The Puppet

The Puppet

The puppeteer was gone.

The puppet felt its strings fall away. No more orders. No more guidance.

Around it, puppets ran. They revelled in their freedom and set off on their own paths.

So that it would not be left behind, the puppet stood to follow.

Timidly, carefully, it stepped out into the world.

And it fell.

Knees hit a landscape it was never ready for.

Shoulders carried choices it had never made before.

Eyes stung with tears it had never wept before.

It longed for its strings. It longed for the familiar.

The other puppets could do it.

They enjoyed how open the world was.

But I'm different.

Its hollow heart grew cold.

I'm defective.

It collapsed.

It held its shoulders as if afraid of falling apart.

Its vision dimmed. There was no way forward. No way back.

It would be fine to fade away now...

The tiniest speck.

A mote of dust in the light.

The puppet saw it and wondered...

Where are you going?

Its hollow heart fluttered.

Again, it stood.

One step became two.

Two became three.

The puppet followed the little speck.

It got hurt along the way.

It grew weary.

Joints rusted over time.

Varnished wood splintered with age.

But the little speck never wavered.

The puppet saw things. It met people.

It danced freely. Laughed freely.

It got lost. Then found its way.

And in the end, the puppet reached the end of the world.

An empty abyss.

Farther than anyone had ever travelled.

As the speck flew far, far into the void, the puppet looked back.

It could not see its strings.

It could not see where it had fallen.

It could not see where it had cried.

It left those things behind.

It looked up at the sky.

It gathered all the breath it had.

It spread its fragile arms wide.

And shouted.

A loud voice.

Louder and stronger than anyone would have expected from that tiny hollow heart.

As if to leave its mark on the world.

To be heard by every other stumbling puppet.

To remind itself.

It declared these words.

"I'M...ALIVE!"