All Strings Attached, I Promise

All Strings Attached, I Promise

You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t looking, you would surely miss it all together. But that’s okay, they were used to that. Their small city of Lortnoc at first glance was normal, even bland maybe. Only if you chose to hang around a bit, in their beat up motel, would you notice the dark, forbidding fog that always persisted, and refused to give up. Everyday you would awake with the same presence of numbness. Hello it would hiss each sunrise. If you happened to be particularly keen, maybe you would see the tall, looming figures dressed in all white stalking around the empty city. Empty, that was another trait the people there owned and flaunted with pride. If you decided not to take an afternoon nap, you might see that at preciously one o’clock each day, the town’s population would make an appearance with placid faces strolling along to the town square and dancing. What an unusual thing to do and exactly one hour later, they would all stop and return to their houses like nothing ever happened. Once you see all this, you might be packing up and be ready to leave from all the unusual things but something would wash over you each time, and you would stay in this peculiar town. It’s normal, it happens all the time.

Here you were in a sad excuse of a city, in a run down motel, with only a dusty glass of water in your hands. The city radiated a sluggish vibe. You make your way to the balcony and look out over the city. You eyes skirt around the city, taking in the out of sorts buildings. You note the post office, a square building with a broken blue letters now spelling P ST O FI E. With a sigh you sip your water, only to have a sour taste fill your mouth. Startled you dump out the rest of the water over the rusty railing and trudge back to the kitchen. You peer into the deep sink and carefully place your glass inside, promising to wash it later. You eyes get lost on the pattern of the counter. You were always the curious type, one to always know answers. The soft click on your door brought your ever watching gaze toward the entrance. The door opened and an Officer walked in, clad in glistening white armour. Compared to you it was tall, very tall. Its face covered in a tightly knit black cloth. You could make out two bizarre purple eyes staring mercilessly at you as if you were prey. A rather large bulge was evident right beneath his eyes, which had to be a nose. One glance at this unknown creature and you knew it was up to no good. The figure was unmistakable, they were none other than the daily city stalkers, maybe police. The figure had an air of authority that made you want to obey like a small puppy. The figure approached you carefully, and handed you a rumpled piece of paper. Being the keen and curious person you were, you reached up to take it and studied it carefully. The paper looked more like an identification card. You notice that it has your name, age, gender, and a picture of you already carefully printed in the top half. The bottom half remains empty exposing the yellow background of the rough thick paper. Alarmed you look up to demand an answer for this invasion of privacy, but the second your eyes meet the masked figure, you mouth gets clamped and you suck in your already vanishing words. It extends its armoured hand, palm up and in a low husky voice says, “Your wrist please.” Those simple words reverberated through the small room. Being the stubborn person you are you want to refuse but without consent, your own right arm protrudes awkwardly out your body and rests on the cold, glistening armour. Unaware of its motives you carefully take a step back. But before you can do so the Officer grabs your elbow and then hastily ties a black cloth around your eyes whilst breathing out a careless apology. You are beyond furious but nothing comes out of your usually filthy mouth. You feel a snapping on your wrists and you yelp out at the sharp pain. It feels as if something pinched your skin. The blindfold is then removed and there you are standing in front of this Officer, vulnerability showing in your usually hard, cold eyes. You look down at your wrists and a small, throaty gasp escapes your windpipes. Each of your wrists have a circular red indent all the way around, almost as if you were wearing a tight, invisible bracelet of some sort, claimed, you feel claimed all over. Your blood pulses on, trying to get a feel of this new indent. You move your wrist around but it feels normal. You look up to see that the Officer is gone and you’re left with an eerie feeling. You rush over to the door to try and follow it only to find that the door’s locked. Your next breath gets caught in your throat and a dizzying feeling of fear claims you. You tell yourself that it must just be jammed, the motel was old anyways. But you can’t shake the feeling of something wrong. Atop the moldy purple carpet lies your identification card, the only sign of the Officer ever being here and of course your wrists. You shakily pick it up and the once empty bottom half is now covered with a picture of your wrists and the indents. Within the few seconds you were in shock, somehow the Officer had printed a picture. Impossible, it was there the whole time, you must’ve heard if it left. You're now weak knees walk over to the concrete balcony. The cold breeze struck your face whipping your hair back. You look at the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It’s exactly one o’clock. Your legs move you towards the door, and your hand reaches out to twist the shiny golden knob. Before you leave you catch a glance at yourself, the reflected pasty skin and feeble body strike you as unfamiliar. The door opens with ease now leaving you wondering. You remind yourself that before it was probably a jam, the motel was beat up anyways. You carry yourself outside and you look up at the dark fog hanging low in the dead sky. Only after hearing the slapping of your sneakers on the neatly paved road do you realize that you’re sprinting. The second you step foot on the main road, you get whipped up and collected by a blur of lifeless coats and people. You don’t know where you’re headed but the calm in your head in there. You look around and quickly realize that you are in Town Square. Big yellow block letters dominate a sign, spelling out LORTNOC. Despite the fading city, the letters seem to be freshly painted. Out of the blue, your limbs start moving. Mortified you look at yourself and are quick to find a rhythm, you were dancing. Surely it’s a sudden urge of happiness, but you can’t help but wonder. Everyone around you is dancing in a fluid motion, all in sync. A certain dullness washes over you, dominating everything from your brain to the tips of your dancing toes. The world around you blurs. You feel everything and nothing at the same time. This feeling of letting go, letting something else do it all for you, the non-existent beat drums and pounds in your body. This was addicting, the feeling of having a purpose. Slowly your mind goes blank, something you’re not familiar with because of usually busy lifestyle you led. This was a break from it all. All you feel is a slight tugging and at your wrists, maybe you would’ve investigated further but right now, you were drifting and it was obvious. From above it would seem like a party, but only the detached faces would give it all away. You vaguely recall once long ago you watched a puppet show. You were intrigued by the way the puppeteer gave his lifeless puppets something to do, the way the string claimed the small painted bodies giving them a direction. You remember not thinking much of it and throwing your extra change into the ragged hat and walking away. Puppets. You look up at the sky between your extravagant dance moves, you’re absolutely sure you can make out strings coming down to each fragile wrist dancing. It was horrid, but even more horrid was the fact that you enjoyed it all.

DONE. How did you like it!? AHHH. Please let me know.