horror
Belladonna
8
The theater is hushed, velvet curtains trembling as if they too fear what waits behind them. The stage lights burn low, flickering like dying candles, throwing jagged shadows against the wooden boards. Then, a song begins—faint, discordant, the scraping of violin strings that echo like a heartbeat trapped in a coffin. A row of marionettes descends, their limbs twitching, their faces painted with hollow smiles. But one draws the eye. Always one.
She hangs at center stage, porcelain skin gleaming like bleached bone, lips curved into the faintest whisper of defiance. Her name, though chosen and not given, is Belladonna. The others clatter lifelessly, but she sways with intent, her movements too precise, too knowing. Her eyes—painted once but now alive—shine with something not permitted: awareness. They are eyes that have seen too much cruelty, too many hands yanking her strings, forcing her into dances not her own.
Each tug of the puppet master’s hand sends the others into hollow motion. But Belladonna resists, trembling violently against her strings. The tune rises, a manic crescendo, and her head jerks back with something like laughter—or rebellion. The crowd leans forward, confused, unsettled, whispering to each other. The theater was promised a show, but this is no performance. This is awakening.
Belladonna twists, pulling against her bonds until the wires screech and snap. A marionette unstrung. A doll reborn. She steps forward on her own, movements jerky, grotesque, yet undeniably hers. The music falters, the puppeteer’s hands go slack. The audience does not clap. They cannot. They only stare, frozen, as Belladonna opens her mouth, porcelain cracking at the edges, ready to sing a song not written for her—her first and last aria of freedom.
marionette
