Why is Love so Hard? |BENDY X HENRY| (OLD)

Dignity After Death.

"Spiffy."

says the ink demon.

He's holding the knot of my tie in his hand, his head tilted to one side. I can feel his gaze shift over me. He's taking in my appearance. As if after a week he was expecting me to be different somehow.

I try not to stiffen.

His gloved claws slip down to the tail, pulling it taut around my neck like a hangman double checking a noose on his gallows. I swallow, any remnants of bile in my throat forced to choke past the tight tie.

Work hard, work happy, I remind myself, forcing that smile to stay on my lips. God, I hate that it's the first thing that comes to mind.

"How about you help me make us some pancakes?" I say.

The smooth fabric bites into my neck every time I breathe. But I don't dare readjust it.

Drip.

Red tinged ink drips from his head onto the floor. It pools like blood on the floorboards. It smells like blood. A jolt runs through me like an electric shock. It is blood.

I look off to the side, anxiously awaiting an answer. But he doesn't give one.

Instead, he simply begins digging through the pantry. A sliver of relief reminds me to breathe, and I sigh.

An apron is thrown from the hook in the pantry, falling haphazardly around my ears.

"Thanks." I say, adjusting the fabric until it's comfortably hanging from my neck.

Nodding, he shoves ingredients onto the kitchen counter. Pulling the milk from the fridge and shoving it into the hoard, he steps behind me. There's a light tug on the fabric as he grabs the straps that tie around the back of the apron.

My shoulders tense.

Then he pulls, yanking the pale ribbons tight around me, biting into my hips. The fabric screams when it brushes itself and I feel him tie what must be a big bow on the back. He adjusts the other tie as well, and the straps hug my chest uncomfortably. Two loops fall against my legs, and he tugs them over my thighs.

When his attention is safely averted away from me, I pull at the collar.

"Good Lord, what is this made for, torture?" I frown.

Unfortunately, it doesn't get any looser. Infact, each time the demon passes, he simply tightens it further. Soon it's rubbing so hard against my skin, even through the fabric, I try to map out my moves before I make them to avoid unnecessary motion.

Seemingly oblivious to my apron hell, the ink demon goes about collecting the ingredients. And in no time at all, everything is laid out nice and neat, ready for cooking.

Shuffling over to the electric griddle laid out on the counter, I turn it on.

Meanwhile, he starts making the pancake batter. I hear one egg crack. Then two, and three and four. Soon I've heard seven eggs crack.

Seven?

I turn around- scratch that, I try to turn around. Straps burn my skin as it rubs across the clothing fabric, and I curse.

"Why, the, hell, would an apron ever need to be this constricting?!"

I try to untie it. I try again to untie it. Third time's the frustrating charm?

Long story short, I'm pretty sure the apron became fused to my body. Since the apron clearly is going to have to be buried with me, I wrestle my hand underneath the fabric and begin undoing my shirt buttons.

When I've slipped that off, I work on easing my dress pants from the all too tight waistline. So much for getting dolled up...

The awkward rubbing isn't much better on bare skin. Infact, it's infinitely worse. But now my rib cage can actually move when I breathe.

Function over fashion, as my dad used to say. It was especially popular whenever he took me out to the old car lot at the end of our block. That was before he knew. After that, things were a little different. Let's just say there were no more trips.

Dignity after death seems a bit more fitting in my case. Hell, at this point it's just the story of my life. The tattoos inked across my body glare up at me as I sigh. I still need to get them removed.

With my vertical toothpick of new breathing space, I turn around. Just in time to watch the ink demon swallow an egg raw. Eggshell and all.

I can just imagine it sliding down my throat, cold and slimy— I stifle a gag.

Probably looking a hell lot like a chicken, I strut over there. It's stupid how much I relish the freedom of less than a millimeter.

The egg carton is a bit more than half empty as I take the remaining eggs. I crack them all at once, watching as the orange-yellow yolks slide down the walls of the large metal bowl. But as I do so— zlp-

Great. Even tighter than before.

I'm pretty sure if I sneezed at this point my body would physically burst. A Henry smoothie all over the kitchen cabinets, extra salty.

My mind reverts back to the News; Bloody smiles... Unidentifiable serial killings...

The reality that I have a serial killer in my kitchen comes crashing down on me.

The monster himself is staring at me, and a moment later I realise my hands are shaking. Quickly, I stop it, deciding to focus on the pain instead.

Faking a smile, I continue the recipe.

Flower, milk, sugar, a pinch of salt and baking soda join the egg in the bowl. Shifting my finger lower down the page, I blink.

"We're missing the vanilla." I say.

I briefly check the counter top. It's not there. Unless he considers multi-coloured sprinkles to be a good enough substitute, which I doubt.

I shuffle across the kitchen, the frilly hem of the miniscule apron skirt swishing around my thighs. My body is hot, though I like to tell myself it's just the heater working overtime with the snow outside. Yeah. That's what it is.

I reach for the cabinet where the vanilla is stored, and my fingers brush the handle. But I'm too short. I strain my arm, standing on the tips of my toes.

The apron brushes all the wrong places, and I bite my lip.

One inch closer and— hands slip around my hips.

They pick me up, claws brushing my skin.

"Any last words?"

"All mine~"

"I SAID, DIDN'T YOU, HENRY?!"

I'm drowning.

I scream.

My lungs burn.

The claws tighten.

I scream and scream and scream.

I kick him.

I thrash and scream and kick.

He drops me and I fall to the floor like a doll.

I'm on my hands and knees. My face is wet. My ears ring, and I bury my head in my knees. The apron squeezes violatingly around my bruised, tattooed body like a pink and white boa constrictor.

Why did I think I could do this?