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A short horror story I wrote.
Word count: 777 (Lucky number:) )
TW: Body horror, psychological horror & gore
The room is dark.
Is it even really a room?
I don't know.
But there are stage lights, so it's probably a room.
The stage lights are for my puppet show.
I control all here.
I am the puppet master here.
An invisible jester.
A magician without a wand.
And a wordless storyteller.
It's a magical show and I am the one in control of the puppets.
It is a show about life and a show about death.
A show of the fortunate.
A show of the unfortunate.
An everyday story.
An awesome adventure.
Out of all the puppets, there is one in peculiar, that I have the most control over. It is also the one that takes the most out of me.
There is a crimson thread coming out of each of my fingers, like that of the veins in a body.
Maybe they are my veins.
I don't know, it's not important.
Four parts of the legs, two of the arms, one for the body, one for the neck, one for the head and one for the facial emotions.
I, of course am also able to control the others to a certain extent, their crimson threads are bound to my own arms, legs and neck.
Maybe we are alike.
It might look a little silly, but even so my control over them is almost flawless.
This is going to be another great show.
This is going to be another great day.
Another hope for applause.
Another hope for approval.
In this room, where the audience goes unseen and the light only shines on my puppet show.
Honestly I'm not sure if there even really is an audience, but it doesn't matter.
No time.
The show starts.
And the curtains rise.
The protagonist wakes up and gets ready for its work.
As the public watches the puppet moving as if it was alive, I can hear some gasps.
Did I really?
Perfect, it is all going smoothly.
After a long day being overworked it returns home for a late dinner.
It decides to watch tv.
The crowd seems to have gotten bored. Maybe I should let something weird happen the next day.
At night the protagonist stares up at the ceiling, wishfully hoping for change in its repetitive and stressful life.
I can show this without sound, without words. Just the movements, lights and the face.
Some audience members seem to relate.
Isn't this all just in my head?
The next morning, the same routine starts.
It is stressing me out, I can hear their dissatisfaction.
Continuing, something happens at work.
Something bad.
The protagonist is treated worse than before.
The audience seems to be more interested in the plot now.
This problem seems to be getting worse and worse by day and yet the protagonist bottles it all up.
I let it seem like it has been bottling things up, it is a puppet after all. It doesn't have feelings.
Now I'm planning for the protagonist to make a heroic comeback, because that's what my audience loves after all.
A new day and more anticipation than before, because this might be the day and if not, it will most definitely be the day after.
The protagonist meets the bully.
Not yet, please not yet. Later is better, later is good...
Then suddenly a thread snaps.
It is the one controlling the emotions.
Voiceless I scream.
It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts really bad.
Blood is pouring out of the thread, turning it gray.
So it was a vein?
The empty darkness is shocked.
This is not heroic at all!
As I try to grasp for control, I lose it all.
One by one they snap, leaving me in anguish.
So much pain.
All threads turn grey.
Yet I can't scream or cry.
The public starts booing.
They are already bored, they wanted a hero.
They wanted an interesting story.
A totally unique story.
A story they could relate to, but also making them feel better.
A story so strange, but also so normal.
Real and fake.
I need to change something.
I need to do something!
But then after my puppet has started yelling and hitting the others, the other threads snap.
The threads of the others.
Blood is everywhere and I have gotten numb from the pain.
The audience is disgusted by the sight of the bloody battlefield, that is the small stage.
My puppet show is ruined.
After all the other puppets have been ripped apart, 'my' puppet turns around to face me.
It's face filled with broken emotions.
It is broken.
They are broken.
Slowly the protagonist walks my way.
Were they always this tall?
Was the size just an illusion?
Maybe it is magic...
Step by step they get closer.
Each step sounding more human than the last.
The protagonist is approaching and I have nothing to defend myself with.
No weapons.
Not even words.
I only have the broken threads, the threads that were supposed to control everything.
I look to my sides for help.
Only the ignoring darkness stares at me.
Watching, blind eyed.
I wasn't good enough.
I'm not real.
It seems I was the puppet all along.
The only 'it' in this play was me.