The Puppet Walks [Jujutsu Kaisen]

[I] Curtains Closed

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デッドパフォーマンス。

"She was just another broken doll, dreaming of a boy with glue."

—Atticus
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A thin thread of yarn poked through the end of a metal needle. Recluse strands of gathered stitches tied together to keep clean cotton from escaping. Each jab caused evenly cut shores of fur to bend and fold with movement as his rugged hands held still. A simple task, but one could easily pierce more than just the toy if they weren't too careful.

Fine tatami mats were placed solemnly underneath of our parted figures. We tended to stay on our own sides without intercepting the other's space. After all, it's not like I'd ever want to. Silence loomed heavily off of dense stone columns, each reverberating their own quiet song. An estimate of 10 minutes had passed since we originally sat down.

We were most likely waiting for Gojo.

Although I'm not sure why father invited me. Most times he'd force me to stay in my room and focus on being quiet. The same room with pale pink striped walls adorning it, housed my hideous infancy, a part of my life that is forever inexorable. The same brittle bed frame and the same desolate dressers that used to be surfaced with dolls.

The same isolation and the familiar seeping fondness of shirking neglect.

At this point, I was a firm believer and preacher of the fact that the man perched next to me could never blatantly change. He was a man of firm tradition, or so he claimed. I, on the other hand, had to change just for him, no matter how badly I tried to get away from it, I was still forced into his square box of chains and needles. In a way, I play his game for the sheer reward of meager survival.

Another monotonous minute passed before the heavy pounding of someone banging on the double doors in front of us occupied our ears. The lurching act continued before my father sighed and proceeded to let the perpetrator enter. To none of our surprise, it was Gojo, a full eleven minutes late. Father would most likely chew him out for it.

My eyes furrowed upon watching as one figure quickly parted into two. Who was the boy standing behind him? As the light from outside seeped in through the immense corridor, strands of strawberry pink hair basked in the golden tint of the sunlight. His features were bizarre though, with a brown undercut and crescent scars adorning the underside of his eyelids. He was definitely not normal.

I sat with my legs tucked underneath of me as my head ducked down so I wouldn't make eye contact. I could see the polished floors reflect my dull eyes. The mirrored figure below me was wrought with hammered punches of self doubt and feeble confidence. My strings are laced with barbed wire and if I moved out of my orchestrator's hands, I would get cut.

"Satoru, you're 11 minutes late."

My father wasn't yelling, but his garish voice would make anyone think otherwise. Not only that, but his broad figure would make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end with vulnerability. He's certainly a brutish man.

"Oh calm down. You're just sitting here sewing dolls anyways, it's not like you were doing anything important." We watched as his hand swayed in dismissal. He wasn't so easily intimidated as most people, after all he is 'the strongest sorcerer', something he's always called himself since I first met him. I mean, it's not like he's wrong.

I could hear my father grumble in slight defeat, but I didn't turn to get a look at his face. I just continued to gaze at the burnished floor, watching as my still figure sat there like a statue. Something that was undeniable though, was that no matter how hard my father wished I were, I was no marble sculpture. Sometimes I wonder though if it would be easier to be embalmed like an Ancient Egyptian mummy.

"Anyways, here's the kid you asked for." Gojo spoke while pushing the tense boy out in front of him. As he inched closer I watched his eyes embraced our presence from the glare of the floor. They were a wooden russet color that gleamed with a golden tan hue, his eyes I mean. They're just like an dangerous void of pelagic warmth.

He bowed at a complete right angle. "I'm Yuji Itadori and I'm into girls like Jennifer Lawrence!" His voice was boisterous and riddled with confidence, but his words were beyond foolish. I was stumped for a minute after hearing a strange noise flare from the pit of my father's throat. A faint and vague noise, but the sound was irrefutable. He was laughing. A twinge of vexation pinched at my heart. This man, the same man whom I tried so hard to impress, so hard to gain his recognition, was laughing at a boy whom he just met. The illusion before me was smashed and I was only left with the somber reality of loathing and disgust.

Before I could come to terms with myself, my fists clenched with reluctant abhorrence. I peered through the floor at the culprit's reflected frame. He stood there scratching the back of his neck before mumbling to himself about unintentionally embarrassing himself, but my father wasted no time. He is an impatient man after all.

"Why do you want to be enrolled in this school?"

"To learn jujutsu?"

"Beyond that, what do you hope to accomplish?"

It was the same routine with everyone that tried to enter his school. It was more or less like a personality test in a nutshell. They rambled on and on, but my father wasn't satisfied with any of the boy's answers. "True intentions reveal themselves when people are on the brink of death." Without a moment's notice, my father sent out one of his cursed dolls to attack the boy.

A similar remembrance of what used to be.

"Look Papa, mine can move around just like yours!"

A younger version of the cold hearted man stood before her, but he was no longer unsympathetic. In fact, he looked to be a more solicitous father towards the ten year old girl. He even held a smile just for her.

"Good job Y/N, I'm proud of you."

"Welcome to Jujutsu Tech."