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.”