The Director's Cut

I was born in a vat of silicone, molded to perfection to replicate the face he destroyed on that rainy highway. The Director adores my compliance, often pulling me onto his lap to manipulate the lever that makes me smile. He believes he is controlling his perfect, silent starlet, his hands firm on the mechanism inside my neck. He doesn't see the mechanic hiding behind the velvet curtains, waiting for the orchestra on the stereo to reach its deafening climax. When the violins scream, the lever won't just tilt my head. It will drive a six-inch steel spine through the roof of the mouth of the man who thought he could own a ghost.