Marionette
Amarxlen
When he has a white package in his hands, she knows that today will be a good day—that he'll smile at her and mean it just a little bit more than he usually does.
So she smiles back, timidly, because she can never be sure this is the right thing to do, and tries to hide her fidgeting.
She likes to think she hides it well, but before long he's giving her a knowing smile that doesn't hide the irony or cruelty in his eyes and she can only be grateful he doesn't shower her with cruel words.
She knows she can't escape the mocking tone, though, as he once again gives her orders and she does as she's told, because at least he still gives her the white package—white like everything else in oblivion's castle.
But when she opens the package, it's a blaze of color and in her hands begins the urge to roll each crayon, each color stick between her palms. Except she's so impatient she just pulls her sketchpad onto her lap and reaches for the nearest color.
And oh, they're so pretty and bright and alive and real that she hates them; that she envies them and she pauses with the tip just above her blank canvas. Why shouldn't she use them, abuse them and leave trails of their blood—pretty purple and black blood—across her paper? Why shouldn't she break them, turn them tiny and insignificant—huddled so small and so vulnerable—until there's nothing left?
And so much of her wants to, wants to let her hand drop and close the void, to drag it and force it across the paper until it breaks in two. But then he'll ask, he'll wonder and he'll ask her why, why would she ruin so lovely a gift?
...
With unnaturally steady hands she puts back her dream and secures the lid of the oblivion castle package and gently, more gently than she wants to, places them to the side. She reaches for her reality now, resigned, pulling it closer and letting out a breath she hadn't known she had been holding.
And slowly, she puts her—ugly, dull, dead, fake—crayon to paper and does as she's told.
She always does as she's told.