cw: kinda disturbing imagery/description of being forcibly restrained or bound? putting it here just in case
Your jaw was aching. It wasn't your imagination—it stung like an absolute bitch. The pain was sudden, with no reasoning given for its cause, and as you rubbed the stinging skin, you winced when you accidentally pressed against it.
It felt like a bruise with the way your fingers could only lightly graze it to avoid causing a wave of localised pain. Looking around in search of a mirror, you resigned yourself to wiggling your jaw from side to side in the hope that it would click and solve the problem, and you became increasingly disappointed when it didn't.
Eyes moving back up to the stage, you could feel your cheek burn as you locked eyes with something that hadn't been up there when you had last checked.
It was another mannequin, but unlike the others, it had defined features that you would never misidentify, regardless of how much you wanted to. It was mimicking you, standing in the same way that you were and holding its cheek in a way identical to you. When you tilted your head, the mannequin did the exact same thing in the exact same way—right down to the confused blink.
Okay. So there's a mannequin of me. Forgetting about your jaw completely, you watched the mannequin as it mirrored your movements: arms moving up and down, rotating wrists, feet stepping out to the side. You were like a young child trying to outrun a shadow, watching in morbid curiosity as the mannequin kept up with your erratic movements.
Something wasn't right, though.
When you tried to step backwards and slightly to the right, where, on stage, your father's mannequin had placed his feet, you discovered that, no matter how much you wanted to see your mannequin step on your father's feet, you physically couldn't. An invisible wall (or perhaps invisible strings) prevented you from moving to that specific spot or standing anywhere where your mannequin would come into contact with something on stage.
This discovery slightly irritated you, and aloud, you said, 'What, am I not allowed to do what it can't do now? Can't stand on someone's foot? Coward.' Sneering at your mannequin, you couldn't help but hate the way its eyes never looked up from the floor or how its movements, despite following yours, were subdued and forced, like it didn't want to do this either.
You remembered when you looked like that, and seeing your past self so clearly carved into fibreglass was enough to make your stomach coil until you felt sick. When you eventually couldn't stand it, you turned away, trying to calm yourself down. You were all over the fucking place—crying one minute, angry the next—and it was overwhelming.
If only you could leave and maybe avoid what the mannequins had been silently planning.
You had only managed to take a few steps towards the curtain, once again thinking of trying to break through it, when you were suddenly pushed by an invisible hand that sent you flying to the floor. By some miracle, your cheek was the only part of your face that was hit, even though you hadn't had time to shield yourself with your hands.
Swearing viciously, you rolled over, pushing yourself up to your elbows to see what had caused you to fall, ready to scuttle away, only to see nothing standing behind you. The stage, however, told a different story.
Of course, your mannequin was in the exact same position as you, but the others were standing around it like vultures, glaring down at your on-stage representation like they were ready to kill it. When your mother raised her foot, you were ready to block it, so when she tried to bring it down onto your face, the heel twisted so it would hit you dead in the eye, your forearms held it at bay.
By blocking the blow, you seemed to piss them all off. Whoops.
Your mother kicked your arm as she retracted her foot and instead planted it under your chin, right across your throat, so your head was tilted up slightly. The shoe remoulded itself so the heel breast was on one side and the shank was on the other, trapping you. Your father moved your arms so they were above your head, held tightly by a piece of rope that was tied around your mannequin's hands, and Frankie and that bitch from school held down your writhing legs.
James...
His mannequin hovered over yours like it was soaking up the scene before it, taking its time squatting over your arms. Its head leered over yours, and you thanked God that you weren't on that stage, staring up at whatever facial expression it had as his hands slowly wrapped around your throat.
Sure, the positioning was a bit awkward, but it managed to find its grip just fine, and it soon began to squeeze.
It was an odd sensation because there was nothing physically touching you. Your mannequin was being strangled, yet you felt just as breathless as if you were up there being strangled and restrained, instead of whatever was happening in that torturous theatre.
If this had happened, say, in the weeks immediately after James' death, you would've accepted this. You would have closed your eyes, taken in a breath, and accepted that your death was rapidly approaching as the mannequin's fingers pressed down on your windpipe and the surrounding skin. If you had fallen unconscious, you wouldn't have fought it.
But time had passed, and if anyone was going to be in control of your death, it was going to be you—not some fucking pieces of plastic, so that's why you tilted your head to the side and bit down, watching your mannequin do the exact same thing in the corner of your eye. It took a chunk out of James' mannequin's arm, and at the same time, you managed to wriggle your foot out of the grasp of the girl from school, aiming a single kick at her face that sent her reeling.
'You bitch!' she shrieked, attempting to leap at your face and taking out both your mother and Frankie in the process. (She was never any good at anything physical, and if you were going to provoke anyone, it had to be her.)
Pulling your legs up to your chest, you snapped back, 'Suck it!' and curled up on your side, hoping to anger them enough that they wouldn't notice your fingers attempting to remove the rope that bound your hands together.
You were placing all of your hopes on the fact that they weren't human, just an imitation of what humans can be like. Humans can be short-tempered, humans can have tunnel vision when they get mad, and they can want nothing more than to gang up on something and use all of their energy.
Thank God you were right. Or maybe their actions were based on your thinking. Or you were just really fucking smart.
While you struggled with the hastily tied knot, it took all of your strength to not cry out from the barrage of attacks. The mannequins were pummeling you with kicks and the occasional punch, targeting your torso and trying to get your head, but it was covered by your knees and elbows.
Come on, (Y/N), how hard is it to untie a knot?!
Gritting your teeth, you ignored the ache in your fingertips and hoped that the sweat (or blood) on them was going to help. You weren't sure how much longer you could cope with the mannequins' assault or how much longer it would take until something broke and bled. Yes, the shoes were dull (because thankfully whatever was responsible had included your mother's hatred of pointed heels), but the force behind the attacks was enough to make you wince.
The moment that the rope slipped away, you wasted no time scrambling to your feet. You could only run in two directions, but it was enough. Keeping your gaze fixed on your mannequin, you recalled the one time your father had taught you about self-defence. It wasn't much, but you did know how to throw a punch.
Feet should be angled. Thumb over finger. Hand near face. Turn and—
Your mannequin's fist connected with someone else's face, making them stagger. The sudden attack seemed to throw off the others, making them cautious enough to create a gap.
You managed a weak grin. Perfect. Running on pure adrenaline, you began to run towards the stage, throwing yourself at it so you could grip onto the floorboards with your hands and drag yourself up like a wounded animal dragging itself through a forest.
Due to being on the stage, your mannequin was nowhere to be found (maybe you couldn't exist in such close proximity?), so the other mannequins honed in on you instead. Your mouth dried as you stared them all in the face, stuck in a stalemate.
You kept your gaze on them as you reached for the nearby side table, gripping the wood as you lifted it up as far as you could and slammed it down onto the head of the nearest mannequin. Its head exploded, and an orange tar-like substance gushed out of the remains, pooling onto the floor when the mannequin's body collapsed.
The other mannequins seemed to realise that they were next, because they all began to back up, holding their hands out and opening their mouths to try and convince you to 'calm down', which you ignored. They probably would have killed you if you had let them, yet now that you retaliated, you were, according to them, overreacting and irrational.
Well, fuck that, you thought as you brought the table down on the final mannequin's head, tossing the now stained table away, chest heaving as the adrenaline continued to course through your veins. Now, where did my mannequin go?
its my birthday ! all my exams for the year are done ! and i got argenti and hanya ! im so old now im off to sleep in a chair all afternoon like my grandfather did at christmas bye bye
- grandpa k.