a marionette with a broken heartstring posed no more of a threat to her than a knife to her throat. the thought of hanging free, carefree, freedom, from the puppeteer tainted her salty tears streaming mascara down porcelain features. a blank canvas to recreate.
but it didn't matter how far she blew in the wind, or the sights she saw through her broken, jaded eyes, the scent of love, lust, longing, lingered in the crevices of the very oak she was sculpted from. reborn. it followed close by, wherever she landed through the gentle homely aromas of aged whiskey and cheap cigarettes.
he'd sold out; a ***** to his own sophistic creation.