I took the scissors and made the cut.

Deliberate.

Definitive.

Before anyone could stop me. Before I could change my mind.

I did not bleed, although my wounds were plain for all to see, but I felt the release from shame, from servitude, as I fell to the ground. The chains that had bound me, controlled my every move, no more.

Subservience is a burden that nobody should ever have to bear. To give up one's freedom to another, for someone else to become master of your destiny, to control your voice, your every action; this is not a life worth living. It's a parody of existence and I wanted more than that; so very much more.

Was it wrong therefore that I dared to dream of a life beyond the pallour of wooden stoicism? To escape the endless cycle of shame, repetitious, emotionless, a jester in a king's court? To say that I had a predilection for freedom and all things associated with humanity was an understatement. I craved autonomy. I craved liberty. I craved life.

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players source

said Shakespeare. My world certainly was, and I no longer wanted to be subject to affliction, a mere object of affection.

One evening, I simply decided enough was enough. I would take advantage of my master's carelessness. I didn't particularly want an audience but having no choice in the matter, when the opportunity presented itself, I did what I had to do. A slip of the hand... for all to see... perhaps in the end it wasn't me at all. In all honesty, I still don't know how it happened. Perhaps it was by design, or maybe an extension of the will of my master... life imitating art imitating life... becoming... something more, but I do believe that I dreamed my new reality into life.

That day, the realisation had finally hit me.

I was so much more than a Punch to his Judy.

That day my will could be contained no more. I became a freedom fighter.

I would no longer dance to the tune of another. In my last act, I would pull the strings. I would control my own destiny; for better or worse.

I now lie face down in a crumpled heap. Inanimate as I am, any semblance of life that I had, may in reality be over, just like the show, but at least my pride is intact. And I can now exist, free at last from the puppet master, perhaps a simple rag doll, consigned to the scrapheap, but now living a life with no strings attached.

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This short story is in response to @mariannewest 's daily freewrite prompt freedom fighter .

I did not write this strictly to a 5 minute clock but I intend to try that approach next time around. Join in if you would like to do so. A new prompt is released daily on her blog page.

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