Anonpencil Writes Drunk: Cleanliness is Next to Godawefulnes

>At last, the rain has stopped, and the sun is shining again. Outside your bedroom window at the castle, you can hear the first birds of spring beginning to chirp out their praise for spring. Yes, spring has indeed sprung, after a long hard winter, and this is a much needed changing of the seasons. For a moment, you're content to just lie in bed, listening to the chirp of the birds, and feel the fresh sunlight playing across your cheek. You leave your eyes closed, somewhere between waking and sleeping, just breathing in the scents of fresh flowers, drying dew, and budding grasses. Yes, it certainly is spring.
>...Spring.
>Your eyes shoot open and you sit bolt upright in bed.
>Holly tittyfucking christ, it's SPRING! The first damn day of spring! With a muted wail of dismay, you toss off the covers and throw yourself out of bed, looking around frantically. The pegasus who moves the clouds was supposed to tell you when this was going to happen! Damn him, now he could have doomed you with this little misstep. Last year, you were lucky to escape with your life, and you know Spike wasn't that lucky. You heard his horrified screams as he was dragged into the bathroom, never to be seen again.
>Luckily, your room looks untouched so far. You're not sure how long that's going to last.
>You launch yourself to the dresser and grab one change of clothes, a few toiletries, and a decent book, but nothing more. There's no time to be picky, even if that shirt does make you look like the kind of homeless guy who passes out face down on the sidewalk so that no one is sure if they're still alive or not. You grab the first pair of shoes you see, still caked with winter mud. You should really choose different ones or wipe them off, but, again, there's just not enough time. You have to get out of here, now, before it's too late!
>With another groan of frustration and fear, you slam your dresser shut and sprint to the door of your bedroom. You open it, trying to still your shaking hands, but you're barely able to grip the knob. Never mind that it's not the first time you've had trouble grasping the knob before, you have to focus. At last, the door swings open, and you go motionless for a second, debating. Do you sneak downstairs, just run, shrieking, and hope you make it? Wait it out?
>Something in your brain decides that sneaking might be the best bet. With all the care of a forty year old perv trying to get a glimpse into the high school girl's locker room, you tiptoe down the hall, then walk slowly down the stairs. You're careful to skip the steps that creak, and you pause every so often, waiting to see if you hear any movement from Twilight's room or the kitchen. So far, nothing, but every second you creep down the steps feels like an eternity. At last, you reach the bottom, and turn your steps towards the front hallway.
>You're almost free, you tell yourself as you clutch your bag to your chest. You're almost there. Just around this corner and you'll be at the front gate. Then you can run out of there, find someplace to hide, and not come back until...
>As you round the corner, you freeze. Your heart stops beating, your mind stops working. You just stand there, quaking in your shoes, as your eyes process what you're seeing.
>Twilight stands right in front of the doorway in the foyer. She's facing away from you, but you can see the way her shoulders are heaving up and down. She already has the mop and bucket at her side, and a sponge is levitating in front of her, as if she was just wiping down the door. The whole foyer smells like lemon disinfectant, and sparkles with a menacing, magical glow. There are strange, ratted curls in Twilight's mane, as if nothing else is important right now but that sponge in her enchanted grasp, not even her royal looks.
>For a moment, you think that she hasn't seen you, and that maybe you can just sneak away. Then, achingly slowly, she turns to face you, and you drop your packed bag with a gasp and shudder of horror.
>Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated to the point where there is no color in her irises. Her teeth are gritted and her lips pulled back to show every last one of them, though you cannot tell if it's a smile or a grimace. Her cheek twitches, flushed with exertion, and beads of dark sweat dot her brow. She's panting hard, and you can hear the hiss of her breath sucking in and out between her teeth.
>It's too late. Before she even opens her mouth, you know it's too late.
"Twilight," you say, voice trembling, as you raise your hands in a defensive posture. "Now, just wait a s-"
"SPRING," Twilight says in a breathy cry, "CLEEEEEANING!!!!!!!!!!"
"Jesus fucking christ!" you shout as you turn to run.
"CLEAN!" The mare shrieks behind you. "MUST CLEAN EVERYTHING! EVERYTHIIIIING!!!"
>Maybe if you keep running, go from room to room, you can hide until this is over. Maybe you can get away just long enough for her to exhaust herself and then...
>You feel the back of your shirt catch, as if it's been grabbed or impaled on a spike. Still in motion, your legs, arms, and head fly forward, then your body crumples to the floor like a rag doll. You scramble to get up, but she's already dragging you backwards.
"You left footprints ON MY CLEAN FLOOR!" Twilight howls. "You're filthy! FILTHY FILTHY FILTHY FILTHY..."
>She chants the word over and over again, voice raising in volume and pitch as your hands scrabble uselessly across the marble floor.
"Please!" You cry, looking over your shoulder at the princess, tears beginning to form in your eyes. "I-I'll clean it back up! I'll take a shower, burn off my hair, sanitize my entire wardrobe in the clarification chamber, just please, PLEASE STOP!"
"NO! I MUST CLEAN YOU, ANON! IT'S TIME!"
"It doesn't have to be time!"
"YES IT DOES! SPRING CLEANING ANON!!!! SPRING CLEEEEEANIIIING!!!!"
>You let out a sound like a dying rabbit as you feel Twilight's hooves fall upon you. You struggle, but it's no use. The sponge comes down on your protesting hands, then your face, scrubbing and blinding speeds. The friction bites into your flesh, and you scream wordlessly into the echoing chamber of the castle. No one will come to your aid.
"NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" you hear over the whir of the sponge. "I MUST SCOUR!"
>You try to tell her to stop, think of someway out, but there's nothing. There's no way to escape. Before you have time to even pick a pleasant final though, you see, though tear-filled eyes, the steel wool closing in on you. It's already vibrating with anticipation, and you hold your breath. It's not strong enough to hold back your anguished cries as the steel wool comes down on your cheek, taking your eyelid and part of your lips with it as it moves.
>As more of your skin comes off with each stroke, and the blood begins to pour out over the castle floor, you realize that in a way this is your fault. After all, you really should have wiped your muddy shoes.

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