Work Text:
You are a puppet. Your limbs are tied up with string that digs into your skin so tightly it bleeds. You like to watch the blood drip down from your wrists where string meets flesh. Sometimes you hope you’ll bleed so much that you drift away from the world—but you know the man will never let that happen.
He doesn’t have a name that you know, but does anyone have a name in this place? Before, when the other children still spoke to you, they called him the Puppeteer. The name never captures the true horror he inflicts, but it’s the best your childish minds can conjure up.
Now that you think of them, you miss the other children. Their bodies aren’t gone—you can still see them strung up beside you every day. The Puppeteer even makes you dance with them sometimes. But they don’t speak anymore, and their flesh is starting to rot. You wish you could forget them, but the smell of decay radiating off their bodies always reminds you that they’re still there.
You should have rotted away like them a long time ago, but you’ve always been the man’s favorite. He puts you in a frilly pink dress and ties ribbon upon ribbon in your dark curls. He makes you dance front and center. He screams at you the loudest when you don’t smile for him.
You’re terrified that one day you won’t be his favorite—and that you’ll rot away too. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. You’d finally be free of dancing all day long. A smile creeps onto your face at the thought of freedom.
Your smile stays even when you hear the ragged breathing and squeaky footsteps of the Puppeteer approaching. It’s time for another day of dancing.
You are still a puppet.