marionette
normal disclaimer applies
your little puppet, swirling, twirling dancing
obeying your every whim
her – centric + her x him
-x-
Oh darling, you are perfection.
Was she really perfection, or was she just a girl strung up by someone, with silken string kissing her limbs, making her dance across the little road called life.
Pianist, they called her, because Velia was once the best. Child prodigy, she was praised by adults, simply because Keira was so. The Angel of Music, she was dubbed, with no reason behind it other than Janessa being the holder of a solo contract with the greatest record dealers in the world. Artist, they whispered in her ear, because Rebecca made it so.
Entangled in the web of lies, so deep with that sticky spider's web holding onto her, she wanted out!
Her puppeteer danced her across the stage, telling her to be the most beautiful girl anyone has ever seen. Being only a doll, she had to obey.
Starving herself when her puppeteer deemed she was too fat, or applying a mask of makeup to hide away the blemish on her face, the evidence of imperfection.
An attempt to possess perfection was of course, the only reason this poor marionette was made. Perfection, uttering that word made her laugh.
A pretty little butterfly I am not.
Stretching her limbs, the pale girl lay there on her bed, eyes gazing up at her ceiling, her face void of emotions. In this house, she was no longer known by her name, but as 'her', 'the girl' or sometimes, 'perfection', something she clearly knew she was not.
Sprawled there like a broken china doll, her head lolled to the side. A fine, sharp needle in her hands, picking at the tender flesh that sat at her veins, her fingers fumbling as droplets of scarlet stained the embroidery she was working on, darkness around her.
A melody came from her throat, eerie, as the night continued to play its symphony. "Ring around the rosies a pocket full of posies… Ashes, ashes, we all fall down."
Drip, drip, drop went the scarlet liquid.
I am simply a moth in disguise.
Fluttering helplessly against the fingers of her captor, the mask was lifted, and what was beneath it was revealed. Only a plain moth with a colorful disguise, beneath all those strange trinkets, she was nothing more, nothing less.
Her wings were torn up and ripped, yet his fingers were delicate, careful, almost. "Do you always come here?" Lieing there on the slide, watching the star dotted sky, while he hung around the seesaw, his eyes were flickering lazily upwards.
"Not really. Just felt like coming today, no particular reason. Care to give me your name?" A star passed by their very eyes. "Perfection." Her reply was soft, hand fiddling with her damp hair.
His eyebrows knitted together, "Really, a name, please." A grin flashed across her face. "You haven't told me yours, though."
"Oh really? Imperfection, then."
This, my friend, was destiny at work.
Take the pain away.
The utter lie of this perfection they always spoke about, that was always on their lips, the only thing they could talk about. "Have you seen her today? She is so stuck up!" Their hushed whispers were sharp knifes poking and prodding at her almost perfect skin.
Almost perfection wasn't good enough, but she settled for one thing that was definitely wrong.
She settled for Imperfection.
foot-notes: yay. more of a revamp of one short from perfection, but this time, with any character our twisted little minds can think of. letting out all these vent up feelings feel good. ;) ciao!
