In the car we hurry to the gas stop, praying the fill up will be smooth and quick, retaining any heat the car might have accumulated before it’s turned off. She breaths and falls into herself, nearly collapsing in her seat. She feels the strings of a puppeteer. "
“Wake up little one.”
The strings bounce her limbs an inch or two off the ground repeatedly, but no higher. She continues to clear her mind to fend off any possibility of it forcing a conclusion to the strings layed out before her.
“Wake up little one.”
Time seems to want to move onto the next thing, she certainly does. She waits as she’s bounced over and over.
“Wake up little one.”
The voice speeds it’s consistent chant. It never varies, never slows, just continues.
“Wake up little one”
She searches for another meaning.
“Wake up little one.”
She thinks the worst of what this might be.
“Wake up little one.”
This seems a set up for manipulation
“Wake up little one.”
What else could puppet strings mean?
“Wake up little one.”
She stops.
The strings slow.
“In the name of God the Father, in the name of the Lord of Creation. In the name of Jesus Christ. In the blood of Christ I bind anything and everything off of me that is trying to manipulate me. Anything and everything of ill intent be gone.”
She waits.
The strings grow gently taught.
“Wake up little one. Wake up.”
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