I'm My Father's Puppet

The city groaned awake beneath a bruised sky, its endless symphony of horns and hurried footsteps echoing through the grimy streets. Rain, like soft cries, began to fall, painting the asphalt with streaks of neon. In a small, cramped studio apartment, barely shielded from the urban clamor, a young woman stirred from a restless sleep.

Her head throbbed, a dull ache blossoming behind her eyes. The air hung heavy with the stale scent of cigarettes and something acrid, a metallic tang she recognized instantly. She groaned, pushing herself up from a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets on the floor, her body stiff and unyielding. The mini dress from last night still clung to her, a testament to another blurred evening. Her reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror was a stranger: greasy hair, dark circles, and a weary cynicism etched around her eyes.

"Not again," she muttered, the words raspy. The trembling in her hands began subtly, then grew, mirroring the unease coiling in her gut. She reached for the familiar comfort of a cigarette, the small ritual a desperate attempt to steady herself against the creeping tendrils of a dream she couldn't quite remember, but whose lingering terror was all too real.