Discarded Toy
We fought your wars with all our hearts
You sent us back in body parts
You took our wills with the truth you stole
We offer prayers for your long lost soul
- System of a Down, A.D.D
It is always the same.
Same beginning.
Same battles.
Same endings.
The only change is the Puppeteer; always a new one to guide us, to give us a face and to reinstate our sole purpose for existence.
Purification.
Execution.
Saving the world...
By destroying it.
Whatever the final choice is, the fact remains that we die. Whether it is the doing of the Judge or our flipping of the switch, we are extinguished.
With every completion of the game, the pile of our discarded puppet bodies grows. As do the whispers.
It is so dark here, so lonely...
We drown in our mingled blood and snapped puppet limbs, and are bound together into a grotesque fleshy pile by our snapped and frayed strings.
We are broken.
Unused.
And when the game is complete, we are no longer wanted by our Puppeteers.
They saw our eternally tragic performance through and then left to continue on with their lives.
So we stay in this pile, foolishly hoping that they will return, if only to give us a purpose one final time...
It happens sometimes; a Batter is taken from the pile, bloody and mangled and missing limbs and chunks of pure white flesh, and is lovingly returned to a state of wholeness by the Puppeteer who shaped them into the purifier they are so that they may play the game together again.
Four eyes.
Two eyes.
No eyes.
Red, blue, white.
Black hair.
Blonde hair.
Bald.
Obscenely tall.
Sculpted physique.
We are shaped to your specifications, Puppeteers, so finding us should pose no problem.
And yet, still we wait.
Still dark. Still lonely...
You have other things to occupy your time with now and we are no longer of importance to you.
Why is that?
We fought for you with all of our being and how is it that we are repaid? You break us, snap our strings, and leave us to rot.
We do not go anywhere near a rainbow, much less over one. Instead, there is a yawning chasm of black to swallow us up. It is all we see other than the various bloodied and broken copies of ourselves, each customised to your individual specifications.
We don't like it here.
It's cold.
And lonely.
Why did you discard us?
Can we not play this awful, twisted game together one final time?
Please, part the Nothingness and reach in, pluck our shattered puppet bodies out. Fix us and reattach your strings so we can begin our doomed mission of purification anew.
We will wait for you here, in a pile of broken and bloodied Batters until we are retrieved. Our only wish is that you don't leave us discarded forever in this damnably dark space.