Disclaimer: I do not own Paradise Kiss in any manner.
Marionette
Miwako does not get angry. She cries, sometimes; she pouts, occasionally; she whines, when necessary. Miwako does not yell. She does not raise her voice. She does not become harsh.
This is because Miwako is a pretty, proper, porcelain doll. With a painted face, and spiral locks, she is dressed up like a mannequin and spun around for the viewing pleasure of an eternally smiling audience.
"Look at how cute she is," they will mumble to one another, grins plastered along their faces.
"Don't you just want to take her home?" they will inquire; more facades. Are they not so different from Miwako, after all?
And all the while, Miwako spins, she grins, she wins hearts the world over. Later, Arashi will take her back to their apartment, and slowly, surely, remove her doll-dress. He will fumble with the infinite, infuriating buttons, and the never-ending ribbons binding her up. If she is unbound, will she fall to pieces? He will toss her garb to the waiting floor, and he will gobble her up with rough precision, as he has done one-thousand-thousand times before.
He will break her perceived innocence–his ultimate fantasy. He is the bad boy; with spiked hair and lip rings and an aura of rebellion, he wants to find out why she is so loved and he so hated.
She does not mind; she does not feel much, besides. She has been his beautiful little marionette for years, and it will not end; she will play this role for all of eternity.
