You are a kid’s imaginary friend, but you find yourself slowly fading away as they
grow older.

Rachelle B. Belmoro

The year was 1930.

I saw the first light as it shone on my wood finish body.

My head, my arms, my shadows; practically everything I once moved seamlessly was tied with strings, I wasn’t free.

A boy came in with slicked-back hair and dazzling eyes.

He looked at me with so much fascination and I couldn’t look away nor could I close my eyes. I thought he was too young for his physique, but when he talked I knew then, his heart’s still that of a child.

He muttered words of introduction and greetings; but I couldn’t even speak for myself; he just pulled the strings joining my face and my wood mouthpiece and answered his own words, with a different timbre and spoke for me.

He moved me, he manipulated me, the way his parents moved him like a chess piece.

I was his confidante, I was a manifestation of what he hated but unknowingly, I found a deep sense of strange familiarity.

Each day I found myself in an endless chain of déjà vu while he told stories of frustration and longing for liberation.

In three years, I grew tired and nauseous of the loop so each day for the next 12 months I started cutting my strings with so much disdain.

The unfathomable and sudden consciousness and will crawled through my body as if it was mean to happen all along. But each day he found me cut, he would patiently tie those strings again.

Until he rarely and never came to toy me again, just as I planned.

The strings were left untied, and on the last day, my whole body was dismembered. Then there was darkness again.

And light.

I woke up with the body of Narcissus, that was me, all grown and aged; the boy who played with a marionette and the marionette who cut his own strings so he won’t became what he hated.

So he wouldn’t despise himself.

 

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