Wind me up.

I was supposed to be a wind-up doll. Wind me up and watch me dance. Turn my gears, force them back they'll roll forward and pull me like I'm on puppet strings. Twist and turn as some little girl sings.

But the toy maker was angry when he made me. He jammed my copper winder between my wooden shoulder blades like a spurned lover would a knife. Now my gears don't work right. You can wind me up, but I can't dance.

With every twist, my limbs get tighter. More pressure on my straining insides. As I sit quietly upon my shelf, never complaining, everyone takes a turn. They all give me a few good turns, each takes more effort than the last. But that doesn't stop them. Each winds me up to see what will happen, but nothing ever does. I get the feeling that they're disappointed. I hate to disappoint. I wish I could be more vocal.

"Please, don't wind me. I'm broken. You're putting a lot of stress on me and I'm already so tired."

But I just can't say no. All those children's faces full of wonder and innocence and want. How can I deny them? So I let them twist and feel my body pulled beyond what it can take while I am ashamed to not live up to their expectations.

I'm worried I won't last much longer. One or two more good winds and I'll surely bust. The gears will pop.

I dread this moment even as I anticipate it. It will most definitely be a moment of pure ecstasy in release, but I worry I won't live through to see the other side. Or find myself an even more empty husk. But maybe then, someone will come along and fix me. Or at least put me out of my misery.

A raw half-draft of an idea bandying about in my head. Is it worthwhile enough to turn into a real story? Maybe. Maybe it's too self-centered. I feel wound up. I'm supposed to empathize, but I can't sympathize with that.