The puppet stared, unable to paint the shock upon her stiff as stone face. What is that thing? What is that thing? What is that thing? What is that thing? What is that thing?
The thought circulated inside her head as she witnessed it take another step, the land quaking before its terrifying might. Cracks formed within the walls of the ravine, chunks of it breaking off from it and into the water. The thing took another step and more of the world breaks. The small bits of hardened soil that overlooked the chasm were barely together now, the house was barely together now.
And another step.
The house fell, pieces of an old but new memory torn and falling. Directly on her.
The puppet, though clumsily tried to escape, had found herself knocked down to the bottom of the river under heavy rubble that she had fallen from mere seconds ago. The sand brushed roughly against her skin, the dense water rushing into her eye sockets as she clawed at the water to swim away from it.
She was fortunate that the house was made of wood, therefore having buoyancy. The puppet peaked her head up to the surface once again-- only to be suddenly crushed by a stray chunk of earth from the walls. This time, stuck for good under the river.
Her bottom half was squashed beneath the slab, leaving her torso, arms and head free laying face up. Desperately, the doll tried to dig her way out, pull herself away from this trap yet to no avail, anything she did was merely futile.
The earth begins to calm down, waters begin to ease in but she was still there, buried beneath the river. After a while, the puppet had stopped trying to escape, only laying dormant. Fishes swimming pass, only bothering to take a glance at her for her suitability to become a home for them before she swatted them away.
The bright days danced by, the dark nights sang through. She remembered how dull it was, how there was little to observe, how the mold started to grow onto her precious clothing and skin. All she could do was wait. Just wait for something to happen again.
Mayhaps the beast that plunged her into this trap would come back again and break another piece of the earth to slam her upper half down for good. Perhaps a passerby, one that is alive and can help her out of this predicament. Anything. Just to see what the world is like other than faded window stickers and a giant evil monster.
One day, after the sun had set and the moon had risen, the puppet, almost covered in sand, woke up to something plunging into the river. A sword, a slim blade, had found itself cutting through the water as it slowly sank. There were traces of red liquid from the edges, mixing in with the clear freshwater until only faint smudges were left.
The doll watched it, examining every inch of it until it rested onto the sands as well. Who would throw such a thing? Why is it oozing red? Can I reach it? Please, can I reach it?
Her arms outstretched, desperately trying to grab the handle. In the process, she accidentally knocked it a little farther but miraculously, managed to snag it by the tips of her fingers. She quickly pulls it closer to her.
The puppet traced her hand around the edges of the weapon. How can I use this? How can I use this? How can I use this? How can I use this? How can I use this?
She looked at her abdomen, particularly, the one that was stuck beneath the chunk of earth. For a while, she stared at it, her fingers wrapping tightly around the handle before she raised the weapon and struck her own body with the pommel.
It was difficult, the water was slowing down her movement but this was the only solution. Repeatedly slamming it onto her stomach, hours upon hours on end. Anything, anything to just be free from this dumb prison. The puppet didn't care if it would have to crawl for the rest of its life, it's a fair trade to at least see the light outside of this sickening river.
When the sun had dawned, the blade had already fallen off from the swinging. It was hard to tell if her abdomen was damaged or not through the dress but she had to keep at it.
The doll continued hammering her stomach. She can't die from drowning, she can't die from having her lower half chipped away, she can't die at all. This was torture, and she refuses to live the rest of her life like this.
Another day passes by. The doll was still chipping away her body.
A week. She can trace a crack through the soaked fabric. It was small, but she was getting there. The pommel had long flattened, it was no different from a handle without one.
Another week. Has it been another week? She doesn't even know what a week was. She just knew she wanted to get out. She just knew how to swing her arm and slam it down onto her stomach.
Another week, perhaps it was two now? She's been in her self-destructive rhythmic motion for so long. A doll hoping that she'd break already.
The sunlight breaks through the surface once again, on the same old doll that's been in her ceaseless hopes to be free from her cage. The puppet placed her hand over her stomach. Just a little bit more, she thought. Just a little bit more and she'll be able to pry herself apart.
And so, with an almost obstructed handle, the pitiful doll that nobody cares for began hammering away again. The fishes had gotten used to her presence, merely passing by without a second thought. The broken blade from who knows when had already rusted, serving no other purpose other than being absolute rubbish.
Hours seemingly passed, the sun had peaked over the sky once again, showering the land with its radiance and light. This light was, however, filtered when you're beneath several metric tons of dirt that don't seem to dilute into the water. So unlike the surface dwellers, she couldn't enjoy it and unlike the fish, she couldn't be free to swim either.
But that was fine, she'll be free soon. She'll be free, and she'll crawl out from this damned river water. She'll clean out the mold in her eye sockets, she'll find a prettier dress and a brighter jacket. She'll find a way to get another pair of legs-- she doesn't know how, but she will.
The desperate puppet raises the useless handle one more time, more or less having been punching her stomach rather than using a pommel in her delirium. Whatever her fists were made of were much better anyway.
Before she managed to, there was a rumble in the ground. The doll stops, freezing in motion.
It's here again.