This Home is Where my Heart is.
I am in my mouse hole. Straightening and dusting. The shadow of the cobweb in the corner, told me to you see. So quick with the broom and dustpan, quick with the rag and mop. Work is to be done, and spot on.
My apartment is in the basement of an old house, much like the one I was born in. Mummy and Daddy were so awfully proud when they lived there. Daddy was all serious and blustery when he wanted it painted, so the last time I saw it I painted it with him. My beast rails and screams against my current domesticity, it wants to hunt and destroy. I pat it on the head, tell it to please reduce the racket, and lock it back in its very small closet.
After my sudden realization about the effects of my lunacy, and a great deal of contemplation, I have come to two conclusions. Conclusion the first is that my beast has become as mad as I, and as its entire existence revolves around being able to grasp and control. This loss of any fixed place to stand, makes any length of lever or strength of fulcrum that it may possess, as worthless as dross. Conclusion the second is a corollary. As my beast is me, so is its madness mine. Thus follows on that if I should lose my madness, so shall my beast and its full control will resume. I would not like that to happen as all it wants is to destroy and hurt, and that is not my desire.
I straighten the oil painting of my family. It is truly the only thing left of my past that I own, save for my name. I reclaimed the painting a few months ago from the museum that had been keeping it safe for me. I did leave them a note thanking them.
It shows Mummy, Daddy, and I in our Sunday best. Daddy was so pleased when it was finished. He said it meant that we were somebody now. I had always thought we were somebody before, but I must have been mistaken, for Daddy was always so dreadfully clever and knew everything. I take great care to dust the frame, making ever so sure to get every last trace of the smuts out of the grooves that Mummy's fingernails gouged in it. Stretching up on my tiptoes, I give them each a kiss when I am done.
The next mess to deal with are my dolls. I do not know why they always get into such mischief whenever I step out for a moment. Mr. Jones has landed upon Billy's lap, and Lady Glenn has found herself on the bookshelf across the room. I give them all a proper scolding, and warn them that there will be no scones with their tea unless their behavior improves.
They are all contrite at this and apologize and promise never to do it again. I listen to them with my most serious face on and finally after watching them squirm a little accept their apologies. One must always be firm and disciplined with dolls otherwise they will run rampant.
After that is teatime and then a short nap before nightfall. I have business to attend to, a Slayer to find, and things to see before dawn.