The curtain covered the pain. The stage created the the euphonias creaks and showcased the mellifluous sound of the puppet’s voice. Absent amidst the flames and wreckage of the play at hand, seats vacant, among the crowd of empty people stood a heart of truth. Blackened to crisp perfection to the point of fanciful, deathly love that concocted the ethereal, opulent blood in the showmaster's performance were the veins of the heart.

However, it would shine. The heart’s brilliant, invisible light would blind the darkness to its untimely extinction and bring out the truth that it held. The showmaster no longer would hold it back by it’s strings. The heart had no way of lying, it knew what penumbra of colors it was. Soon, the dwindling flames surviving on the puppet’s lost legs were blown away by the heavenly light that prefigured a creature of immense power. The stage cracked and burst at the seams, while the apparition of the agony painted curtain didn’t move in the slightest. The lights exploded into an amusement of sparks, just fireworks growing wearily dim in comparison to the heart. Upon hours, silence lay, the puppetmaster still there, this heart knew.

The point of no return had been reached, the final hour on the clock ticked away and faded into nothingness; the heart knew this. Ease and chilling silence grew over every aspect of the claustrophobic emotions of said heart which had no guide, for it was the only to be known. The showmaster never showed itself to the poor light that had shun away all. And yet, there was a spotlight placed down upon the stage to remove the guide from its uncomfortable destination.

In the flickering, luminous, fluorescent light was a woman on her hands and knees, crying and begging for forgiveness. She wore a white gown, her hair a tangled mess of black wires leading down her back. She faced away from the heart, despairing to God that she must be saved. Intruded, a sound. The heart heard another round bulb burst into action behind itself, but this was a different type of light. It was dark, however, the heart could visibly see a man even darker in a shadow’s form.

Translucent in the shadows movement, the heart could still make out the features of a large male, much taller and muscular than the woman it had seen before. The heart fancied this man more, and decided that the showmaster was of no concern if he were to just leave him to rot.

Banging on the door, the heart chose to be the guide of the man, and led him to a small window in which concocted a pathway into the same room as where the woman cried. Smashed the brittle barrier, the man did.

The heart then began pulling the strings. At first it was a guilty pleasure, but soon it grew stronger and stronger until the thrill could be heard screeching into the man’s very ears. Pleasurable was the feeling of the callus in such imbued beauty with the soft skin of which foreshadowed such a lovely neck; it was simply too much to handle. Tighter! Tighter! The strings needed to be pulled tighter! With each pull it got better! Better and better!

The heart could not lie, it loved the rush, the way the undeniable, unfathomable pleasure made it beat so. The showmaster no longer had any reigns over it, he could speak, speak louder than any other! Oh, the way the bones contorted into his and the man's very own grotesque imitation of art made it feel so… Liberated. It knew where to guide the man next.

Assemblage of bones, wire wound tight, gossamer for the night. Like the showmaster had before such control, had now the heart of which he did, the brittle leftovers of yesterday's meal. A pat on the back, for such a display, in the highest branches, separated she lay. Of course the heart could not bask in such glory, it was the man that had created a masterpiece so gory. 

The heart shan’t kill, for it shall only guide man to the truth of which they so desperately desire, under the showmaster's reign.

Written by Refreshing Demise
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