May. 15th, 2012

[identity profile] lucifermourning.livejournal.com
Like a puppet with the strings cut.

She hadn’t realised it. Had never thought of herself that way.

Which was part of the point, she supposed – puppets don’t think, or at least they don’t think any thoughts the puppeteer hasn’t put into their heads. The same for dolls.

She kept waiting for that sense of direction, of definition. For someone to tell her who she was meant to be right now. What she should be doing and wanting. Watching other people, looking for clues. Trying to make herself disappear into the person they wanted her to be. Trying to make them into her puppeteers.

It was worst around the people she knew best. The ones she cared about the most. Or best, depending how you looked at it. She had a better idea of what they wanted from her; at least she thought she did. That made it easier to try and disappear.

She’d managed to explain it, a little, to some people. The ones who didn’t matter quite as much. But not to the most important one. She didn't know if she could bear it if he understood. Because whatever it was she would be then, it wouldn’t be what he wanted.

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