Those who say that being a diva of steampunk fashion is awesome, how many times have you sewed that dress for a zombie in your life, for God's sake!
I rush to the drawing-room where a familiar sight awaits me: my mistress in a ripped corset, with her gun-holster dangling awkwardly at her waist, giving me an apologetic smile.
Her yellowing half gone, half rotting teeth fill me with dread. I know I should have gotten used to it by now, but I haven't. Luckily, the mistress doesn't notice my fear, disgust, and discomfort.
Is she even capable of depicting human emotions, I have often wondered.
I gesture her to turn over so that I may survey the damage and run upstairs to retrieve the necessary materials and equipments.
In silence, I start working on her front. I pleat the pearly-white fabric before aligning it with her corset; leaning in, I get to work, sewing it on. The constant faint smell of decaying flesh that surrounds her, and the crusty, almost peeling skin that clings to her bones (as if being forced to do so) assaults my senses, and I almost throw up.
Thank Heavens, I had not yet had my lunch, or else I would have had my forearms bitten off by her. After all, what she had now (her present state), she was going to be stuck with it forever, or till being a zombie isn't made illegal. And getting vomited on would mean that she was going to be stuck with smelling like my half-digested food and bile juices. For her attire had already become one with her; therefore, she couldn't afford to sully it any further.
She was a steampunk fashion diva, now and forever.