She feels it again. The hot throbbing pain in her chest. She knows it will only be seconds before her throat begins to constrict, choking her words, strangling any effort, however valiant on her part, to speak. Her eyes erupt in their own unspoken language of tears. Soon her cheeks will be mapped with rivers of sadness, quickly reaching her chin, then taking suicidal leaps toward her naked breast.
If he knew he was the cause of her anguish would he fight dragons to save her? She thinks not. He is nobody's white knight, least of all hers. Even though, the moment they first met, she completely surrendered her heart to him, his remains in a locked-box, on a high shelf. Once she imagined she spied the key, only for a second. But she was not a skilled pick-pocket so it remained out of reach, as did his love.
And where did this leave her? Empty, alone... always struggling to obtain the forbidden (hidden) fruit? Long ago, she believed she was strong. She used to scream out in the wind, hair loose, flying... free. But now she shivers and cowers at the thought of cutting herself loose from the strings she has bound round her heart and placed in his hand. How was it that she allowed him to master her? He seems oblivious to his power. He pulls and tugs, drags her through mud and mire. She can't believe he wants to torture her so. She is his kite, and it seems, no matter how strong the wind, he keeps her on a short lead. She is a bird with clipped wings, however many times she starts off, however much she yearns for flight, she is forever grounded.
She holds the razor in her palm, light glinting off its sharpened edge. She tests it against her puppet-strings... first her left wrist, then the right. Blood pools around her naked flesh. She doesn't scream, the gag is still too tight. Seconds before blackness she realizes who the real Puppet-Master has been. Her eyes open, never to close again for all eternity.