Wired. Silken strings throb beneath his skin, uplifting.
He takes his first steps, tentative, a newborn foal.
Step, step. Steady, step, step.
He dances for them, for all of them. And they all want him, want control.
And none of them want to share.
Pushed, pulled, thrust, thrown. Too many hands on him, too many puppeteers.
He screams, screams and they panic.
They let go and he crumples, a deflated dream. They stare at him. They accuse him with their shock and their silence.
He would walk away, should walk away, but he hasn’t the strength to rise by himself.