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Eines Tages wird Ringo mit Easy an der einen Hand und einem Riesencookie in der anderen Hand Huber Bau und danach die gesamte Weltherrschaft an sich reißen. 😂

#unter uns #ringsy #yeah it's late #and I'm tired #and after tired comes stupid

Day 10: professor/headmaster

Glynda Goodwitch

(poor, poor Glynda. When will she be able to rest???)

#rwby #rwbyartchallenge #glynda goodwitch #ozpin's chair will never stop being funny #yeah it's late #oh well #rebel art

Day 3: “Mirror, Mirror”

Have you ever looked deeply into a mirror, like really, really deeply? Have you ever wondered if your reflection stays in its place while your back is turned? Have you gazed into your glazed-over mirror eyes; unable to identify any flicker of life or indication of humanity in your face? Have you ever wondered if your reflection is looking as deeply into you as you are to it?

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had a fear of mirrors. Catoptrophobia, they call it. You see, my parents were very rich, and we lived in the most grandiose and royal mansion you can imagine; elegant woodworkings, classical artwork, and the finest fabrics, all kept in prime condition by our hired staff. Along with that were the mirrors, as rich and beautiful as the rest of the house. For most of my life, this was all I knew: perfection, sophistication, refinement.

My mother and father embodied and reflected these qualities. I hardly saw my father outside of his freshly-pressed professional suits - or at all really. He was far too respected and feared to let his hard, ruthless corporate-owner facade down to play with his only daughter. My mother was much the same, but her facade was that of a professional socialite. I was never near them, even - only when other rich families would come around, or we were hosting a party, would I have to stand by and act as the perfect daughter so that it might look that they did such an excellent job of raising me. In actuality, they were hardly interested in raising me, so they hired someone to do that as well.

Her name was Naomi, and she was the only one who was compassionate toward me; she probably loved me. When they were doing the interviews for the position, I peaked into father’s study and saw the back of her head, colored a bright sunshine blonde. I hadn’t seen hair that color before; my family’s hair was raven-color, and as black as night and the members hearts. She had a chirpy, happy voice too. I was immediately drawn to her, and went to sleep that night praying that she would be the one my parents hired.

And hired her they did. She moved into a room just opposite of mine when I was almost four. I remember shyly watching her as she moved in across my room, and I remember being afraid of this new type of person, but also comforted by her at the same time. Of course since I was a child I was very clumsy, so she noticed me watching, but wasn’t upset. She smiled and winked at me, and I was baffled by the gesture. I secluded myself back into my room, my face red from being shown affection for the first time.

She was with me at all time. She gently woke me up in the morning, helped me choose my clothing and dress myself, brushed her teeth with me, ate breakfast with me, tutored me in all subjects, played with me... you understand. She taught me kindness too; something I had difficulty grasping since it was so foreign to me. But I still tried to follow and understand her teachings, even to just distance myself from my family and make me closer to her. She had patience in excess, and love pouring from her every orifice. I think I loved her too, despite emotion being such a confusing subject in my eyes.

But one day, my heart broke. It was early morning, the sun just barely illuminating my room with shades of orange and pink. Naomi was brushing my hair next to the window and humming a tune while I read a book, occasionally turning to Naomi to ask what a certain word was. I was 14 now, and familiar enough with her to comfortable in silence, show her the emotions and vulnerability that she helped me develop. It was early enough that I was still in my sleeveless, white silk nightgown. I looked up to watch the sunrise and noticed my reflection looked a bit off. This immediately concerned me, like it would any other human, so I ran to my wardrobe mirror. The pedestal on which I was dressed was always very far away from the actual mirror, which I thought was strange, but Naomi told me it was to make the room look less empty by taking up more space, and I believed her. But I looked myself in the mirror, and it all made sense - the long sleeve dresses and stockings that I always had to wear. Naomi tried to stand between me and my reflection, but I already caught a glimpse at what I was. My shoulders, elbows, and knees were made of visible ball-and-socket joints, allowing my fake body’s limbs to bend like a normal girls’.

Father made me a doll since mother could have her own. This way, they could program me to act and think just as they wanted. I confronted them at dinner, where we each sat at the long dinner table as far away from each other as possible. They looked at each other, and there was some sort of mutual understanding. Father got up from the table, and mother walked around the table to hold my hand, and explained the situation to me in her trademark condescending fashion. I fell asleep crying fake tears that night.

When I woke up, Naomi was gone. Her things were still there, but she was gone. I worried all day, waiting for her. I occupied myself by inspecting the body that I, apparently, neglected to familiarize myself with. I was hairless, with small sculpted pores to make my skin look human but still smooth. I tried to move my face, but it wouldn’t budge. There was no squish or or slight mistakes in my body - I was perfectly symmetrical in every aspect. Do I feel? Do I love? Am I the only one of my kind? Who made me?

I thought these for a long time, but those questions didn’t matter. Naomi was gone, and with her any hope I had of blending or freeing myself from the life my parents dictated and made for me. I reverted back to being emotionless and playing a part in my parents game. Sometimes, I think I see Naomi in dark corners of my house at night, but as soon as my glass eyes focus, she’s gone. We don’t have mirrors in our house anymore, or reflective surfaces for that matter. I’m almost 18, about to leave for school, and my parents just “gave birth” to a baby boy, so he can presumably take over the family business. They’ll kick me out, and I won’t be able to communicate with him to tell him about what he is. I just hope that he gets a Naomi like I did.

#writing #day3 #yeah it's late #ima try to catch up today tho lol #horror #doll #creepypasta