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Shadow Milk Cookie had left in a swirl of midnight silk and jingling bells, off to drink neon cocktails with Candy Apple Cookie and trade card tricks with Black Sapphire Cookie. He’d ruffled Pure Vanilla Cookie’s hair, promised to bring back “something that tastes like starlight,” and vanished.
The door had barely closed before Pure Vanilla Cookie’s knees buckled.
He didn’t hit the floor; the carpet, white, immaculate, caught him. He knelt there, palms pressed to the fibers, breathing like someone had stolen half his lungs.
He counted heartbeats: one, two, three…
Pain flared behind his ribs, the old familiar brand.
You’re wasting space.
You’re melting.
You’re too sweet,
too soft,
too much
and never enough.
Shadow Milk Cookie wasn’t supposed to be back until night. Pure Vanilla Cookie had at least eight hours. Eight hours was plenty. He could carve himself hollow and stitch the shell back together before the jester returned. He could pretend again.
He rose, slow, dragging himself up. The corridors stretched.
The healing chamber lay behind a door of moonstone. Inside, the air tasted of vanilla extract and antiseptic.
He could not, it seemed, heal the need to hurt.
He locked the door with three turns of an ivory key. Then, ritual; he took off his night robe. The fabric pooled like spilled cream. Undershirt next; the buttons were tiny, and he fumbled them, fingers trembling. The cloth stuck where yesterday’s cuts had wept. He peeled it away, reopening half-scabbed lines. Blood dotted the linen in constellations.
Mirror first. Always mirror. He needed to see the crime scene.
The full-length glass was framed in sugar-crystal roses. His reflection wavered, skin marred by pale pink scars, some fresh, some older. Hipbones sharp as temple spires. Ribs countable beneath the flesh. He hadn’t eaten in three days unless you counted the single pomegranate seed Shadow Milk Cookie had pressed to his lips, “for color, pretty thing”, and even that he’d nearly spit out.
He lifted his right hand. Healing light, soft, sunrise gold, glowed at his staff. He pressed it to the scars. The skin knit smooth in seconds. The ache behind it, memory of the blade, the terror, the release stayed.
He breathed through his teeth. The room tilted; he hadn’t had water since morning. Dehydration made pretty halos around the lights.
Just a little. He bargained with himself the way an alcoholic bargains with the last bottle. Shallow. Deep enough to feel, not to destroy. You’ll patch it after. You always do.
He chose the inner thigh this time. Easy to hide under royal robes. He hiked up his remaining shorts, sat on the edge of the marble table, and spread his legs like a patient at a surgeon’s. The scalpel, sterilized, silver, waited on a tray beside the gauze.
The blade kissed flesh. A thin red line bloomed, delicate. He pressed deeper, steady, clinical. The pain was white-hot, exquisite. It crowded every other voice out of his skull. For a second, he existed only in that bright flare of pain.
Then the blood came. Slower than he expected; his body was conserving volume these days. It welled in a perfect ruby bead, rolled down to the table. Each drop sounded like a drum in the hush.
He watched, mesmerized, until the edges of his vision frayed. He’d forgotten to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. The room steadied.
He set the scalpel down. With practiced efficiency he pressed gauze to the cut, then layered healing magic over it. The flesh obeyed, knitting closed until only a faint pink seam remained. He’d erase that too, later, when the high wore off and shame crept in. For now, he left it, evidence he could still control something, even if that something was pain.
Time blurred. He found himself on the balcony overlooking the capital. Night was still hours away; the city sprawled below in jeweled silence. Sugar-cube houses, caramel streetlamps, the distant silhouette of the place where Shadow Milk Cookie laughed with his assistants. Pure Vanilla Cookie leaned against the railing. The stone bit into his bare torso, cold enough to hurt. Good. He focused on that.
Wind whipped his hair,white as fresh cream, across his face. Strands stuck to the drying blood on his thigh. He should clean up. Should sleep. Should do a thousand things. Instead he counted stars.
When he ran out of stars he started on the moon. It hung huge, butter-yellow, a cookie bitten in half.
He pushed off the balcony, wobbled back inside. In the bathroom he finished healing himself and wrapped himself in a fresh robe the color of sunrise. Combed his hair until it lay obedient. Applied pearl powder to the shadows beneath his eyes. Practiced smiling in the mirror until the corners of his mouth stopped trembling.
Perfect. Royal. Untouchable.
The hunger pang came again, sharper. He ignored it, went to his study. Mountains of paperwork waited. He signed everything with sweeping flourishes, adding tiny hearts above every ‘i’ the way Shadow Milk Cookie did to make him laugh. The hearts looked like bullet holes.
At some point he dissociated, came back to himself with ink pooled on a paper, forming an abstract butterfly. He couldn’t recall the last three letters he’d written. His fingers were stained indigo. He imagined the ink seeping into his bloodstream, dyeing his heart, marking him internally the way scars marked him externally. The fantasy was oddly comforting.
The sky outside bruised to lavender. He should rest. But lying down meant closing his eyes, and closing his eyes meant seeing the blade. He opted for the astronomy tower instead, climbed the spiral stairs slowly, leaning on the railing when vertigo struck.
The telescope stood pointed toward the constellation he was observing the night before. Pure Vanilla Cookie pressed his eye to the lens. The stars jittered, blurry. He realized he was crying. Tears tasted of salt and unsaid words.
The constellation flickered, impassive.
He stayed there until the tears dried. Then, mechanical, descended. Stopped in the kitchen. Stared at the pastries cooling on racks. Raspberry cake, chocolate, meringues that dissolved on the tongue. He picked up a meringue, held it to his lips. Sugar dusted his skin like pollen. He could almost taste it, sweet, ephemeral, harmless.
He set it down, untouched. Left the kitchen and walked calmly, his staff thumping softly against the floor.
He returned to the healing chamber. Locked the door. Stared at the scalpel.
He didn’t touch it. Just stood there, shaking, until the urge passed.
He slept then, dreamless, heavy, on the marble table, arms folded like a corpse. Woke to the sound of humming.
Shadow Milk Cookie was home.
Pure Vanilla Cookie bolted upright. He smoothed his robe, erased sleep-creases from his face, and stepped into the corridor just as the jester rounded the corner arms full of ridiculous gifts: a clockwork swan, a bottle of starlight liquor, a plush bat wearing a miniature crown.
Shadow Milk Cookie’s grin faltered the instant he saw Pure Vanilla Cookie. He sniffed the air, subtle but not subtle enough. Pure Vanilla Cookie’s blood froze.
“You smell like antiseptic,” Shadow Milk Cookie said, voice light, too light. “Been playing doctor without me?”
Pure Vanilla Cookie forced a laugh. “One of the maids cut her hand. I assisted.”
Shadow Milk Cookie studied him for a long moment, taking in the perfect hair, the powdered cheeks, the robe without a single wrinkle. He raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled, bright. “Well, I brought you a present.”
He held out the plush bat. Pure Vanilla Cookie took it.
“Thank you,” Pure Vanilla Cookie murmured. “How was… your evening?”
“Wild. Candy Apple Cookie tried to juggle fire, set the tablecloth on fire. Black Sapphire insisted on interviewing her after the traumatic experience.” Shadow Milk Cookie stepped closer, voice dropping. “I missed you.”
Pure Vanilla Cookie’s chest tightened. “I missed you too.”
Shadow Milk Cookie cupped Pure Vanilla Cookie’s chin, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “You look pale, pretty thing. Did you eat?”
The lie slipped out smooth as fondant. “Of course.”
Shadow Milk Cookie’s eyes said liar, but his mouth only twitched. “I brought dessert.” He stated, pulling out a small box of a cake.
Pure Vanilla Cookie’s stomach churned. He accepted the box, holding it “I’ll savor it later.”
“You do that.” Shadow Milk Cookie leaned in, breath warm against Pure Vanilla Cookie’s ear. “And if you need anything, anything at all… you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
Pure Vanilla Cookie nodded, throat too tight for words.
Shadow Milk Cookie kissed his temple, soft, almost reverent, then twirled away. “I’m off to rest. Don’t do anything without me!” He smiled before he vanished around the corner.
Pure Vanilla Cookie stood there a long time, clutching the plush bat. Eventually he opened the box. The cake inside was jet black, dusted with silver. He lifted it, trembling, and set it on the windowsill for the crows.
Then he went to his chambers, drew the curtains and laid on his bed. He could feel his heartbeat ring through his ears, but he slept nonetheless.