The old puppet sat on the attic floor, leaning against a box, just out of reach of the sunbeam from the single attic window. She waited patiently for the sun to dip. As the subbeam retreated towards the wall, she began to twitch until finally, it was nighttime.

She stood on shaky legs and brushed off the dust that had settled on her. Her mouth opened and closed with a clicking sound as she adjusted her rusty mechanisms. She walked by an old mirror and lifted the white sheet that covered it to reveal it’s cracked surface. She gave an approving nod to her appearance, a little worse for wear since she last saw herself, but beautiful nonetheless.

She lumbered over towards the door, her movements becoming more graceful with every step she took. Her wooden arms extended and slid in between the door and it’s frame and pulled it open with a strength which belied her small frame.

She sat on the edge of each stair, swinging her legs downwards and bending her knees with the jump, the rusty iron of her joints squeaking with each step. Finally, she escaped the attic, making way to the bedchambers.

The door to the little boy’s room was slightly ajar, he slept gently, as little boys should. She stood atop his cradle, gazing down at the infant’s sleeping form, his sleep-touseled hair flowing like dulled gold, his breathy cadence the only sound which evidenced the life inside him.

She leaned down and cruelly poked his cheek, his rosy skin sinking like a marshmallow as the warmth of his body seeped through the puppet’s wooden fingers. She pulled back. No, he was not to blame, she thought and turned to the other rooms.

She entered the parent’s room, the mother slept alone in bed and the father was nowhere in sight. She sighed but was not deterred. She crept up on the bed, the rusty creaking of her joints the only indication of her presence. She felt the mother’s hair slip through her wooden fingers like golden silk, so unlike her own, which were woven from dark horse-hair. She felt her own coarse strands and seethed with rage.

She marched with purposeful strides across the bed and climbed onto the dresser. She levered her legs in the drawer and pushed it open. She returned with a large scissor, the weight of it throwing her off-balance as she held it with both hands. She opened it’s jaws and brought them down several times till the bed was littered with sangria-golden strands. She would smirk if she could, but her painted countenance bore no emotion.

The living room and parlour had changed little since she last saw them. Her painted sandals clicked as she sauntered to the ornate Gramophone and placed a vinyl atop it’s surface. She adjusted the arm and pushed the button as the disk began to spin. When no sound played, her painted face was unable to frown. The arm was missing it’s needle. She seethed with rage, her fists clenching at her sides as her painted face remained the same. She kicked the wooden box as it spun it’s disk. A thumbtack came into view and she stuck it in the arm and adjusted it once more. The record screeched as if in pain and the puppet covered her painted ears till she could finally take no more and turned the gramophone off. She shook her head. There would be no dancing tonight, she thought and made her way to the parlour.

Her wooden hands searched the ashtray till she found a half stub and she lit it, sitting with it and taking a puff which never came. Nevertheless, it calmed her and she threw the rest away.

As the first rays of dawn broke the night, she rushed up the attic stair, sparing one parting glance to the sleeping infant’s cradle. She would spend more time with him next time, when he was older.

She took her place in the dust mould and leaned back against the box as the sunbeam began to creep up.