Stepping in motion, keeping within the time. We move as one, a synchronised display. All around us, the people watch us, not daring to come closer. We want to cry out, ask for their help, but she will not let us. Our bodies are no longer our own, for all we are now is her property. When she grows bored with us, her little pets, she simply snares another and the chaos begins anew.
They say our blood is hot. They say that we must not stop, that the act of dancing will cure us. They say that God is merciful and that through this mercy, we shall be saved. But I know God has abandoned us. We know, for there is no self. We are not people, we are worthless, mere puppets on her strings. She giggles as we begin to sweat. Every time one of us falls to the ground, clutching their heart, she simply laughs and infects two more. The citizens and the councils cannot see her pulling our strings from the balcony, but we can feel them deep beneath our skin. They are all too busy building stages, buying musicians, herding us indoors like we are naught but cattle. As we continue our dance, caged like animals, manipulated by this marionette, Her strings slowly seep into their skin, the musicians, the council. The innocents.
Within a fraction of a second, the music dies. She makes a minuscule motion, a slight movement of her hand, and yet that is all she needs. Her strings are suddenly flailing wildly. People run, but where one foot takes off at a run, it comes back down dancing erratically. We dance ever more quickly, those who have been snared. Everyone runs as we cascade down the streets, but I can see our mistress finally losing her enthusiasm. One more wave, and I can feel my heart start to beat faster. And faster. The quick beat floods my ears like a steel drum. As I fall to the ground, I see the others are just the same. My ears are drowning in noise, the ground hard beneath me. As my vision slips away and darkness clouds my vision, I see the Wooden Girl wander the streets of Strasbourg.