Warning; Scales is a body-horror serial and, at times, terrible for the mind.
Welcome back, love! I see you've found us again. Unfortunately, the madame isn't feeling well, but I can take care of any questions you may have. Well, maybe not all of them. But, here's what you need to know: If we are speaking it means the madame is in great distress. It means she cannot 'come to the phone' as it were. So, I am to guide you through this next part. What I must implore to you is that...this isn't the madame's fault. Lily lay panting wildly. The back of her torn to shreds as if she had ran herself across barbed wire. Scales scraped and hanging in tufts of hair and skin like foam bursting from the fault lines in an old couch. The lady of the house got to her as soon as she could. The evidence dispersed and splattered along the baseboards and cornered surfaces of the home. Lily, no doubt, dragging herself from one end to the other for a chance at both the relief of the itch, as well as the anxiety. The process of this is tedious, you understand. The madame has fail safes, plans in place. There was no plan for the loss of Bleu. In the moments directly following, it was agony. Lily in pain, yelping at every touch as the madame cried “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Delicately, the little brown dog was wrapped in gauze and bandages. Pressing the scales and viscera into place like puzzle pieces ‘back together again.’ An impossible task to bear witness to, to be sure. Neither creature understanding if the other would return to them whole. Neither have left the bed since the ordeal, so. It may be a bit before they feel up to the adventure. Much to explore! However, it seems recent loss has prevented us from moving further. The madame may be transfixed on past losses at present. The guilt of it all, you understand. Weaving in and out of fantasies of better days while her mummified pet cures and sets. It’s a wonder to be sure. Certainly better than the horror before us. I can smell the rot in the air, the iron still hanging on the atmosphere like the knocker on a door. Waiting to enter.