The walls were her.

She new naught of life outside them, caressing and suffocating in tandem.

These mockeries were made the same as her flesh, but without soul. Meat without animation. Hard and unforgiving. When she beat on them, she couldn't carry on without imagining hitting another.

There was no comfort in a house of inhumanity.

She was built in another's image, in shape of something she had never seen. Carved with giant hands, shaping her gently. When she did glimpse life outside of her walls (those wretched, _wretched_ walls), music serenaded her and spun her without a care to her sight, deperatley glancing with an unturnable neck to see what she was missing.

And then it was back to darkness. Stale air. Cold floor. She would cry, surely, if her wooden eyes allowed.

The walls inspired fear. They inspired anger.

They inspired hate.

The dancer danced in hope to escape. Her fine gears turned and delicately, gently, wore down.

It was only a matter of time.