Yes people, you're seeing right, two updates in one night.

The Puppet

He lay slumped against the wall.

It was an old, frail, dying wall, covered with unsightly scratch marks, permanently gashes where the blood oozed out from, before they stained onto her skin.

Yet the wall somehow managed to provide him with support.

He was spineless, after all. Anything would do. And his much needed guardians made their homes on it.

The shadows ----- those monstrous wraiths straight out of a poor tormented soul’s worst nightmare, their tendrils of darkness stretching out into the entirety of the colourless plain, hiding him, shielding him.

But effective was they were, they had one key weakness ----- the light. The one thing they feared. The one thing that reduced them to cowering weaklings who’d flee, taking shelter behind the nearest object they could find.

Fortunately, the filthy hovel was unlit, with the exception of a gentle glow emitted from an ancient oil-lamp. That however, was barely a presence, much less a hazard. And it was flickering, struggling for its life. Then suddenly, it seemed to regain its spark and grow bigger and brighter, only to be brought to an abrupt death, rapidly consumed and overcome by the darkness.

Well good then, he hated the light.

Hated the light as much as they did. Light meant morning. Morning meant the awakening of Master.

Master.

The very mention of that monster sickened him.

Every single day, without fail, Master would trespass into his little corner, his forbidden sanctuary, to come to collect him.

The towering ogre would, using the strings, lift him by one of his helpless, floppy limbs and force him into miniature casket, and whisk him away to a pitiful, shabby excuse for a stage. Then the barbarian would fling open the little prison doors, and using the strings, bring him to the platform for his humiliation.

Oh, how he loathed those strings ingrained deeply in his wooden wrists and knees. It provided Master an avenue to manipulate him into obeying every idiotic command, every idiotic dance step.

But perhaps most of all, he detested the little brutes who were drawn in by the perfectly foolish display. Their treacherous finger-pointing, their boisterous laughter. And how he wished to carve those imbecilic grins out of their faces, out of existence, once and for all.

At this point, he couldn’t help but laugh at himself, ridicule himself, like what practically everyone else in the world seemed to do. How would he ever accomplish such a thing when he could not even get rid of the permanent, sickening smile etched across his very own face?

The face that covered up everything. His true feelings. Of misery, of hopelessness, of despair, of hatred. Everything.

Everything had to be bottled up in the scrawny wooden skeleton that was his body. And so they would never know, and he could never tell them, and he would forever remain a mere tool for their entertainment.

But even puppets could dream, could yearn, could crave.

And even if his Blue Fairy never came, even if he knew that it would be a fantasy, and nothing more, and even if knew that happy endings were impossible, each and every night, without fail, he always dreamt, always yearned, always craved.

He craved for flesh.

One day, he would peel the very skin off his Master and wear it like an elaborate costume. Never again would he be a mere skeleton.

One day, he would be able to touch, and to feel the dying wall, the bitterly cold floor, sensations so wild, so new.

And he would be able to slit his human-like wrists. The wildest sensation, the most powerful sensation, the sensation he needed the most, the sensation that would release him, the mixture of pain and pleasure.

He craved for bone.

One day, he would his Master open and steal his bones.

No longer would he have to deal with the flimsy wood skeleton he possessed.

He would be able to move. To run. To go after the ones who ridiculed him in the past.

And he would have gained the ability to strike many final blows.

But most of all, he craved for blood.

And one day, he would drain Master of all his blood, take every single little drop of the precious crimson liquid away from him and use it to revitalize himself, to give himself life.

And Master would be nothing but an empty shell, waiting for him to replace his veins with tattered strings.

And he will ensure that Master have a taste of his own arsenic. He will ensure that Master finally understand what it feels like to be manipulated, to have no will, to be utterly humiliated.

And as for he, puppet turned puppeteer.