I live in a musicbox.

So you know the song Pop goes the Weasel?

I am the Weasel. Or, more clearly, a puppet.

I look like a typical marionette. Thin, sock monkey-like body, with a painted porcelain mask. I still can't tell if my mask is my face.

I have black eyes. My eyes have strange tears of purple running down my face. Like I'm crying.

You see, I was once a child.

An ordinary little girl, who cried when her brother was invited to a birthday party and she was not.

A crying little girl, who followed her brother to the party and watched wistfully as they laughed and ate cake and opened presents.

A girl who did not notice the long car driving up behind her. And the man dressed in purple coming out, holding a knife.

The girl who was then attacked and left for dead.

And died. Only I didn't die.

I am a Puppet.

And here I am. Stuck in this form. I like this music box. It can be wound up, an it plays beautiful happy music. The tinkling music box kind of music. My favorite.

Oh, I'm not bored. I work at the same place where my brother and his friends had their party. I hand out presents, lovely white boxes tied with red ribbon, to the happy kids. Kids loved presents.

Only I am watchful. The purple man told me as I faded into unconsciousness that his next targets were my brother and his friends. I knew he was still out there, waiting for a chance to leap at them.

I am ever watchful.

Just remember. If you ever visit the birthday building, and enter, come visit the music box in the Prize Corner. The one with the big star on it.

We can talk a little, and you might be able to give me some precious company. I have so little besides the kids who grab the presents and immediately run off.

Maybe I can even give you a present, if you'd like.

Just don't run off like they do.