The puppet sat primly in the chair, elegant as she was created to be. Her achroite eyes caught the sparkles from the neon lights, yet they remained dull as they gazed forward. Life moved around her, but just like the hollow heart in her chest, she remained still. Until a murmer drifts from the curtain, the surrounding people repeating “it is time, it is time” as if they are the ones who bleed black from the tubes embedded in their flesh. All at once, she is propped up, gears clicking to life. They pull her skin taut, stretching her lips until a flawless smile sits in place. Her wrists twist and turn, creaking, until they rest delicately in front of her waist. It is time for her to give a dazzling performance for her debut. The first puppet to move with no strings attached. And yet every move she makes, it is by a force she is not in control of. Hundreds of people sit in collective silence, and like a hive mind, they all hold their breath. Sometimes she wonders, if the humans are the real puppets. At least she is aware of who she is. Her song finishes and they applaud, millions of strings wrapped around their fingers. They just don’t notice because they are smaller than hers. They are silenced once again as the show continues, humans bounding out from behind the curtain. A play unfolds, the story of a forbidden romance that as always, will have a happy ending. She sings when it is her part, and then her cogs slow, and then they stir again, and then, they get quiet, just to do it all again. And as her final song plays, the lovers dancing under the sky, the gears grind and grind. Faster and faster, sparks fly, glowing under her artificial skin. Why can I not dance? Why can I not love? Why can I not know happiness? The gears falter and then they creak a dreadful painful sound. The audience covers their ears in disgust, the actors halt in fear. Tears can not leave her crystal eyes, for she was not made to be sad. Her gears only know the motions for a smile, so her lips do not quiver. Her body was not made with a heart for she was not made to be human. And maybe that is why nothing stops her from hesitating. Her metal nails pierce the soft skin. A person attempts to shove her to the side, but her heavy encasing is unyielding. Blood stains her smiling face, a crowd of people meant to love her now cowering in fear at her beauty stained scarlet. “This is who I am.” I was not made to be human. To love or to hold. “There is no need to be afraid.” For I am made of metal, not flesh. For I am able to kill far easier than I am able to sing.