Miss · Cornelia · Rothschild

Now, I was designed to feel both pain and pleasure. I'm not quite sure how it was accomplished, but Sir had one end in mind when he gave me the gift of tactile sensation -- to keep me out of trouble.

You see, when I feel pain, I naturally stop doing whatever it is that causes it, and thus save myself from possible destruction. The first time I ever felt pain was when I touched the hot tea kettle on the stove (because it was shiny, and I had an instinctive desire to help Sir, no matter what he might be doing).

It hurt like the dickens, and I yanked my hand back and cried a lot, as I hadn't many words, back then. After he calmed me down, Sir watched me closely as he asked me if I would ever try to touch it again without one of those rags over my hand, as he had been using. He seemed honestly curious, and gratified when I said, "No!"

And the sensation of pleasure drives me to seek it, I find...and pleasurable things are normally quite good. For instance, I love it when Sir pets my hair, and I am fond of hugs from my friends. Sir says that these little things play a large part in teaching me what it is I ought to do, as someone who was designed to look and act like a human.

Why all this prattle about sensation? Well, BECAUSE I HATE IT.

Last night I hurt so badly I thought I was going to wind down permanently...like my gears were going to crash together and melt and all would become one molten mess inside me. I did that queer crying thing, where no tears come out but I can't speak and I just jerk a lot, and I HATE THAT TOO.

What happened was this: I was helping Sir move some crates around in his laboratory (which is currently located off Caledonian soil). I am very strong, after all. But for some reason I tripped, and after that it's all a blur...all I know is that I ended up with a huge metal case atop my arm. I couldn't get my arm out, and this sent me into a panic...for some reason I felt that if I didn't get it out immediately I'd be trapped there forever, it was all quite irrational. But I yanked and pulled and thrashed and cried until Sir could calm me down enough to get me to push hard on the crate, because he certainly couldn't move it, being only human.

Because of the strike, and then all the yanking, my forearm was in a sad state. My skin broke, and beneath it I could feel something wasn't right. I couldn't twist my arm below the elbow. So there was a lot more tearless heaving before Sir managed to get me to his table with the big magnifying lens so he could look. He had to fold my skin back so he could fix it, and did so very easily, even with all of my panicking. But he couldn't fix the skin.

My skin, you see, is soft. Since few people touch me (naturally: I live in a civilized country), most think it is porcelain, but it isn't. It's a special compound that Sir made himself that hardens to a ceramic closer to my interior, near the metalworks, but remains softer and more skin-like near the surface. So part of it was shattered, and the other part was all floppy, and...ugh. I feel faint.

He wrapped up my arm in a bandage, and told me it couldn't be fixed until he could make up some more of the compound. So, here I am, looking like a war veteran (which isn't bad, but still, I haven't done anything to look like one, so I rather feel like a sham).

(The Fated Bandage.)

I hope Sir can come up with it soon. I hate to think of going through my debut like this.

Ugh,

Lia

Current Location:	The Kitchen
Current Mood:	drained
Current Music:	Emilie Autumn - Opheliac