Flash Fiction: Feathers and Twine

I am unraveling. Alone in my apartment, the fifth day. Blood stains the kitchen floor and my fingertips. Hands trembling, I tug the end of the twine from within my forearm and toss it into the pile of string and feathers next to me. All I can smell is my blood.

I cry for the hundredth time. How long can I survive this? Where is my creator?

A knock at the door. I struggle to stand, pull on a robe to hide my wounds.

A woman stands at the threshold, long, black dress, a doctor bag in her hand. I collapse to my knees at her feet, sobbing.

“Now, now, little puppet.” She pats my back. “We’ll fix you right up.”

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