This is a short back story about the Pale Marionette. Not only is it a user name, but it's a character in my original story that is still being set up. Please let me know if I should start chapter one, as this is considered a 'prologue'.
Thank you, viewers who respond.
I'm made of wood and glass and synthetic hair and cloth, but I'm real as real can be. I'm made of a pale wood, stained with a very light blue color. My eyes are glass, and when I see them in the light, they glitter with pale bluish and light purple. My hair is always in the way of them, and it's very light blue, but a little darker than my wood base, or--as my creator says--'skin'. He says my clothes were specifically made for me; a long-sleeved shirt with a ruffled collar a little darker blue than my hair, with white cuffs and a dark blue vest. Some whitish pants, and white shiny shoes. I look so human, save for the thin lines that show where my joints are so they can bend.
They used to love me. I was always at the center of attention no matter where I went. It was just so strange to see a living, breathing creature made of wood, half the size of a child, but in all appearances could actually be a child. I felt, I thought, I spoke, but how... No one really knew. Not even my old creator really knew. But it was a sweet, modest life, entertaining the sad or unfortunate, mesmerizing the scholars, seeing the world and how it worked. I could hardly believe how intricate the island was, how far the seas stretched. It's almost like another sky, on the ground. But dangerous. Everything in the world is dangerous.
The rain saddened me. For what seems like forever, it falls, and I can never see past the empty feeling it invokes. But sometimes the sadness is good. Sometimes we need to be sad. It cleanses the body and when that sadness is over, the happiness seems brighter than ever, better than it could ever be. But my creator didn't see it that way. He was always sad, even when I tried to make him happy. Sometimes I wondered if I didn't matter, because I couldn't change how he felt about everything.
But he said he loved me like a son, and would do anything for me. Even be happy, if he could. So he smiled a little more, tried to make the grimaces of pain lessen a bit. But he was old, and he was only a human. He aged like a human, and got sick like a human, and slept like a human. And sometimes a human goes to sleep and doesn't wake up. He told me that a little while before it happened to him.
It was another rainy day in a million, another rainy day where the sky was gray and the sea mirrored the color and got a little cooler. He said he was tired, and would go lie down, and would be back soon so we could go out and see the beautiful buildings and the trees and the little furry creatures they called animals. But the day passed, and I worried for him. He hadn't made a sound since he took leave.
When I went to check on him, he was where he always was: In his little bed, lying under the heavy old blanket. When I tried to wake him, he was cold, and I didn't hear him breathe. He had always breathed a little raspy. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew what happened; he was asleep, and he would never wake up. Just like all kinds of other humans do every day.
I'm sorry to say that it was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I knew I was alone at that time, and I didn't want to be. The world was so massive, and without him, I was lost within it. No friends, no hope of making others smile. What was life without a friend? Without someone to listen and talk and feel with you? What use was I after my creator went into his endless sleep?
I left him there, to sleep peacefully and without disturbance. I went to his attic, where he had made a set of strings for me. After all, he had always said, I was a marionette, and a marionette needed its strings to be whole. I tied myself up there, my wrists and neck and ankles, the way he had showed me, and fell into my own sleep.
Until recently. I woke up. The house is dusty, but I fear going into my creator's room. What will I find? Will I find him, still sleeping as I had left him however many moons ago? Or will he be gone, and me alone? I fear. I cry. I cry with the sky. I want to break out of the house, but I don't know how much the world has changed in my slumber. So I wait for someone to find me instead. Maybe someone will. Maybe no one will.
A marionette needs its strings to be whole, but mine snapped with age. Maybe my creator meant a friend, rather than actual strings. I don't know, but I hope to find out some day...