A note concerning stringless puppets

The slender young man took a step back and reviewed his work critically. He frowned at the stains on his shoes, indicative of a sloppy performance. Shadows crawled around the room, shying away from the swinging lamp overhead. Careful to avoid puddles, the boy picked his way across the room and stopped by one of the still figures on the floor. He picked up the woman’s severed head and stared into its face. A curious finger explored the empty eye-socket. Sighing, he let it roll out of his hands. The great wound in the chest cavity of her nearby corpse gaped like a perversion of a mouth. He rolled forward on his toes, and with a listlessness born of frustration, reached inside and fished his hand around. His features hardened and were twisted by a snarl. The young man hurled the body across the room, a surprising feat of strength. In the distance sirens could be heard. He headed for the door, but his attention was caught in a nearby mirror. His reflection reached forward and placed its bloody palm against his. They spoke. “I’m so like these creatures, made of the same parts, but they possess a spark that I lack. What is this thing? How can I get it? Father, for what purpose did you create me?” His beautiful face looked wooden in its grief. Pinocchio stared into the mirror and his reflection gazed back with eyes as glassy and lifeless as those of the people he had just slain.