sjsprWriting

She was performing today. Then again, she performs everyday. She can’t remember each day in specific, she can’t remember the faces. All she knows is that she performs for boring, un-amused, taut and cold people. While they sit in the red, velvet chairs of the theatre and she's performing, all they do is stare at her, but she stares right back. And while she can’t remember everything, she remembers the tugging. There is always this constant, incessant tugging, willing, no, forcing her to move; to perform. Pulling and pulling, it’s always pulling.

She doesn't know where she is, what day or time it is--she doesn't even remember her name, or the day she was made. But she does know that she is tired; the sores of her muscles after a show are a bitter reminder. She knows she wants to stop. She wants the pulling to stop. She wants to remember. Why can’t she remember? The continuousness of it all; everyday the same procedure, has her disoriented and taken aback. She is not capable of distinguishing each day, what the current time is, nor can she tell the difference. Time has melded into one for her.

The bittersweet music finishes, and the heavy curtains close. As soon she realizes that she can finally stop, she collapses on the small, black and white checkered floor of the small stage. Warily, she looks down at her arms, and gingerly touches it. The white paint is chipped and the gloss is fading. The once beautifully crafted wood she is made of is now battered and bruised. Her eyes see through black and white now, she cannot see the colour. She feels used, torn, abused and sick.

She doesn’t remember anything, but she knows that there will always be that tugging. Always, always pulling her strings.