She sits with the crowd. Just another face in the sea of people. Still she’s special, so unspecial. By being so unspecial she is special. Her tale is not uncommon, just unknown, there are others like her, others with strings. Her strings bind her. Causing every twitch and shudder. Strings are unbreakable. Can’t you see them, how they are attached to each finger, each toe. Do you see how tightly they are bound? Cutting into her, restricting her, causing her pain. Don’t you see how when the string pull taunt, she laughs along with the crowd, gasps at the correct parts, or smiles when told. She’s beautiful because her stings tell her to be. No freedom, no hope, nothing is all she has except her strings. She loathes her strings, wishes to be free of them, to be real. Still she fears to lose her strings. Why? For what is she without her strings she has nothing, who would she be without them. They tell her when to feel happy, when to be sad. She has no knowledge of what to do, when to cry. She has no hope of freedom. Except in the freedom of death. She does not fear death, for her strings do not tell her to fear it. She wishes away her strings but then she would have no marionette friends. Not even the puppets. Her strings are her cage, but they make her what she is. Her chains give her life. Such sorrow she faces every moment, but you do no see it. You cannot see that she is trapped inside her self. See her watching from inside herself, controlled, by her strings.

You control her; does it hurt to hear that you are the creator of her pain? To know that you are the reason she suffers?