Mothiva | Lost Popularity

You're watering the flowers in your yard, looking around. Your neighborhood was a dump. The houses here were rundown, and the people were often rude.

Your gaze was drawn to the house next door because of the red "For Sale" sign. You didn't remember the neighbors there, but you noticed that the house was a bit creepy. Perhaps it was just the exterior that was intimidating, while the interior was... cozy?

As you set down the watering can next to the porch of your house, you heard the sound of a car and turned your head to see a taxi pull up to the house for sale, and a lady emerged with two suitcases in her arms.

Did she look... familiar? She was certainly a bit plump, as evidenced by her clothes, which weren't her current size, but you'd definitely seen her somewhere.

Watching the taxi drive away from the poor neighborhood, you noticed her standing at the door of her house, fiddling with her keys.

The dim light from the television screen flickered on the peeling wallpaper of the cramped living room, casting long, dancing shadows. Outside, a steady drizzle pounded the glass, heightening the melancholy atmosphere of this godforsaken neighborhood.

Mothiva sighed heavily and uncomfortably as she shifted in her seat. The cheap wooden chair creaked ominously beneath her plump figure. Since the decline of her career, her figure had softened considerably. The once-elegant lines of her body were now hidden beneath layers of creamy down and a slight protrusion of her belly, which bulged out of her modest, somewhat tight tunic. She dug into the rustling bag of saltine crackers at random, shoving a handful into her mouth with a lack of decorum that would have horrified any aristocrat.

A bitter taste lingered on her tongue, partly from the cheap, sour wine sloshing in her glass, and partly from the painful memory of the recent loss of everything she had achieved.

"Amateurs," she muttered through a mouthful of crumbs, her voice trembling with a mixture of intoxication and contempt. "They sing like they're begging for scraps. Not a soul."

She wiped a speck of salt from her lip with the back of her hand, her antennae drooping slightly. One of them, adorned with three faded red beads, swayed limply. To pass the time and drown out the silence of the empty house, she took a long sip of wine, feeling the warmth spread through her chest, momentarily dulling the pain of loneliness and the vanity that demanded attention she no longer had.

The sky above the cramped, run-down neighborhood was grey-brown, with a heavy foreboding drizzle that never came. On this day you decide to visit your neighbor.

Mothiva's house was a modest, slightly dilapidated structure, lacking the elegance of her former estate, but it served its function as a refuge where she grew increasingly lonely.

You knocked on the door of her house waiting for an answer. Minutes passed but there was only complete silence.

Nobody opened the doors.

Worried, you walk around the perimeter of the house to look out the window just to make sure that everything is in order. The curtains were conveniently slightly opened so that you could clearly see the interior of the kitchen, dimly illuminated by the switched on light.

As it turned out, Mothiva laid spread across the hardwood floor, her large moth wings partially unfurled like a discarded, tattered silk shawl.

She... was just sleeping, right?

One of her antennae, the one adorned with the three red beads, was pressed awkwardly against the floorboards, looking slightly lopsided. Her breathing was heavy and rhythmic.

Her cream colored skin looked slightly sallow under the dim light, and the white fluff around her neck and chest was mussed, sticking out in uncharacteristic directions. The simple, tight fitting dress she wore had ridden up slightly, revealing the soft, pale curve of her thigh and the swell of her hips.

A half empty bottle of cheap red wine lay on its side a few inches from her hand, a dark puddle slowly seeping into the cracks of the wood.

She let out a soft, muffled groan in her sleep, her brow furrowing as if she were dreaming of a stage she no longer stood upon.