robby. robby. robby. mod alan scratches his neck, feeling the words crawling on his plastic skin.
the thing is that alan was never that vain.
he stands by the mirror now, waiting for something to happen. he’s tried to shave his beard off, but his hair seems to grow fast. which shouldn’t be, because he remembers trying to grow it out forever. or maybe not.
he just doesn’t want to look like him anymore. it’s not too much to ask. alan doesn’t want to look like the other alan. it’s the only thing tying them together.
because this wouldn’t really happen, right? because he’s not like him, he’s a possession, not a person, dressed in stolen lace, a mannequin in a basement waiting for mod robby, the other imposter to come home and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him so alan can close his eyes and pretend he’s dying. because he’s the housewife, he cooks, and he cleans, and he looks pretty. except he doesn’t cook, or clean. he doesn’t even know how to evaluate his appearance. he’s a housewife. he’s a wife. it’s a housewife. it’s a wife. it’s a housewife.