The world is full of distractions. In this day and age, you could probably spend your entire life without looking up and acknowledging your existence. But why is that? Why do people find it so difficult to perceive themselves? 

On May 3rd, 2024, I brought a dozen eggs to confront my cheating boyfriend in the parking lot of his apartment building. I brought the eggs with me with the intent of egging his car, but so engrossed in grief and pain I forgot the eggs in his driveway and drove home with heavy tears in my eyes and a foreign weight in my chest.

He returned the eggs to my porch later that day, and I carried those eggs with me for the next three months. 

Summer, a season of passion and growth. The previously withered and rotting terrain suddenly flourished with beguiling meadows. Upon first glance, these meadows appeared to be peaceful, and inviting, drawing me in with their beauty. I stepped forward, mesmerized. With each step I took, I was hit with the powder of pollen, the prick of blush, and the buzz of unseen creatures.

I turn back, hoping to escape the deceitful peace of the meadow, but it is too late. The flowers, once delicate and enticing, had grown taller, their stems thickening, closing in around me. I was trapped. Standing still, I screamed for help. 

“Help me!” I yelled in desperation. 

No response. 

I sank into the dirt, defeated, as the flowers continued to rise. The ground rumbled beneath me, roots twisting, pulsing. The meadow was no longer a meadow, it was a cage. 

Then, a cough. 

I jolted up. Someone was here. 

“Hello?” I called out, my voice uncertain.

Silence.  

I pushed through the tangled stem. I followed the sound, my heart rate sped up with every step I took. 

“Hello?” I said again. 

“Hello?” the parrot mimicked back in a croaky voice. 

I took a step back, startled. 

The bird straightened, ruffling its feathers. “Could you help me?” it asked, motioning toward its back. 

“Oh, of course!” I rushed over, hesitantly patting the parrot’s back. A sharp cough shot through the parrot’s body, and then, three gummy bears tumbled from its beak. 

“Thank you…name?” the parrot coughed, rubbing the feathers on its neck. 

I opened my mouth, ready to answer, but nothing came. I searched every corner of my mind unable to find a hint towards the answer. 

The parrot broke the silence. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just call you Poppy till you remember.” 

Poppy. 

That wasn’t right, but I couldn’t correct him. I swallowed the knot that now formed in my throat. My head began to throb and I fell to the ground. 

“Here,” the parrot said, picking up one of the gummy bears and extending it toward me. “This will make you feel better.” 

I hesitated. 

“It’s fine, I promise.” The parrot placed a wing over its chest. “Scouts honor!” he croaked. 

I glanced from the bird’s eyes to the gummy bear. 

I took it and then placed it into my mouth. Gulp. 

And for a moment, the headache disappeared. I felt calm, peaceful, almost even happy. I watched as the parrot shrank from my view as I sank deep into the dirt below. “See you soon.” He croaked, with a grin painted on his face. 

Messages flooded my phone: apologies, confessions, promises, questions. Each one chipped away at my already fragile state. 

And then the gifts. Flowers left at my doorstep, a necklace wrapped in a delicate ribbon, handwritten notes reiterating things he had already told me in his thread of text messages, a cookie cake with a detailed apology written in red frosting, a gift card delivered in a metal tin. And finally, my least favorite candy, which I had previously reiterated to him, watermelon sour patch. Each item felt like a desperate offering at the altar of my pain, a futile attempt to rewrite the past. But guilt is a selfish thing, he had always been so selfish. With his words, he sought to comfort and console me, and with his actions, he performed for the comfort of the one who inflicted the wound, himself. 

I woke up in a tunnel. The air was thick and stale, pressing against my skin like a damp cloth. I blinked once, twice, then forced my eyes open. I searched for something, anything, in this suffocating darkness. 

Shit. Where am I? 

I stumbled forward, my steps wobbled by the haze in my brain. I walked and walked, and walked, until finally, I saw it – a faint glow in the distance. My chest tightened with hope. I broke into a run, my breath now shallow and strained. The light grew larger with each step. 

I reached the source of the light, then I stopped. 

The light wasn’t coming from an exit. Instead, a mole rat no taller than five feet stood before me with a beacon of light radiating from his forehead. His eyes, small and beady, locked onto mine. 

 I swallowed hard. “Um…Hello?” I coughed. Suddenly I realized I needed to catch my breath. 

The mole rat didn’t answer, instead, he stomped toward me.

Fearful, I slowly began to retreat. 

“I can help you,” he boomed, his voice too large for this body.  I flinched. “Oh, no, really it’s alright I was just going the other way.” 

“I can help you,” he repeated, with his booming voice. 

I hesitated. The truth was, I had no idea how to get out of here. And something about the way he said it made me believe him. 

“Okay,” I said slowly.  “How can you help me?” 

“You want to get out of here, right? I know how.” 

I thought for a moment. 

“Follow me.” 

And I did just that. I followed him for what felt like 2 hours winding deeper into the tunnels until we reached a blue door. The mole rat knocked twice, and the door flung open. 

Inside, the room was alive with noise. A group of mole rats, much larger than my guide, roared with laughter, shoving and slapping each other’s backs in a joking manner.

Kopper, the mole rat that led me here, stepped inside first. He hesitated for a second, straightening his posture, then continued walking. He wasn’t the biggest in the room, not even close, but he puffed his chest out anyway. 

The others noticed him now. “Hey, look who it is!” one of them teased as he ruffled Kopper’s head. Kopper stumbled back, losing balance on his feet.  

I shyly stepped into the room, steering towards the corner hoping not to be seen. Then, a booming voice stopped me in my tracks. 

“Woah there! Who’s this doll you’ve brought back with you, Kopper?” Said the largest mole rat I had ever seen. 

My stomach turned. 

Kopper blushed and shyly scratched his head, glancing at the others, as if he were searching for the right answer. In a forced chuckle, he said, “Well, she’s mine.”

What?

 I thought to myself, still too scared to move or speak. 

The group of men erupted in laughter. 

“Boy, oh boy! –  Kopper finally got himself a good one!” one of the men howled. Another man continued, “Well, are you going to introduce her?” 

Kopper turned to me, his expression shifting from amusement to something else. Expectation. Performance. He took a step towards me. 

My eyes widened with fear, and I moved back. My shoulders hit the dirt wall. 

Through clenched teeth, I hissed, “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Koppers grin wavered. He leaned in, with a hushed voice. “Don’t mess this up for me.”

My pulse quickened. 

He sighed, glancing back at the group, then whispered again. “I promise I’ll still get you out of here, just do this for me first.” 

The weeks following my very public breakup felt like being trapped in the body of a puppet owned by a lousy ventriloquist. I sat stiffly on stage, forcing my lips apart for cued laughter that wasn’t real, painted a smile upon my face, and delivered unconvincing dialogue. I pulled the strings to make myself appear untouched, unshaken. I repeated rehearsed lines: I’m fine. I don’t care. I saw this coming anyway.  

But in reality, everything hurt. 

The strings that pulled on my arms and legs, the glue holding my eyelids open, and the thick arm punched into my back replacing my spine. My smile was unwavering in public but numbing in private. I avoided my reflection physically and mentally. 

The audience didn’t clap. 

“Why don’t they smile at my performance?”

“Why don’t the men cheer when I lift my dress and expose my gears?” 

“What made Tammy the puppet more appealing than me? Why was she worth the risk of losing everything we had built? What made her special and me not?” 

I pictured Tammy. The new star of the show. Her paint unchipped, her limbs unburdened by the weight of history. She was fresh and new to the audience. I could not blame them for their interest in her, but does owning something new justify throwing away what you already have? 

But the show must go on. I told myself that if I performed well enough if I convinced myself first, maybe it would become real. 

Kopper straightened his posture and turned around to face the audience, the group of mole men impatiently waiting. He gestured his arm towards me.

Action. 

I smiled faintly and stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Poppy,” My voice soft, controlled. Submissive.  

Kopper exhaled, shoulders falling in relief. The men chuckled and grinned. 

“Come sit, come sit!” one of them gestured. 

Koppers placed his hand on my back and guided me toward the table. I sat down between Kopper and another mole man. Kopper grabbed a beer from the table and twisted the cap off, taking a long swig before slamming it down on the table. He smirked, darting his eyes around the table searching for approval. They nodded, and he sat a little taller. 

The conversation flowed like a script I already knew. The men spoke in deep voices, trading exaggerated stories, competing in volume, dominance. Kopper joined in eagerly, his words rushing out like a child seeking praise. He threw his arm around me, gripping my shoulder. 

For the next few hours, I laughed, nodded, and behaved satisfactorily on cue. I even made a few jokes of my own, only to be met with lazy chuckles and approving nods. Kopper beamed at me like a trainer proud of his performing animal. 

The curtain finally fell, and our performance was over. 

The beers had been drained, and the conversation exhausted. One by one, the older men shuffled out, slapping Kopper on the back in farewell. It was just us now. 

Silence. 

I let my smile fall, my voice deepened. “Show me out of here.” 

Kopper’s head dipped. He nodded, his expression now faltered. 

We walked in silence to the exit. His pace slowed as we neared the door, hesitation weighing him down. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t wait, I pushed the door open and stepped into the unknown without looking back. 

The puppet was falling apart. My smile cracked and my strings tangled into a web of exhaustion. 

I wondered what would happen if I let go. If I stopped the pain for good. What would they think of me then? What would they write in their headlines? Who would come to my funeral? How would he feel?

Should I collapse, a lifeless heap on the stage floor?  

I walked through the door into darkness again, and then the floor pulled from under me and I was falling. I fell rapidly down a hole, landing in the meadow once more. My body ached. My head pounded. The tall flowers swayed around me. I tried to push myself up from the dirt but my limbs felt heavy and weak.

Then, a familiar voice. 

“Rough night, Poppy?” the parrot squawked at me. 

I turned my head and saw him perched on a branch. His vibrant feathers shimmered under the moonlight, but his eyebrows shaded his eyes. 

“You look terrible,” he croaked, tilting his head as he looked down on me. 

“Thanks,” I said dryly and unamused. He fluttered down and sat next to me. 

“You’d better get going soon though, dinner is about to start,” he ushered. 

“What, what dinner?” I said. 

“Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!” 

What had I forgotten? Where am I? Who am I? My head began to pound. 

I reached for my forehead and lowered my head to my knees. The parrot fluttered closer, leaning in, “Just take this, it will help you. Everything will be fine, you’ll do great.” he whispered into my ear. 

I peeked up from my knees and looked at him. He held out a gummy bear with one of his feathered wings. My head throbbed again. I hurriedly took the gummy bear and placed it into my mouth. Gulp. 

My headache stopped and the breeze of the night was all I could hear. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. 

The voices hit me first, sharp, rapid squeaks layered over each other. 

 I blinked. 

Mice. 

Hundreds of them, dressed in miniature suits and velvet dresses, scurried around an extravagant room. Chandeliers dangled overhead, and a grand dining table stretched across the center, overflowing with cheeses of every variety.

I was sat on a plush white sofa, my arms stiff at my sides, pupils wide. My body felt detached from me like my spirit and physical body decided to break up. 

“Poppy, dear!” A mouse wearing pearl earrings scurried over and patted my knee with her paw. “How are you dear?” she continued. 

My ears finally caught up with her voice. Delayed, “Oh, hello, I am good,” I said, swallowing hard, my tongue thick and dry. 

The tiny mouse with pearl earrings continued to speak to me but I heard none of it. My mind was somewhere else. I glanced around the room, locking eyes with people whispering and giggling with each other as they stared at me. “Is she alright?” a mouse with a navy suit whispered. “Dang, I didn’t know it had gotten that bad,” the teenage mice laughed as they hid their chuckles behind their paws. “Embarrassing,” said two aunties speaking to each other in the corner of the room. 

“Poppy?” said the mouse with pearl earrings sitting beside me. I jumped, realizing I had spaced out. “Huh?” She looked up at me with disappointed eyes. “I’ll get you some water,” she said as she hopped down from the couch. I forced a smile trying to say something, anything, but all that came out was a breathy, awkward laugh. The parrot was perched on the fireplace mantel, watching, grinning. 

“Relax,” he cooed. “They’re overreacting. They don’t get it. Just sit back and enjoy yourself.” 

My body slumped deeper into the sofa, muscles loose, vision hazy. 

The mice continued talking, but I wasn’t really there anymore. I was a puppet on the couch, strings cut, and a dumb painted smile frozen on my face.