my father's. I push open the french doors and step out into the fresh autumn air. I do enjoy autumn, it is a pretty fantastic season; one in which I was born.
Looking out at the city before me, I reach out and stroke my black cat. It is one of many felines in which I own; I am very fond of cats.
The weather is lovely, perfectly fantastic. But it is typical, nonetheless, and I resent the typical. What a mother fucking uneventfully morning.
