Puppet
I'm really kinda sick. (barfs) Also, this fic is pretty short and not very well thought out. I might try something else from this point of view again.
Oh, bytheway, this is the POV of Raggy. Or Ragtime. Or Dishrag. Or
THE END OF THE WORLD.
11) "every move you make"
He's like a puppet. Nothing more than a bony wooden puppet. And I'm the puppetmaster. I always have been. Medusa comes second, as far as I'm concerned. After all, Medusa can't control the puppet's movements all the time. I can.
His head's filled with sawdust, too. Can't think for herself. Can't do anything. Hell, where would she be if it wasn't for me? Already dead, that's right. I'm doing him a favor, for christsakes. Pummeled, pulverized, broken into pieces. Definitely nowhere nearer to being a Kishin. Stuck with some other weapon. That'd never protect him. It was always me. Savin' his bony ass every damn day.
Not that I wanted to or anything, but shit, I don't really have a body of my own, y'know? So I'm reduced to working through this puppet. He's more like a crutch or a wheelchair than an actual usable tool though. What's that, a symbiotic relationship or something? 'Cause we'd both be dead if we weren't together, I'll admit to that much. But I've always been the most important. After all, what's that kid got that I don't? Besides, y'know, flesh.
There's probably some kinda metaphor there, right? Something to do with protecting your flesh and blood. But forget about that, I'm a killer, not a poet.
But before, he knew I was the one in control. Hovering over him, I could've fit my hand over his whole head and crush it. I was the puppetmaster, all I needed were some strings to finish up the look. I didn't, though, because he would have been all annoying like, "Raaaaagnarok stop picking on me," in a tone that would be so annoying that I'd have to stop. Even though picking on him was so goddamn fun.
That's how things stood before. And that was okay, that was fine. Goddamnit, that's how it was supposed to be.
Now that I'm the puppet, being dragged around, offering no more protection than a fucking toothpick, I can't even move him how I want the way I used to. I can't feel like I've got a body, a real one, and the strings I never made are being cut off.
But, like I said, I'm not a poet.