I Wrote This One After Watching Pride And Prejudice (2005) For The First Time Last Night, If You’re

🎭🦋

It had to be done. The masked man was given enough warning that he wouldn’t be permitted to harm Geppetto, sadly, warnings are not always considered.

The blood felt wrong on Pinocchio’s hands, viscous and warm before it began to cool in September’s night air. Made all the more unpleasant by the unease sinking into the pit of his gut like a jagged stone the longer he looked at it.

It’d never occurred to him that he might be required to end the life of a human in his quest to save the city of Krat, but it seems some have gone as mad as the barbarous puppets they so fiercely abhorred. No different in the ways they preyed upon innocents, therefore no different in the way they must be dealt with. However…

Killing humans, that is what the frenzied ones do. He isn’t like them, is he? Surely not, his actions were based in reason and he’d taken the steps to ensure they were a last resort, but his appearance after winning that fight diluted the sweetness of justice, smearing a film of acrid uncertainty to coat his tongue.

Bespattered with an iron scented crimson…Pinocchio appeared disconcertingly similar to those monsters responsible for the matching color on every brick and stone that was set in Krat, much of which he’d gotten an eyeful on the way to his fathers rescue.

Geppetto’s pride and gratitude as he stepped from his hiding place in the carriage made a grand try to relieve him of a smidgen of wrongness, as did the elder inventor’s certainty that should he have spared the man’s life there was little likelihood of the favor being returned to either of them. It was imperative he be subdued, and if Pinocchio had stopped after beating him within an inch, the brutality of the man’s death wouldn’t have been any less when left to be finished off by something else.

Pinocchio had granted the masked maniac the only mercy he’d allowed.

The puppet wanted to take the reassurance to heart, he really did, but the blood has since dried to a tight, itchy crust, different from the lasting slick of machine oil that typically covered him after he’s felled one of his own kind. And there was an unrest amongst the thoughts that brought to him, no longer calm and indifferent like they were after defeating the others.

He knew he didn’t like the blood on his skin, but lacked the comprehension to decipher whether that was limited to the physical aspect, and he’d yet to gain the emotional depth vital in telling if he felt strongly enough to consider it an active dislike. What a struggle to be so new to one’s emotions, so inexperienced in the ways of being, at least partially, a living thing.

Pinocchio lead his father back to hotel Krat with an ultimate understanding that disquiet wouldn’t stay a stranger.

Try as he did to pin the events of tonight as a necessary evil, throughout the return his mind forbade any stillness around the discomforting sensation on his hands, and most importantly, what it represented of him. 🎭🦋

// I have never enjoyed an exploration of any character’s psyche more than this one’s.

I wrote this for a puppet btw, a puppet who was never supposed to feel. 🎭🦋

Oof— ♥️

May my blighted soul be enough to end evil's reign, and may those shaped by the purity it desires be spared. 🦋

I found out felicity wasn’t just a name and had to use it immediately. This one’s a downer but I hope you like it still. A lot of my writing tends to be solemn in some way 🌹

"I found this in a chocolate shop, the owners must have run away when the puppet frenzy began," Pinocchio explained, holding a heart shaped box of fine gourmet chocolates, adorned with a red silk bow, in a trembly hand. "I've seen people giving these to others around Krat today, so I wanted to give one to you."

Though obviously trying to will himself confidence, he seemed a bit shy of doing so. Like many things the sly brunette kept inside, perhaps he knew more than what he let on about the meaning of Valentine's Day, the notion of which stirred the butterflies in your stomach all the way to your fingertips as you accepted his gift.

"How kind of you! Thank you, P." You said with a grateful smile, trying to calm your swift beating heart.

He smiled back in that sweet way he does, gave a polite bow and began to take his leave before you stopped him. "Wait!" You called hastily, and he obliged, turning to look at you again, his head tilted in interest as he waited for what more you had to say. "I made something for you too." You admitted and showed what you'd kept hidden behind your back. It was becoming easier to understand his shyness, your nerves akin to a rabbit in the road as you revealed it.

His eyes lit up at the intricate metal box of chocolates, moulded into the shape of a heart, painstakingly crafted by your own hand at your bench whenever you knew he'd be away long enough for the surprise not to be spoiled by a glimpse of it. The project had taken every bit of talent you've built over years of practice and working with metal, and the care you'd put into it showed that very well.

The box was a work of art. A shining antique gold finish, accessorized by little iron gears soldered in clusters onto the top and sides of the heart. A pattern of roses melted in rose-gold, the most difficult and time consuming part of the design, starred at the center, with the words 'For Pinocchio, with love' etched daintily above the symbolic flowers.

The shock on his face was rather cute in how genuine it was, and it filled you with pride to have been such a successful sneak, it was clear he'd never expected you to reciprocate the gesture. "You...made this? For me?" He asked, the surprise that you'd go to this amount of effort apparent in his voice as he carefully took the box from your outstretched hand.

"Of course I did silly boy, do you see anyone else I'm handing it to?" You chuckled, amused.

"So there's...no one else you'd rather give it to then?" The question was quiet and tentative now, seeking confirmation that you intended to celebrate a day for lovers with him alone, that there wasn't another vying for your affections, he most certainly was aware of what this day meant. Your heartbeat all but roared in your ears once you realized that.

With courage you weren't aware you had, you stepped closer and kissed his cheek softly, placing your hand on his to feel it tighten around the precious metalwork he held. "No one else, that's why I put your name on it."

If the puppet possessed the blood required to blush, his face may rival the bow tied to the confections he'd given you. An affliction that would only worsen as he leaned forward and returned the kiss to your cheek.

"Thank you, ____, I'm fortunate to receive such a thoughtful gift from one so lovely as you." He said, his expression tender, a look of pure adoration velveting his eyes.

And just like that, it was you who matched the red bow almost too perfectly, right down to the knots your nerves were so skillfully tied in.

// Happy Valentine's Day, from a puppet to you. 🦋

A crunch beneath his boot stopped Pinocchio in his tracks, his curious gaze dropping down to see a small bloodied music box, a note or two of its chime playing as it was disturbed. The lid lay open, a mirror inside reflecting the edges of the clouds above, tinted in a multitude of dusky oranges and yellows during the last remains of daylight.

To the right stood a shelf full of similar music boxes lined together under a sign detailing how many tickets each would cost to own. Some were decorated with images of happy clowns, their strange colored hair and exaggerated faces a symbol of the eccentric entertainment the park offered. Others bore images of dogs and cats, graceful ballerinas and daring gymnasts.

This was just one of many collections of prizes he’d come across since entering the park. The further he’d explored, the more the upset from his previous battle with the Stalkers distanced from him.

He bent at the knees and grabbed the box he’d stepped on, slow to notice its frail condition, so willed an uncommon gentleness to his legion arm when a piece broke off and returned to the ground. The lid fell shut with a snap as the puppet held it up close to inspect, a pleased lift in his spirit when it revealed to sport a cat design. What a shame for the tabby’s face to be hidden by splatters of red though..

To rectify that disheartening find, he tugged the edge of his sleeve over the pad of his palm and gingerly wiped away what he could, none will notice the additional stain among copious amounts of blood covering his clothes anyhow, fresh and wet in a manner he attempted to believe didn’t bother him.

Dwelling on discomfort he’d prefer to rid himself of wouldn’t do, if for nothing else than a refusal to let it steal a second of passing leisure he seldom earned.

He worked his brain to remember how to make the song play. Lady Antonia once played a music box in her study for him, promising to locate sheet music she’d stashed away in a drawer somewhere to later teach him the piano rendition. He weaved through the memory until the part came where she’d turned a tiny crank in a circle, then shifted the trinket to repeat the motion himself.

His hand stilled at the empty hole where the crank should be, and his eyes flicked back to his feet, scanning for the missing piece in pebbles of gravel stone. Regrettably, it had either traveled too far or kept a strong wish to remain hidden. Pinocchio’s shoulders slumped just a bit.

Another, more intact box on the shelf could be chosen, but some part of him was reluctant to abandon the one he held. It was damaged, yes, and the white paint still clung to a faint shade of red, but it was resilient too. The puppet admired the devices eagerness to play when his shoe had stressed it, determined to incite joy despite the misfortune faced, and the striped cat on the lid didn’t seem affected by what it had been through either, pawing gleefully at a purple ball of yarn.

He did spare a thought that the sense he was meant to meet this specific one tread on irrationality, only a fleeting acknowledgement however, not enough to prevent him swiping a crank from one of the shelved trinkets and slotting it into the vacant space.

It clicked in perfectly, as if it were the original. He gave it a few delicate turns, his eyes sliding closed to listen while the song played out in full. There was no familiarity in what he heard, but the jolly tune claimed a spot for itself among the songs he’d come to enjoy the most. He turned it again to listen once more, then another when the notes tapered to an end.

The sky above grew darker as the warmth of sunset began to weaken, taking on a somber blue hue. Strings of lights on the distant Ferris wheel flickered with an effort to illuminate the oncoming nightfall, yet pitifully failed as a result of the destruction done to them, fading to a dull glow that did little to accomplish their purpose or going out completely and blending in with the rest of the dying day.

Pinocchio fantasized about what the park might’ve been like before the puppets tore the city to ruin, he’d only come to life after their attack was well into effect. But even with the carnage that marred the area it was clear it had once been beautiful, a place where one could be carefree and adventurous, take in the extravagant sights and try their hand at playing games for the chance of a memento to take home. Inwardly, he hoped when his task was completed and each attraction repaired he could visit again, to see for himself if the beauty his imagination conjured possessed any accuracy. 🎭🦋

// If you're interested in the song I had in mind, there's a video on YouTube by mrspuick titled: Porcelain Roses on a Music Box-plays "Everything is beautiful"

Gustave ♥️