The Marionette and the Puppeteer

Having fun on his own, the puppeteer wanted any toy to pass the time with—a plaything for his lecherous mind. There, he noticed the puppet sleeping soundly in the same room—the perfect doll, he thought.
 
At first, it began with stolen glances and grazes across her figure. Then, when the lights were turned off and everyone was asleep, his show started, and his costume was on, designed to do tricks for her—tricks she had never felt before, and neither did she want to feel.
 
Paralyzed, lying like a corpse as he fastened the strings around her wrists, joints, and limbs, she was convinced that they were playing a game—a performance she was obliged to join and guided to play a role she wasn’t. She was objectified to become nothing but a marionette.
 
Gradually, the puppeteer was promoted to put the spotlight on his puppet at every given chance, even when the lights were on and everyone was awake. He would make sure the stage was empty, reserved for them only.
 
No matter how many times she pulled at the strings to break free, it was all pointless. No matter how many times she tried to speak up, her voice betrayed her. She lost herself every time he tugged at the cords; he earned his control from her pitiful weakness. Perhaps that’s all she ever was—a helpless puppet to be played with. No will and no voice of her own. Thus, a good marionette for him, she was.
 
At some point, when it was already too late, she managed to detach herself from her puppeteer, or maybe he allowed her to think she did. He moved on, yet his eyes and thoughts kept wandering back to her. They lived together without the strings to link her to his hands. Yet she learned to forget and live on—to live on without the broken and missing parts she would never reclaim and fix.
 
Nights like these were proof she would forever be haunted by his shadow, while he slept like the angel his mother said he was—only if she knew he was anything but that.  
Nightmares locked her in, becoming a puppet once again to the memories, trapped by their whispers throughout the day. For the past decade and possibly for the ones to come. That is, if she didn’t put all of that to an end.
 
And that’s what she did. Walking close to the highest cliff she would always pass by, picturing herself giving in to slip down the sheer height, staying away from everything that pushed her to that edge. She ended her life and every memory of her puppeteer, in a heartbeat.
 
She was born and died as a marionette.