notas.;;

Christmas!fic/drabble for zanisha. ♥

umm. i guess you would kind of call this a naminé × lots of male characters? haha. –whore.- (: IT'S NOT AS WHOREISH AS IT SOUNDS. xP

greatly inspired by "marionette" by scarlet room. pretty much all of the lyrics are somehow incorporated in this fic.

kh is not mine.

gliding binding strings ¤;;

"Doll, doll," He sings to her, sweeping a finger across her porcelain cheek, white as ash. At first she used to flinch away from his icy touch; as the weeks ( months, years ) passed, she seemed to grow impassive, her cheek no longer soft and easily dented, but calloused by his touch, as if made of wood. It goes in her ears and bounces around inside her head: Doll, doll, doll, doll. Was that all she was? Just a doll to be looked at, touched, and eventually, broken? A marionette with strings attached, the puppeteer controlling her every move, even her destiny?

"I want to be a real girl," She one day blurted out ( though still in her quiet voice ) to the one keeping her captive in this (window-shop), and received a quick, hard slap on the side of her face. Her cheek burned bright red, rogue and blush that painted a china doll's extravagant cheeks, and tears stung at her eyes. Glass eyes, concrete tears. 'Witch,' He had called her. So 'Doll' was affectionate, 'Witch' was not. I don't want to be just a Nobody anymore.

Once confiding in the Puppet Master of the castle on her wishes, hoping her dreams could come true by the magic illusionist, he had played with her strings and laughed (just as Marluxia would do). "Silly girl, you will never escape. You are our marionette – do you not understand?"

Erase these memories, repair that. Add this, fix that. Dance for us, Naminé, dance dancedancedance. We want to see you dance.

Sitting on the chair in the silent room of space and white. Her jointed bare legs swinging, her singing, almost humming, barely heard: "Da ba da ba da ba da dum."

Envied by the nymph, she sees her as a perfect mannequin, untainted by their potential evil. She wants to break her. There had never been a doll of hers, when she was a child, which she did not tear the pretty blonde head off of.

"Give him some real memories to think about!"

Dance, dance forever.

If Axel asks if they really do have hearts, she'd tell him no. If she told him that she thought she heard her own heartbeat, faint but still going strong, he'd believe it.

Someday, she dreams of running away, like he let her once – running away, not dancing, breaking from her strings as the chord dies, and being twirled by her princes – Sora, Riku, Roxas.

I know why the caged bird sings . . .

The mocking voice that enters her mind when she threatens her with steely knives glinting in the fluorescents: "Marionette, dance for us."

I'm so sick of this world. I'm so sick of myself. I'm so sick I'm so sick,

She screams.

You own me. The faces. You all own me. The lies. She's caught in a web of them, the eyes, blue orange sapphire amber yellow violet emerald brown.

She screams and screams and screams until they say, Stop.

Sing.

There is still hope (lies).

I am not Pinocchio's replica.

Da ba da ba da ba da dum . . .

But didn't Pinocchio's wish come true?

When you wish upon a star . . .

There are no stars in the Organization. There is only Nothingness.

And the lonely little marionette and her puppeteers.

Dance, dance – I'm falling apart.