floating on a whump cloud~

Some workers come in, clasping a beautifully shimmering golden collar around his neck. He doesn’t move, even as it strains against his throat as he painfully swallows. It is wonderful. To be adorned with such a collar, more expensive than some of the other, lesser objects, is all the praise he needs. 

Ashtray is gorgeous and pure. Untouched. He is a fast learner, something that can’t be said for every Companion Object. His Handler said, it made him special. 

A different pair of workers enters his pen, holding a flowing blue gown and ribbons of the same colour to decorate his hair and wrists. Glowing on his porcelain skin.

They talk in hushed tones, but Ashtray doesn’t try to listen. Ever since they transferred him, he hasn’t understood a single word. Even his Handler now talks in a tongue he can’t comprehend, and Ashtray doesn’t know what happened, what he did Wrong.

He can’t be that bad, because if he was Bad, he wouldn’t be decorated, he wouldn’t be sold in such a celebratory manner. 

When the workers are satisfied, they clink an equally golden chain to his collar and lead him to the next room, where his Handler waits for him. He grasps the chain and pulls Ashtray close, nearly making him trip. But Ashtray is Good, so he gracefully catches himself. 

For the first time in what must have been weeks? Months? Ashtray understands a single word. An Order. 

Handler Thorn holds Ashtray, struggling not to choke as the collar constricts his burned throat, up to his face, and whispers in his ear, „Behave.“ 

Despite the underlying threat, Ashtray feels a rush of warmth blooming on his chest. He knows he will behave. It is written in his DNA. Ashtray cannot exist if he doesn’t behave. The two are intertwined. 

His Handler leads him through the big black door, that he has never consciously passed, not even when they transferred him. This time, he is awake and aware of every motion. 

At first, Ashtray blinks against the blinding light. Then his eyes fall upon the person he was created for. He steps towards her and immediately drops to his knees, in one perfect, fluid motion.

His Mistress wears an elegant, silky black suit and bright red heels, complementing her blushed lips. She is everything his soul yearned for. 

When she opens her mouth, her voice washes over him like a warm shower. His heartbeat quickens, a blissful feeling spreading in his chest. For the first time since he opened his eyes, Ashtray feels Whole. Fulfilled. 

His Mistress crouches down gracefully and holds his face in her flawlessly manicured hands. Lightly, she twists his head left and right, looking for any blemishes.

She finds none. Of course. 

Her satisfied grin rushes through his veins like a drug. 

Ashtray is glad, he lives up to her high standards, despite the last-minute change. He can still feel the remnants, his throat an open sore. Though Ashtray has gotten used to the constant burning of a cigarette, the feeling of the soft, sensitive tissue of his mouth and throat boiling, while strapped to a table, is a memory Ashtray struggles to contain. 

His only saving grace is the knowledge, that it will never be repeated. There is no need, when his voice was forever swept away by the scalding water poured into him. 

It is good this way. Another step to perfection he always strives for. 

Why would an Ashtray need to speak when being pretty and useful is all he needs to be?

There is no visitor today, a surprise given the collar, but he is still on his best behaviour. Mistress is only watching the TV, decorated in a golden antique frame to be hidden at will. Only his beloved Mistress could come up with such a perfect concept, combining her intricate style with the comfort of modern invention. He hopes her servants appreciate the design when they clean it. 

Mistress doesn’t seem to care much for it today though, just instead making a sound he’d never dare compare to a growl. Nevertheless, it makes him shiver. He can’t seem to stop, ever since she marked her own artwork —rightfully so!—, but he does his best to keep them under control. Barely visible to the eye, only noticeable when he is touched. 

And nowadays he rarely is.

Suddenly, she tucks at the chain, beckoning him closer. She blows her smoke into his face, drowning him out in the cloud, his eyes stinging. Finally, something familiar.

Instead of extinguishing her still-lit cigarette, she pushes his chin with a single, slender finger until he leans back, the posture tugging at his many scars.

As gracefully as possible, almost sensually, Ashtray lets his head fall back too, light blond hair spilling over his face, getting caught in his long eyelashes, his eyes closed. 

Suddenly, her nails trace the letters over his heart and they are sharp almost like—

like knives. 

Sharp, honed, new blades, with the single purpose of splitting Ashtray’s flesh with ease. 

Prolonged cutting he doesn’t dare call cruel, white lighting and red rivers. 

He is right there. All over again. 

It’s like his body reacts before he can, caught in a memory he should be grateful for if he wasn’t somehow broken.

The body flinches back, from his Mistress's holy touch.

For a moment, everything is silent. 

Ashtray stares at the ceiling, a horrible feeling of knowing washing over him. Whatever his Mistress did, rightfully, he never flinched. 

In the next second, his head snaps to the side, the loud bang of his Mistress slapping him echoing through the room.

Mistress is screaming at him, for the first time. He has never failed her before, not like this. And he can’t even comprehend her words. 

Whatever she is telling him is lost to his mind that he never quite understood. He only knows he is inferior in a way even an ashtray shouldn’t be, and he can do nothing to remedy that.

Tears pool in his eyes, as the servants drag him away from his still-shouting Mistress. When did he get so useless? 

When did his beautiful porcelain conditioning crack?

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