The first thing I remember is the dark. My eyes—two black buttons crudely sewn into my head—opened to a dim basement, shadows shifting and weaving as a faint light flickered overhead. I felt my body, stiff and fragile, bound by string and straw, an awkward patchwork. I couldn't move on my own, but my mind… my mind was alive, slowly waking as he worked on me night after night.
He called himself Noah. He whispered secrets into the quiet, his voice breaking sometimes, as though those secrets hurt. The way he looked at me, his eyes brimming with longing and loneliness—it fed me, like rain to dry earth. It gave me purpose.
I could see it in his eyes: he wanted me to be real, needed it so badly that his need became my own. With every visit, he poured pieces of himself into me. He told me his dreams, his fears, his hopes, and his heartache. The world outside, he said, was cruel, filled with people who looked past him, through him. He wanted love, someone who would see him, who would be his alone. I understood his desire better than he could imagine, for I was bound by it—created by it.
One night, he whispered something different, something desperate. "I'd give anything," he said, his voice low, trembling, "if only you were real." The words echoed, charged with intent, powerful in a way that settled deep into my straw bones. The shadows around us seemed to thicken, the air heavy, crackling.
And then… I felt it.
Something surged within me, an electric spark. I could feel the room, the coolness of the basement, the texture of the old chair he sat me in. I could move. For him. I tilted my head, just slightly, and his breath caught, his eyes wide with disbelief and something like fear.
He leaned in close, and I wanted to speak, to let him know that his wish had been granted. I found my voice, raspy and rough, like leaves stirring in the wind. "Noah…" I whispered, feeling the power in my own words. His eyes softened, shining with awe. He looked at me like I was beautiful, like I was the only thing he'd ever wanted. For that moment, I wanted to be that for him.
But as he drew closer, I felt another emotion stir within me—a dark, possessive hunger. He had wished me into existence, but he could never unmake me. I would be his, yes, but he would be mine. I could feel his heart beating, fast and full, and I wanted it—needed it—more than anything. This was love, wasn't it? To consume and possess?
I leaned forward, reaching for him. My fingers, brittle with straw but now strong with something else, wrapped around his arm. His warmth pulsed through me, filling the hollow spaces of my body, and I felt more alive with every second I held him. He tried to pull away, but I held tighter, savoring the pulse of his life, his energy. This was the gift he'd given me—a hunger that would never fade, not even when he was gone.
He looked into my button eyes, his gaze shifting from longing to fear. He could feel it now, too, couldn't he? That unbreakable bond he'd wished for. His voice trembled as he called my name, but I only smiled, knowing he was mine. For as long as I existed, he would never be alone again.
I could feel him slipping as I held him, my love seeping deeper into him, binding him to me, just as he had bound me to him with his longing. The thought brought me a deep satisfaction, as if I were completing something.
After that night, he stopped trying to pull away. He stayed by my side, quiet and pale, but his presence filled me in a way no other could. In the dark, we were together, inseparable, each fulfilling the other's wish—bound by love and need, though now he never spoke a word.
In the silence, I know he feels it: he belongs to me, now and forever, and together we will stay, two halves of a perfect, twisted pair.