Shawn knew he was not supposed to be like this.
Now he's in storage.
Shawn felt his bones creak- well, joints and ball bearings- and christ, did it hurt. He wanted nothing more than to rot, but he was rotting, and what good was that doing for him? All it did was add the stench of mold and mildew to his rotting wooden flesh.
He was not supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a success. He was supposed to be alive, a person, a human, not this ersatz pinocchio… thing.
The room was dingy and compounded the rank smell of corrosion. It was small, cramped, uncomfortable and made him want to tear his fabric hair out. He was hardly strong enough for that, thought, especially with his rivets and parts failing.
A puppet without strings is a very dangerous toy, you see. That was why he was locked up in storage. Trying to kill Joey for what he did to him landed him in this dark, horrible room where he had no room to move his broken limbs.
He tried to move once again. It was a marvel he had not lost his mind, if not the use of his breaking body. Maybe this wooden form kept his sanity perfectly intact, even as he crumbled to shavings.
Well, that was a horrible thought. He needed to get out of here already.
He could not see, that was a fact- not with these eyes, these plasticine lies. Another case of pure failure on the part of that stupid businessman.
Shawn pushed once again, and felt his wrist break.
Well, damn that idea then.
He sank back against the wall, jaw hanging loose- even with the stitches over his mouth. It was better to ‘breathe’ through his mouth, so he would not smell the stench of his own, inevitable collapse.
Existing hurt.
It really ached and tore at his innards, if those even were in his body anymore. He doubted it. There was nothing there, only fake limbs and false organs. Was he even really breathing?
Maybe he was losing his mind, and could hardly tell at this point. Maybe he already lost it. Maybe all of this was a hallucination, a scam on his senses. If so, he would be very happy for it all to go away already. Death would be a much preferred outcome to this hell.
Shawn tried pushing again, this time with his legs. He could hear them groan and splinter, but he did not feel it, so he kept trying. A crack made him stop- well, there goes that idea. Another miserable failure. He leaned back again, the smell of ink already long faded from his ability to perceive it, but he could sense it in his orifices and the cracks of his body.
Well.
What else was he supposed to do now?
He was already there for years and years- as far as he can tell. It could have been decades or minutes for all he knows.
