Song- Labour: Paris Paloma
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
I smiled a little as the strings on the puppet wove around my fingers, every tiny movement they made working to control the puppet's arms and legs like a dance. The puppet had a permanent smile, its painted mask forced into the small expression that sold the emotional lie to the world around it. The puppet's strings were tangled, years of being shoved into a corner finally showing. The puppet had once brought me so much joy, my brother too, but now it was worn and its once bright colours faded. The puppet smelled of a far away childhood, but its eyes were scratched with the age of today.
The puppet had always been attached to strings, manufactured in a way that meant it was destined for control. What a sad life, I thought, looking down on the puppet as its thin wires knotted around my fingers like a game of cat's cradle. Though the strings were thin, they were made to wound up tight- the puppet unable to simply slip out of the hands of the owner.
The puppet fell with a loud clatter as I spun the strings from my fingers, the red imprints of the wires in my skin reminding me that the power of control never leaves the beholder. I looked down on the puppet on the floor, its body flopped and lifeless.
The puppet can't function without control.
The puppet can't function without control.
The puppet can't function without-
The clock's hand pinched me back into reality, tired of my daydreams, as it struck the hour. I stared back at the girl before me, her strings as prevalent as they had ever been. The strings that held her head up high were attached to the fingers of expectation, the wire that was wound around the corners of her lips were toyed with by the hands of determination, but as I stared at her a little longer, I noticed her own fingers bruised and bloodied, cut with the string that was attached to herself.
She held her own string, the string that controlled her actions. Whilst the universe may have shown her time and time again that it owns her, the strings were too boldly bound to her own fingers to take them away from her.
She's her own puppeteer, no matter what.
No matter what, never give the control over.
You are your own puppeteer, Isidora, take it and run.
I walked away from the mirror knowing that only I could see the blood stains on my fingers from how tightly wound my own strings were and that was okay. As long as nobody else looked into the mirror and saw them too, I would get to keep the scissors away.
The world tugged on the strings that were attached to the corners of my lips, forcing the smile that my father wanted to see. Although he wouldn't- couldn't- tell me, and hadn't been able to for eleven years since death knocked on our front door, I knew inside he was still the father that ruffled my red hair and calmed my wild soul.
"Father, would you like something to drink?" I questioned, beginning to clink the cups from the cupboard in my hand to waste time, knowing the silence had stolen his voice a long time ago. Just maybe this time will be different.
It never was.
I was entirely unsure whether gratitude was something I was supposed to hold. Whilst I never needed to wait for the stars to shine to distract me from my thirst anymore, I had to wait for them to see my brother. Everyday I waited for the lines and dots that connected the constellations to make a ladder for me, so that I could be with him just one more time. Why did you have to take father's voice with you? Why did you insist on leaving me all alone?
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The Keepers' Evil
Fanfiction"That's where Sebastian's guilt met my guilt and, oh, what a dangerous form of amortentia it was." Ranrok was killed, Rookwood was dead, and the repository was opened. Madeleine had done her part, she had done everything asked of her. But whilst Mad...
