I am a shadow, a nameless thing, a faceless thing, flitting about the tangled web of misery, busy hands longing against longing to dance.
The house is large. It is so big and stretches out cavernous, its walls and lines and edges melting and blurring to seem like an empty void. I feel so lost here. But I can't say that. I can't say that out loud.
I am eight years old. I have been here for two years. I long for my mother, for my father, for my brothers, for my many adopted aunts and uncles and titis and for the friends I've left behind.
I long to be truly seen, to be truly heard, to be truly wanted. By anyone, by anyone at all.
I wonder sometimes, if death would be preferable to this sort of existence. I often feel like it would be, I am so overwhelmingly lost and alone. Searching desperately for some kindness, some affection, some rest, some freedom, something. And yet it is nowhere. I am falling. I am screaming. And no sound comes out. I am in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a torrential rainstorm, without even a piece of driftwood to cling to.
Because who is around me? Who is there for me? Who are the adults in my life? They are my masters. They see me as a thing to be used. They see me as a lesser being. As not human. And they expect me to be okay with all of this. And I how can I? How can anyone? Especially, how can a child?
Right now I'm gulping back tears, tears that only I know are there. After so much terror and degradation, my tears run invisible. Run down the insides of my throat and lungs. They sting and burn and leave me silently, invisibly choking and gasping as they trail down. They hurt so much more than tears that run down cheeks do.
Right now I'm standing as tall as I can in front of Mistress Vendi. And I'm not tall. I'm a slight little child in front of the woman who holds my life in her hands, feeling so small in front of the towering woman clad in a bright silk gown whose gaze is harder than stone, sharper than broken glass. The way she looks at me, the way she always looks at me, the way they always look at me, like I'm nothing more than an insect to be stepped on or a rag to be wrung and used, it kills me every single time. I'm letting her words, all spoken in the cold, grating tone she uses for only me, slither into my ears and down into the pit of my stomach. She doesn't quite yell. But she almost yells. That's oftentimes how she talks to me. How everyone talks to me. Alternatively they speak softly but hard as lead with a stinging, numbing buzzing edge to it and that almost hurts more. The cruelty is so casual. And I have to take it. I have to just take it. I have to stand there listening to their words, as they order me around, and I have to meekly and politely agree and then go meekly do the thing.
Right now I am standing in front of a tower of a Towerwoman as she gives me orders.
"First you have to get the clothes washed. There /better/ not be any stains." Her gaze is hard and unwavering, her tone completely devoid of any sympathy or empathy or compassion. It's so hard for me to keep my face blank but I have to. I can't. I can't express emotion. I'm not allowed. It wouldn't be accepted. "And then you have to get the floor washed and don't you dare leave any streaks and I expect you to be done by noon do you understand?" I feel so scared, so scared, so scared standing in front of her hearing her talk like /that./ I would even rather that she just scream at me. I don't have words to express how the fear worms its way deep through me and eats at my insides. I want to sink into the ground and die. I want to scream at her and run away. But I'm trapped here. Feet glued to the floor. Because I'm a coward and I want to live. And I know I have no power. So I nod meekly.
"Alright."
"Remember. Be responsible." Cold. Hard. The aggression isn't as overt, isn't as obvious, but it still presses under her words, always does. She is as cold as a stone and twice as hard. To me. Only to me, and the other dirtpeople that occasionally come by. To her dear sweet baby Niamus she is so soft and kind and cuddly. Why couldn't I be anyone's dear sweet baby? Well, I was my family's dear sweet baby but I'm so overwhelmingly far from them.
I can't stand the way she behaves around me.
But what is worse is that she is tender, tender, oh so tender, to those who she thinks deserve it.
And it makes me feel like nothing. Well, never mind. Well, I can't not mind. But I can stay strong. I hope. I swallow back the lump forming, constantly forming, in my throat. And I go to work. Work, work, work. Most of my life is engulfed by just work. I don't want to work. It's too hard. I want to play. I want to tell stories. I want to look at birds and insects and clouds and snow. I want to cuddle. I want to hear stories. I want to learn all the things that the Towerchildren learn in their schools. I want to talk and dance and do so many things I do not have the time to do. But more than anything I want to be with my family.
I hurriedly pace through the hallways, mind racing just as my steps are, towards the laundry room. I walk past Niamus's room. It glows yellow, the door ajar. The boy is sitting on a plush sofa, idly leafing through a book. The sight of it drowns me at first. Leaves me choking, and gasping. But somewhere deep inside me a seed sprouts. A seed that is equal parts horrible and beautiful. And something wells up inside me that's between a roar and a scream. Like a pressure in my chest, fire that I actively have to dampen lest it burn me alive.
I do not say anything about any of this. When was the last time someone genuinely asked me about my emotions? Not in months, and never my masters. So I continue in the silence. Silence. Silence, silence, silence. Because if I tell them how I feel, who knows how they'll react? They'll probably kill my family. And I miss my family.
Not that there's a choice. I toughen myself up, and it's a fake sort of tough that hides a brokenness underneath. I grit my teeth, and I force down the soft parts of me that want to ask for help. And I get ready to work.
———
I'm eight years old. I'm kneeling on a floor. I have to scrub and scrub and scrub. Faster and and faster. But my mind is tired. It's tired and it's sad and it can't do this anymore. I feel so alone. I always feel alone. And I can't even think about how I feel enough to make myself feel better about it. My mind is buzzing and the world is buzzing and the edges of my reality blur. I have to scrub and scrub and scrub. And I have to know I'm not worth anything. I'm not anything. I'm not anyone. And I have to be helpless as the misery washes over me, as it pounds into my body and my heart and my soul. But no matter. I have to keep working and working and working and more and faster and better.
And I have to make sure not to cry. If they catch me crying, they'll take away my food for two days. And I'll still have to work, with hunger making my mind swim and my body ache and sting. And I don't want that. They won't kill me, and that's not a mercy, just a way to ensure I don't escape, but they'll hurt me. And I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared. I don't want that.
But they hold all the power. They hold all the power and I have none of it. And I have to scrub, scrub, scrub scrub. Faster, faster, faster, faster. Though my mind and heart are screaming. Though I want to rest. I want to run. But I can't. Because they hold my life or death in their hands. They hold whether or not I'll be getting fed in their hands. They hold whether or not I'll have shelter in their hands. I make sure make sure make sure that I haven't missed anything. Methodical and precise. They hold whether or not my family will be alive in their hands. They hold everything, they have everything and I have nothing. Nothing but the ability to kill myself in a show of rebellion and a very scary form of escape. But I'm too much of a coward to do even that.
All I can do is give everything I have to them and watch them crush it under their feet.
And I am eight years old right now. I am a child. Just a child. A small part of me says that I deserve better. But that part of me is drowned out by their voices saying that I don't.
———
I lie on the floor of the spare room. My body and mind are on fire with pain. More pain than normal. My mind is swimming. Delirious with fever. It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts. I'm all alone. I've been alone for days. It hurts. My thoughts filter in and out and none of them make any sense and most of them are horrible.
I'm all alone in this world. No-one loves me. No-one wants me. No-one needs me. No-one knows me. No-one accepts me. My head hurts so much. It's a hot, thick, pressing, throbbing pain. It's hard to breathe. My lungs ache and burn. My throat aches as if it's being ripped apart. I'm all alone. I'm all alone. I'm all alone. I'm all alone.
The moonlight glows pale and eerie on the wall next to me. Glows brighter than it normally does. What spirits might be in the moonlight? What signs might be in its glow? I curl into myself. I am the only warmth I have. And I'm so very cold.
When I first got sick Vendi berated me for letting myself get sick when I had so much work to do. She called me irresponsible. Said I was lazy and a good-for-nothing and that she didn't know why she kept me alive if I was just going to be too sick to work. She threatened to kill me. Twice. She threatened to leave me in a room without any food or water and let me die. I begged her not to. I promised I'd work twice as hard when I got better. I did not know how I would manage that but I knew it was possible. I wondered if it would be better to just let her kill me. She complained about how she didn't know how she'd arrange a replacement for me. And talked about how tired and stressed and overworked she was and how she didn't need me adding more pressure on top of all of that. She ranted that since I was a dirtperson I should be immune to getting sick, seeing as how I was from the filth anyways.
She finally holed me up in the spare room, warning me to stay away from any of the Towerpeople and that if I dared come out of the room she would actually kill me. She said that I must have some disgusting, dangerous dirtperson sickness and she didn't want me contaminating any of her family. She sent me a bunch of crackers and I can get water from the tap. So I will likely not die.
But I want to. What do I have now? More of this. And more of this. And more of this. Until the day I finally find the courage to end it.
Everything seems darker around me. Everything seems to be buzzing with life. I think about praying to the Fates for them to heal me faster. For some reason that idea seems terrifying and oppressive. I think about my mother. And I can see her face, clear as day, in the darkness of the room. She smiles softly at me. Brushes her fingers through my hair. I think about her soft hope. Her secretive rebelliousness. She had a fire in her eyes that no-one could put out.
I think about my father. His kind smile. His selfless, broken eyes. The way it felt like he could protect me from anything. But he couldn't. Not really.
I think about my brothers. They were still playful. They still found ways to be children, despite everything. They still found ways to give me a childhood, despite everything.
I think about my aunts and my uncles and titis. And my friends. I think about how we all banded together. And how we gave each other hope. I think about how they're all missing me. I know they are. And I'm missing them. Memories and dreams all swirl together into an overwhelming mix.
I think I'm crying.
———
I'm cutting carrots, sitting on the floor of the charcoal-coloured kitchen. I'm always sitting on the floor. Or sleeping on it. I don't want to be. They have plush chairs and beds and sofas and tables. But it's all for them though. Only for them. I don't want to be sitting here. I don't want to be cutting carrots either. It's menial and difficult and I want to play. I have to though. I force my screaming mind to concentrate. I force myself to keep the sharp knife in my hand steady as I keep slicing. If I cut my finger by accident I'll get yelled at. Not because I got hurt. They won't care much about that. They'll scold me and say I'm not good enough and they'll act like they're so inconvenienced. But they won't press a kiss to my forehead like my mother used to do. They won't look at me with sad, soft eyes as dark as the nighttime and as rain-swept as a flood. They won't look at me with the kind, sad, protective selflessness that my older brothers would look at me with. They won't jokingly tell off the knife like Auntie Cassie.
I want to go outside. I want to be playing in the green fields or even anywhere. I want to look at the clouds. It's a very pretty day. Niamus - Master Niamus, to me that is - just got back from a game of badminton and how he's studying. I wish I could study.
Cut cut cut cutcutcutcutcut. Make sure they're all the right size. Make sure they're all pretty. That I'm cutting straight. Make sure that I'm perfect and I'm efficient and I'm good. I have to be good. I can only be good if I do my work well, as hard as it is. I have to be good and responsible. I can never be good. Not like Niamus can. It's so easy for him to be good. I'm tired of this. But I keep going, keep going, keep going. I always keep going. Carrot after carrot after carrot. I'm scared. I'm scared because if I fail, and I might, that would be ... unthinkable.
I'm tired though. No, not tired. Restless. No not restless. I remind myself to keep making sure every chunk is the right size. And be careful with the knife.
My hand aches and I can't tell if it really aches or if it's a phantom pain. After the carrots are done I'll need to cut garlic and then cauliflower and then onions and then tomatoes.
I want to read a book. I've never read a book before. But I want to try it. Niamus has so many books. I bet they're really cool.
The knife glints closer to my finger than it should. My breath catches in my throat. If I were to bleed no-one would ask if I'm okay. No-one would call me their sweet baby girl. No one would run a hand through my hair. Not like my mother or my father or Auntie Ameni or Uncle Diono or Uncle Azi or Titi Claren used to. Oh /universe./
I quickly scrape the contents of my cutting board into the bowl and move on to the garlic, ripping apart the peels with my small fingers, my head a dizzying mass of emotions. I feel like I'm drowning in poison. I always feel like I'm drowning in poison. I feel like I'm melting on the inside, like the world is melting around me. I always feel like that. I feel like I'm dead already, and the mold and the rot is taking over my body. I always feel like that.
Mama said children shouldn't be made to do adult work. But the Towerpeople don't care. Mama was right. And oh universe I miss her.
I take a moment. I can't let them see me cry. I want to. But they don't like us complaining about our lot in life. Never did. If they see me cry that would be ... unthinkable.
It it feels like I'm falling down a great chasm whenever I have to push my emotions down under this stony mask. Like there is a river of feeling, of misery and want and need and loneliness and rage and even hope inside me and I want to let it flood out, flood out, drown everything around me and bring life to the lands. But I can't. I have to dam it all up as it presses against me and presses against me and leaves me cracked and broken. I'm too scared not to. Not scared for my life. I don't want my life. Scared just ... just because.
It hurts it hurts it hurts.
"You're supposed to be working." I look up startled at the haughty-edged voice of the man standing before me. Altoulious. The head of the house so to speak. He is glaring - not glaring, just staring - down at me with such disdain. I repress a shiver.
"Yes, sir." The misery behind my voice is barely noticeable yet the fear is a bit more present.
"You know what your duties are." He's so tall, glaring down at me. And he is glaring. I was wrong before. It's an ugly look on him. Makes him look like a gargoyle.
"Yes sir."
"And don't go around getting an attitude after all we've done to feed you and clothe you and keep you alive."
"I'm very grateful to you sir I'm sorry if that didn't come across. I'm very grateful to your people."
My mouth tastes like ash. My lungs feel like they're filled with ash. I make sure I'm being very fine and precise with this garlic. I'm not grateful not really. But at the same time I feel like I should be. They make sure to let me know, after all, they they're the ones who keep me alive. I shouldn't bite the hand that feeds. Never mind how meagre and tasteless the food is, how hard and cold the hand.
———
I'm sitting in the kitchen all alone. Eating dinner. It's rice and beans but mostly just rice. Uncle Amoki said that people needed something called nutrients. I've heard the Towerpeople talking about nutrients too, once. About making sure Master Niamus gets enough nutrients. But I guess they think dirtpeople don't need nutrients.
I'm in the semi-darkness, the solitary ocean, the cold, hard, silence. I feel ... lonely. I feel ... invisible. I feel like nobody sees me as a person. I want so very desperately to cry. But I cannot. Misery washes over me and drowns me and chokes me. I'm alone, I'm alone, I'm alone. I'm dead inside and I'm a shell of a person and my soul is bleeding and screaming and constantly being torn to pieces. I have nothing. I have no-one. I am nothing. I am no-one. I can't scream, though I want to. I can't claw at myself until there's nothing left of me, though I want to. I can't huddle up in this corner of prison and turn into a rock. Though I want to. I want it to stop, to stop, to stop. I want all this hurting to stop. But it won't. But it doesn't, ever. There's no way out of this. No way out of here. No gentle words or kind touches. I'm not a human. I'm not a person. I'm some strange monster they've kept as a pet.
I hate them I hate them I hate them. More than life, I hate them. I can't breathe. My throat and lungs are sticky and overfull. But they've always ... they act like they're people when they're not acting to me. To each other they're so kind and nice and understanding and good. And that hurts so so so much more. They're just normal people. They're a normal family. And it hurts so much more. Because they're good people it's not like they're monsters or creatures from nightmares or stories. They're kind people. They're capable of softness, of affection. They're real people. I just don't deserve it. They just aren't good and kind to me. To everyone else but not to me. To me they're harsh and apathetic and imperious and distant and cold and demanding. Why would they be different, why would they be kind, when I'm so far beneath them? Fuck.
I'm just nothing. I'm just the dirt underneath their feet. I'm just no-one. And that thought closes around my throat and numbs my mind and forces all the air out of my lungs. I can't breathe and I'm dying and I can't breath and I' burning and I can't breathe. But no matter how much I'm dying and no matter how long I'm dying for I can never manage to actually die. My life is just a constant process of dying and dying and dying and dying.
But I actually am dead, aren't? My childhood is dead. My freedom is dead. My hope is dead. My happiness is dead. My peace is dead. My sense of belonging is dead. Everything that makes life worth living, that makes life anything, it's all dead.
And yet I have to keep living. I'm eight years old. I'm so young. So much of my life stretches on before me. So many years going on and on and on and on. Filled with overwhelming, unbearable pain. And I'm not strong enough to escape. I'm not strong enough to end it. I'm not brave enough. I'm not rebellious enough. I'm not good enough for anything. Not even for death. They're right about what they think about me. They're right.
No wonder I'm the one who has to work while Niamus gets to play. No wonder I don't get to go to school. He learns so many cool things and it just isn't fair and I hate it. No wonder I don't get a bed to sleep in or good food to eat. No wonder I never get any sweets. No wonder I don't get cuddled or talked to or cooed at or played with. No wonder I have to sit on the ground and have to eat by myself and be nothing.
I hate them I hate them I hate them for making me feel like this. I'm not nothing. I'm not no-one. I'm a person. I have a mother. I have a father. I have aunts and uncles and titis and friends. I have three older brothers. I have people who love me and try to protect me and want to take care of me. But I don't have them anymore. They're far away, far away, too far away to reach across the depths of space and hold me and reassure me and help me.
I miss them. More than freedom I miss them. Every single moment of every single day I miss them and it burns through me and swallows me whole. Why why why why why did the Towers have to take me away from my family? Why did they have to rip me from the arms of everyone who's ever loved me, everyone I've ever known? Why did they have to take what little meagre stability and protection and freedom I had?
Chatter is wafting down from the dining room. Chatter and the faintest chords of music. Strong music. I think. They're - the Towerpeople, my owners - are immersed in conversation with each other. They are people who get showered with attention. They get to talk and talk about how their day was and random stuff. And every time I get to talk I have to make very sure to only say what they want to hear. But they can speak freely. They can talk, they want to talk to each other.
I bet they're taking their time enjoying dinner and eating more than they need. No doubt they're tearing into the steak and the hearty stew and the sweets I fucking made. Ugh I wish I could've been quick enough, sneaky enough to steal one, just one. Nah I only get white rice and red beans. It's not fair.
I feel very lonely. I always feel lonely. Too lonely. It's too much. I put my arms around myself, trying to hold myself since no-one will hold me. Outside the grasshoppers scream. The street lamps burn. And I desperately need some form of warmth and comfort. And I'm grasping at any shreds of anything I can get. I want someone someone just someone I can go to, someone I can cry with, someone who wants me. Someone who will see me as a person and not a thing to be used. As a person and not a tool. Fuck it.
I hug my knees, lean back into the cold wall. Fuck it. It's so cold everything is so cold and so pressing and I just want to leave.
The level of love and care and respect the Towerpeople give each other contrasts so sharply with the amount they ignore me. So sharply it cuts.
I'm on my own.
———
I'm standing in front of a shiny mirror. Yet I cannot appreciate any of its beauty because I have to be hard at work cleaning the cold glass.
They're gone now, the family. The closest thing to a family I have these days. I have the house to myself. Except I don't actually. I'm in the house by myself. Except that's not really true either since I pretty much am always by myself when I'm in this house. All that's different right now is that I'm in the house and they aren't. They're gone off to visit relatives.
They can't watch me but I still don't have any measure of freedom. I have to be done all the work they assigned me before they get back. It has to be done well. Up to standard. All that exists right now is this mirror. I don't.
Polish, polish, polish, polish.
When I'm bringing my rag over the edges where the reflective glass meets the hard, polished wood my eyes drift to a blur of colour. I take a moment to look at it. It's a small silver hair clip, with a colourful metal butterfly smelted to one side. It's a colour between red and purple, with many glass stones which are soft pink, blue, green, and yellow all over its wings. It's Vendi's. Vendi wears pretty things all the time. All the Towerwomen do. I'm surrounded with people who wear silk and satin and georgette and sequins and colours and jewels and embroidery. They get makeup and jewelry and pretty pretty hair clips like this. I have to wear the same faded worn-out cotton dress every day. It's not fair. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is plain. Dark. Darker than Vendi's but not by a lot. Monsoon eyes filled with rage and hate and brokenness stare back at me. I'm not beautiful. But I could be beautiful. Maybe. If I got a chance to be.
They're not here. They won't be here for a while. They won't know. I snatch up the butterfly clip. I clip a bunch of stray hair, clasping the clip just over my left ear. It looks very bright in the darkness of my hair. It looks pretty. I look pretty. I never knew I could look like this.
I'll take it off before they come home. I promise. I'm not stupid. But it's nice to know that they're not the only ones who can be pretty.
I get busy polishing the mirror. I hate it and I'm tired but what else is new? I'll tell you what actually /is/ new though. I smile a little every time I catch a bright flash in my own reflection.
After the mirror I have to wipe the windows. And there are so so many more windows than mirrors. And I'm almost done, very nearly done, when I hear Vendi's clicking shoes walk into the room.
"Girl are you done yet?" She barks. Where does she get the energy to be so rude and hateful? It must be exhausting.
"Almost," I say meekly, keeping my voice carefully blank. I turn to face her.
Her eyes go wide for a second. Incredulous. What does she - /oh./
"You miserable piece of garbage! Thinking you can steal from me and I wouldn't notice!" She yells, grabbing me and yanking the clip out of my hair, bringing a few strands of my hair with it. Her grip is tight, her hands tight, and I go limp as reality blurs around me and everything fades into screaming.
———
It's night time. The floor is hard under me. The air is faintly smoky. Everything is coated in darkness and all the hard edges and sharp instruments of the kitchen form only black outlines in the dark. I know there are bugs and stuff here. Beetles and ants and spiders and caterpillars and centipedes scurrying around. They actually leave me alone though. And they're almost like friends. I try to relax. I have to rest. Because I'll be so busy tomorrow. I need all the rest I can get.
But I'm so scared. The night time is filled with shadows and darkness and I hate it. It presses into me, holding me still, squeezing my heart and freezing my lungs. I don't know what's out there, waiting in the eerie dark corners. Watching. Waiting. They could be monsters. Demonic. They could be ready and waiting to eat me up or sink their claws into me or give me an immortality curse. I'm so small. I'm small and scrawny and weak and defenceless. A little girl against ghosts and demons that have magic powers. That can bend and twist and eat the earth and fire and space itself.
I mean, I mean they're probably not real. I'm probably just imagining things. But still, that doesn't stop the fact that my mind won't shut up. My thoughts race and race and race away from me as I'm frozen in place. My mind won't stop telling me about what's lurking beyond the shadows. About how much danger I'm in.
I know I'm being childish, I know I'm being immature. I know that despite being nine years old, I don't have the right to be childish or immature. I have to be tough and strong and no-one else will be strong for me. I can't be a child. I can't cower at shadows like a child. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm scared. It doesn't change the fact that I'm abjectly terrified. I can't stop myself.
Why can't someone else be strong for me, ever? I want someone to hold me, to rock me, to soothe me. I want someone to be lying beside me. Someone who can wrap their arm around me and calm me and tell me that the monsters aren't real, and even if they were real they could fight them off. I want someone who's big and responsible and can protect me from the monsters and actually cares enough to try. I want an adult who is willing to love me. I want a parent who is willing to hold me.
I want my mom and dad. I want my uncles and aunts and titis from back when I worked the fields. I hated working the fields I fucking hated it. But I could fall askeep beside them. And while I was still often scared before I fell asleep, I had a sense of peace too. I didn't have to worry about monsters or ghosts or shadows because I'd know my people would be there to protect me. If I ever got scared I just remembered that they were there for me, I just felt their warm presence around me. And it was enough.
Now I'm trapped and I'm scared and I'm a trapped sort of scared. It's a merciless sort of fear. There's nowhere and no-one around who can hold my hand through this fear.
I hug my knees closer to myself. Curl up into as small of a form as possible and try to get as much pretend contact as possible. My mind is panicking and it's hard to breathe. The night is blacker than black. Like the precious ink Niamus poured over me once. It's not the darkness that I don't like. It's the vastness, the strangeness, how everything seems so terrifyingly foreign but everything also seems so devastatingly familiar.
I wish I could go home. I hated it there, the work was hard and the food was never enough and it was crowded. But I had family there. I had people who wanted me as a person. People who would give me bits of their own meagre rations when I was feeling under the weather. I had people who would hold my hand. People who would talk to me. I had people who were concerned about my well-being, who saw me as their child. I had people who did what they could to protect me. I had people who truly wanted me, who I belonged with.
I have no-one here. Not really. Just ghosts and monsters and shadows and shades and monsters who take human form in order to torment me better.
No-one and no hope. No hope for things to get better.
I am beyond tears. I have had to teach myself not to cry. And I really wish, right now, that I could. It would make everything hurt less.
———
The house is filled with chatter, with laughter, with bright sparkly dresses and suave silken ties and crinkling smiles and children playing. It's Niamus's birthday. He gets a big fancy party every year. I remember parties back with my birth family. They were always muted affairs. We never had days off to celebrate. But they were warm, and brokenly strong, and full of family both born and found. They were nice. Nicer than this.
Though I don't really know how nice this would be from the inside. I'm hiding in the kitchen. Getting all the food ready. All by myself. Nobody wants to see the skinny, plain slave girl. Nobody wants to talk to her. Not when they have their pretty, glittery, shiny Towerpeople to talk to. They don't care what I have to say.
I'm drowning. But I don't have time to process the fact that I'm drowning. I have to cook. I have to work.
Work work work work work. I always have to work. It's too much work. Way, way, way too much. Incredibly, exceedingly, agonizingly way way too much. I hate working. I want to play and learn and be cuddled.
Pastries and pizza and dip and salad and chips and hot dogs. Niamus wanted a chocolate cake for his birthday and I have no idea what that tastes like but I do know how to make it.
With how much he begs for it you would think that it tastes great. I know it's sweet. It has a lot of sugar in it. I stole a little bit of sugar once. It was rebellious. It was intense. It was amazing. They say that dirtpeople can't taste sweet things but that isn't true. We just never get a chance to.
I have to ice the cake as well. It has to be a professional job. It was really tricky getting everything right. Especially since I was emotionally exhausted. Party days like this always leave me incredibly exhausted. Extra exhausted. Because on the days before the party it's always a mad dash to clean everything. On the day of the party, there's so much cooking. The Towerpeople of course are so excited during the whole process. Planning and arranging and talking and dancing and eating and listening to music and being all-around nuisances.
It's a pattern really. The happier they are the sadder I am. And they don't even do it on purpose. And that's worse. Hurting me on purpose would require thinking about me, paying attention to me, having some form of care about my person. But they just don't think of me as person at all. They don't think of me at all. And they remain completely apathetic and oblivious to me until they want something from my hands and sweat and blood.
Like this cake for example. Niamus wanted it to be purple. He wanted the sides to have blue sprinkles. It's so very difficult putting sprinkles on the sides of a cake. He wanted the top and the bottom edges to be lined with yellow frosting. It took such a steady hand and so much knife-sharp concentration to make a perfect border, with alternating thicker and thinner piping. I'm nine years old and my mind is burning steel wool. I use stencils to write whatever words are supposed to go on a birthday cake. I can't read.
And then it's time to get the table ready for desert. I carefully walk, ghost-silent, with plates of sweets. I place them on the large table at the centre of the dining groom. Then more trays. Then more. Then finally I bring in the cake.
"Are you done, girl?" I turn to see Niamus. His voice is haughty, smug, and devoid of any respect. He already speaks imperiously and cruelly. It makes him sound so much older than he is. He learns from his parents. All children do, unless the parents hurt their children. And he'll grow up to be cold and hard and exactly what they were.
"Yes, Master."
"Alright. Well that's enough of you then. Scram back into the kitchen where you came from."
"Alright, Master."
I have nothing to do. I suppose I should take this time to stew in my misery seeing as to how that's all I ever get to do in my downtime. But I'm curious. So I peek my head out of the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining room. Just a little bit. People are crowded around the table. Jovial. Joyous. Their backs are turned to me. I hear many comments praising Niamus on what a bright and sweet young boy he is growing up to be.
There is is the ringing sound of silverware on a glass and a silence falls over the crowd.
"Here, here," Altouloius exclaims in a bright, warm, booming voice. "Today is the year where my dear sweet son Niamus is entering a new chapter of his life. Today is the day he is turning ten years old. And what a charming ten-year-old he is!" The crowd cheers.
"He is bright and intelligent, a mind fit for the forefront of Tower society! But not only that! His personality has grown charming and sweet! He is friendly and congenial, a charm to know and a blessing to his family and friends." Everyone cheers.
I turn away. I don't want to hear more of whatever this is.
———
My arms ache. They burn. I can't even wince. They don't allow shows of discontent. I have to be strong and strong and oh-so-happy with whatever the fuck meagre scraps they give me. I'm a dirtperson, right? Only valued for my strength. Only valued for my physical capabilities. Only pushed to the very absolute brink of what I can take. I'm lugging two heavy suitcases, following steps behind the family. I want to put the suitcases down. They're too much for my scrawny arms. I can't though.
I can't put them down. I have to keep walking. Keep pace. Always be just a few steps behind them. Not alongside them. Never. Just a few steps behind them and ghost-silent. My heart clenches with this sort of misery that I can't describe. It hurts it hurts it hurts.
The weather is nice. It's muddy though and the mud is making it harder for me to trudge through the dirt streets. The family has rolled up their pant legs and lifted their skirts and is complaining about it, because they always find the most trivial and stupid things to complain about. It's midway through spring. The birds are just starting to fly back. The sun's rays are incrementally getting brighter. The leaves are just coming out of their buds. It would be beautiful if I was able to enjoy any of it. If there was ever anything besides torrential thunderstorms and inky darkness and sharp cutting barbs going on in my insides.
We're on our way to the train station. They're going on a holiday. The family is. To the Southern Shores. They say it's warm there. Warmth and water and the vast ocean that I've never seen. I've heard tiny tidbits of conversation. They speak of how fun and beautiful and good it would be to have a holiday they could spend together at the sparkling oceanside resort.
I'm not going with them but for that I am glad. It's a few days where I don't have to bear their presence.
But still, it hurts nonetheless.
I keep my gaze low, looking at the ground so as not to trip. The mud made the ground full of bumps and pits. If I trip, the suitcases will get muddy and they'll hate that so much. But despite how hard I'm trying, the ground is too uneven, my arms are too tired, my mind is too unfocused.
I tumble on a root, sprawling onto the jagged dirt of the ground. My heart lurches and jumps to my throat. I try my best to keep the suitcases safe. But they hit the ground. They hit the ground anyways. For a seemingly infinite moment all I can feel is pain and terror. My knee stings with pain and if I was capable of crying I would. I'm hurt I'm hurt I'm hurt. And I'm about to be hurt so much more. The world shifts back into focus as my knee aches and my heart thuds.
"You imbecile!" Vendi is yelling at me, "you utterly useless girl! Why did you do that?!" My heart stops as I stare at her with wide eyes. I'm a deer in the headlights. I'm hurt and I'm scared and she's saying it's my fault.
"Get up, girl!" The way he says girl, he might as well have been saying cockroach or something. Altoulious's rage makes me want to curl up into myself but I force myself to stand. Though my knee aches at the movement.
"The suitcases are ruined! Look at them! They're so dirty! You had one job, girl! You had one single job!" She rages on. I'm paralyzed by fear. "You are so utterly pathetic! How come you can never do anything right? Look at them! Just look at them! They were so beautiful! And now you've ruined them! Girl, you will have to fix this! As soon as we get to the station you better make sure to clean all this dirt off! I swear!" I don't want to be listening to this.
"Yes. Okay. I will." My voice comes out just a bit shakier than it normally does, no matter how hard I try to control it. She does not notice at all though.
"Are you cut?" Vendi asks me, her voice cold and hard as daggers.
"Yes ma'am."
"Oh Fates not another problem. Now I have to deal this as well. Can I ever not get some peace? Can I ever not get some quiet? We will give you a bandage when we get to the station."
"Thank you, ma'am." My voice feels so small.
"Good," she replies. "You're so clumsy. Dear Fates you literally cannot stop from tripping over yourself for two fucking minutes you're such a useless girl!"
I don't say anything to this.
I keep struggling with my bags, ignoring the stinging in my knee. I swallow down the lump of pain in my throat, ignoring the way it grows and blooms and festers in my chest. I feel really put down by that insult, by that tone. No put down isn't strong enough. I feel wrung out. I wish someone could give me a hug. I wish I had someone to collapse into. Someone who could hear my side of the story.
The family keeps moving and talking as if nothing has even happened. As if I'm not even there anymore. For some reason this sends a stab of pain through me even sharper than all the pain that was already there. They conversate with each other. Talk about things I can't and don't want to really listen to. Talk about the warmth and the waves and the luxury hotels and the seaside shops. They talk about how much they deserve a vacation. Heap praises onto their son like they always do. I am a shadow like I always am. A shadow and a thing, a thing to be used.
I want someone to talk to me the way they're talking to each other. Freely. Affectionately. I want someone to hear me, to really truly hear me, and actually care about what I have to say. I want to be able to talk freely and honestly and sincerely. I want a parent to listen to my thoughts and my feelings and my hopes and my dreams. I want to be heard. Dear universe, I want to be heard. I feel, as I always do, like my lips are stitched together.
Niamus is, well he's only a little older than me. He's a child technically. But he doesn't really feel like a child. He's too cruel, too hard, too all-powerful, too objectively terrifying. And unlike me his feet are free. All the time. He likes sports and movement and dancing. And he's doing a little dance as he goes along, skipping merrily.
I strain against my mind like I always, always, always do. I'm weary of constantly being here doing this.
Niamus trips over a coiled root. He doesn't fall. Not at all. He kind of just, stumbles. He ends up ending up on one knee though, the dirt staining his expensive pant legs.
"Oh sweet baby! Are you alright!" Vendi exclaims, voice full of concern. She immediately kneels down to take Niamus in her arms.
"Oh darling don't worry, it happens sometimes. Nothing to worry over." Altoulious's words to his son are full of comfort. He runs his hands through his son's hair while his wife wipes at the mud on Niamus's knee.
"Mama, papa, I'm fine." Niamus proudly basks in the attention though, despite his words. He is smiling widely. Proudly. The sun shining like an electric halo on his head. Chosen one of the Fates. Prince Audra reborn.
"Come here let me hug you," Vendi coos.
I choke back a sob.
————
I'm sweeping the floors. Even though they're barely dusty. If it's what my masters want it's what they'll get though. They hold my life in their hands. I make my way to Niamus's room. He's studying. He's on his bed, one foot on the floor. Writing something. It's not my business what. Though I am curious.
I'm absolutely silent as I sweep through the entire room. At one point I get to him.
"Master, can you please move your foot?"
"Can't you see I'm trying to concentrate here?" He almost-shouts but it's no worse or better than usual.
"I'm sorry. You can get back to your book after a second."
"And you're telling /me/ what to do now? You have no idea how much concentration this takes. You mud-for-brains idiots have no idea how much concentration is needed for intellectual things." Seriously? He's telling me /this?/ Does he know now much concentration is needed to cook and clean and fetch and carry every single goddamn thing the Towerpeople tell me to? Fuck this idiot.
"Master you only think you're smarter than me because they sent you to school and not me."
"I can't believe this. I am telling my father. You are getting punished. You really think you're smarter than me? The reason you dirtpeople like you don't go to school is that there would be no point. You're not smart enough. You wouldn't learn anything."
"Go fuck yourself."
I didn't eat for a week straight after that.
————
I wake up. I don't want to. I want to stay asleep forever, to never have to open my eyes again. It's better to sleep than it is to be awake.
I breathe deeply. Raggedly. Trying to strengthen myself. It doesn't work. I wrest myself out of "bed" though and I straighten up my hair a bit before starting my day.
———
The family prays a lot. They pray every day in fact. And after they pray they sit down and read from the Scroll of Sacred History together. Once a month they make me join in. I guess for stories they think would scare me into submission.
They make me sit on the floor at their feet and be perfectly silent while they discuss the scripture.
"Lakei was a young dirt boy," Vendi says in a calmly serious voice. "He thought himself very grand. Thought himself above his station. He thought himself very clever and smart. Smarter than the Towerpeople who gave him all he had. Smarter than the Fates even, who give us all all that we have."
"Was he a bad guy?" Niamus's voice is curious and lightly laced with wonder.
"I'm sure we'll find out from the story, won't we son?" Altoulious's voice is light and softly affectionate. He never talks that way to me. A stab of pain shoots through my chest and over my throat. It always hurts to see how soft the masters can be with each other.
"Anyways," Vendi continues, "he thought himself smarter than the Fates, and that he could deceive even them. He ran from the home in which he had lived for all his life, from his family and his masters. And he journeyed out into the wilderness. There he fashioned for himself a blade made out of the glint of ice on sunlight, and the reflection of stars in still water. He infused the blade with all the hatred he had in his heart and all the scheming he had in his mind. He forged a weapon that was almost strong enough to kill the Fates. But unbeknownst to him, it was not strong enough."
I know Lakei's story will end in defeat and in pain. His life will be a burning disaster comparable to my own. And he will see that he has no hope. But somewhere deep inside me is a small ember of hope that maybe he will find some form of escape, or victory.
"The brave and wise Bhadensa made three birds out of a stout tree he got his slaves to chop down. He sent these birds out over the lands to see what was going on. The birds saw Lakei living in the wild lands like a savage. And they reported this to Bhadensa.
"Bhadensa realized that he must do something about the threat of Lakei before the hate-filled savage did anything that hurt the people. And so he got his sword and his shield. And he prepared a chariot to go out into the wilderness and find Lakei.
"So there he found him hidden away in a cave in the mountains. And there he told Lakei that he had one chance. He could give up this dangerous dream and return to his masters or he could face down Bhadensa's sword. Lakei got out his blade made out of wildness and hate.
"But Bhadensa's sword was made of powerful elements too. It was made from the deepest mine dug in the tallest mountain. And forged in a sacrificial fire in which he had burned an accursed sorceress. And into the blade was worked diamonds from the palaces of the Fates themselves. Nothing could be more powerful than this sword, besides Their power.
"They fought for three days. And each night when the stars came out Lakei started winning the battle. Each day when the sun came out Bhadensa started winning. But slowly and surely Bhadensa wore out Lakei and his accursed blade.
"He put Lakei in magical shackles and locked him in a cave deep within the earth. And it is there that Lakei remains to this day."
In a cave all alone. In a house full of people all alone. What's the difference? At least Lakei doesn't have to see what love is like, only for it to be forever denied him.
————
Niamus is licking an ice-cream cone. Ice-cream is a newfangled invention. It's brand new cutting-edge technology. I bet it's really cool. I have no idea what it tastes like. I hear that it's sweet. I hear that it's cold and creamy. All of that together would taste really rather strange. But strange in a good way. I want to try some. But they say it's only for free people. It's not for the slaves. So very many things are not for the slaves and I hate being a slave. So much.
He glances at me and then looks away. He doesn't really see me. I don't know what he sees. He goes back to licking the ice cream like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like nothing's wrong and he's happy, happy, happy. Something in my heart twists and twists and then twists again. Until my heart is wrung out dry.
He even lets drops of it melt onto the floor, where I will inevitably have to wipe them up.
I want some ice cream too.
I know better than to ask for any.
————
My dad is standing in the sunlight. He smiles at me. Ruffles my hair.
"Hey kiddo. We're here to take you home." He lifts me into his arms. And my mother comes up from behind and kisses me on the cheek. I'm crying. But these are tears of joy.
"My child. Sweetheart. I missed you so much." Her voice is so sweet. So full of love. Just how I remember it. Except it's not tired this time.
"Nancee!" My oldest brother, Ari, runs up to us. He still looks as young as he did all those years ago when I was taken. "I have a new game we can play. You'll like this one. I ..."
"Can I play too?" My youngest older brother chimes in. I haven't seen him in so long.
"Of course, Drayo," Ari says brightly. "Mama, Daddy let Nancee go so she can play with us."
"I only saw her after years, I'm going to hug her for a long time," Mama says.
"I want to hug Nancee too!" My middle brother Kolti lifts his arms to try to hug me but he's too short. Daddy and Mama sit down on the ground and all my brothers join the hug. We all embrace each other for a long time. I feel warm. Soft. Light. Like all the heaviness and the poison has been lifted and there is only joy and warmth. We stay like that for a while.
"I remembered you every day, Nancee," Drayo says to me, patting me on the head, "and now I can see you every day."
"We'll walk into the forest and they won't never ever find us." Kolti smiles that lopsided smile of his.
"All my children are together now." Mama strokes all of our hair.
"I managed to steal some sweets for you all" Daddy announces. He hands us little rectangles wrapped in foil.
The sun shines like spring and the grass is soft and cool and peace is something I know.
But then I wake up. And it's dark. And I'm all alone on the hard floor. And I don't have anyone to save me from the darkness. And I don't have my family.
————
I'm washing the walls. Making sure they end up gleaming. I'm nine years old. I've been doing this for about two hours. Scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing scrubbing scrubbingscrubbingscrubbingscrubbingscrubbing. I feel dead I feel like a ghost. I know, at nine years old I should be fine with this. I should be capable of this. I've been doing it for years after all. But I'm not fine. I'm not fine at all.
But it doesn't matter whether I'm fine or not. Because I'm not a person. I'm just a swirling void of suffering and hurt and nothingness.
My family would say that I'm good and important. But they're far away now. It doesn't matter what they'd say.
And I have to keep scrubbing.
I hate the time right before The Festival of the Fates. And I hate those two weeks too. It's always so much work so incredible much work. Exhausting. Dizzying. Overwhelming. Oppressive. And lonely.
Loneliness cuts extra deep.
And I keep scrubbing and soap and water and wall and wood combine to make a strange sort of screaming.
"Nancee you come over here right now!" The harsh words cut into my mind like rocks breaking through a window. It's Vendi who's calling me. I have to respond to her no matter how much I want to run from her.
"Yes m'aam." My voice comes out small and meek and oh-so-submissive. I hate the way it sounds. For a moment my thoughts burn. But I keep walking.
I emerge into the ornate room where I see that Vendi, Niamus, and Niamus's aunt Idalia, are lounging on three of the plush gilded chaises.
"What took you so long, girl?" Idalia barks with venom in her voice.
I lower my head.
"Anyways, Niamus, sweetheart," she is speaking to the other child in the room now, "I'm going to get you the finest, loveliest Fate Day suit anyone has ever seen. Decked in jewels that shine almost as bright as you, darling."
I keep my head lowered. I hate Fate Day I hate the whole festival I hate the Fates I hate them so much.
"Oh thank you Auntie," Niamus says.
"Girl, I'm going to need you to get his measurements." Her voice has shifted back to her I'm-talking-to-the-dirt-under-my-shoe tone for this sentance.
"Yes m'aam."
I go to get the tape measure.
I come back and kneel silently in front of Niamus who is now standing. I wrap it around the length of one of his ankles.
"The Fates have been extra provident for our family this year, have They not?" Idalia smiles.
"Oh the Fates are always provident to those They see fit and merciless to those They don't." There is a smirk in Vendi's voice.
"Yes ever since They in all Their wisdom set up the Divine Hierarchy, They have favoured those deserving of Their blessings."
"Ten," I call out meekly and Idalia writes it down. I move on to the other ankle, kneeling low in front of the other child.
"And, sweet sister, how wonderful it is to be in the company of a swiftly-rising family like yours. Gaining land and riches by the minute, are you not?"
"If the Fates wish it, dear sister, if the Fates wish it."
"Ten." I move on to his legs now, standing upright on my knees instead of sitting on them.
"We are /Towerpeople/. Of course the Fates favour us. We are so highborn and we are in Their good graces."
"Well of course but They seem to be turning extra favour onto you, sister."
"Oh you do flatter too much. We'll be sure to give extra offerings to Them as a thank-you for Their kindness."
The sinking sorrow inside me is so heavy, heavy, heavy it almost feels like I'm falling through the floor.
"Any kindness They give is deserved. Just as any sorrow They bring is deserved."
I hate the Fates so much. I know They are the rulers of the universe. But I can't help but to hate Them.
Because They took me from my family.
—————
The next year the family - the Towerpeople - move to a bigger house. Of course they take me along. I guess they weren't kidding when they said fortune was smiling on them. This house is three times bigger than the previous one. They go on a very lavish spending spree to furnish and decorate it.
They also buy two other kids. Scared, sad kids like me. Kids who are seen as things to be used, like me. Kids that feel like ghosts, like me. Kids that only ever know fear, like me. Kids despised by the Fates. Like me. They'd been ripped from their homes as young children like I was.
Anderei is eight and Lilith is nine. This was the second time Lilith was sold though and the third time Anderei was.
They are kind. We are kind to each other. We become friends. We become family. I love them. They love me.
But it doesn't make any of us less terrified or grief-stricken or lonely. It doesn't make us less miserable in any way.
We have each other, that is a blessing.
But we still don't have parents.
We are young. Scared. Searching. And we have no-one who is older who can help us and guide us and support us. No-one to offer the wisdom and guidance and reassurance that only an adult, only a parent or someone who loves you as much, can. We don't have the safety and the confidence a parent, a family, could've provided us. Nobody to nurture and nourish us with the support of an adult.
The only adults we do have are the Towerpeople. They are the only adults around. They are the adults we see day after day, whose roof we sleep under and they are the only adults around.
We can't help but to look towards them for guidance and teaching. We can't help but to look to them for support. We can't help but see them as our parents. Because we are children. And they are the only adults around.
And time and time again they put us down, all the while elevating their precious highborn children. It hurts more than one can imagine hurt could hurt. They get under our skin in such a way, into our very bones in such a way, that sometimes we lose all sense of self.
And obviously the work is still hard, is still adult work that they make us do, is still shitty degrading work even for adults. Whatever.
And it is rubbed in our faces, in our wounds time and time again how much less we are considered compared to them.
And of course all of us still miss our parents dearly.
————
Time went by. We got older. When I was twelve Katapa came to the house, thirteen at the time. She was thoughtful. She was broken. She was empathetic. She was exhausted. She was sneaky. She was kind. She was stubborn, dear universe she was stubborn. In the subtle way that slaves have to be. She was someone I felt like I'd been missing all my life. We fell in love instantly. In the way idiot children who don't really know how love works fall in love. And with time we fell in love the way adults who never want to leave each other fall in love. She ... she sparked something in me that I never knew I had. Defiance.
She also didn't make my childhood or my adulthood stop being torture.
But she did bring me joy, bring me hope. They all did.
Lilith and Anderei got married.
And then Andronicha was born. And we were terrified, we knew one day they'd take her away. But she grew and became. And though she was a flower growing in concrete, in winter, she was the prettiest flower I'd ever come across. The strongest and surest.
And so were Pavlin and Levi. Our sweet summer children, little fireflies in the darkness. They subtly held their heads high in a way the Towerpeople couldn't see, even as toddlers. And I was proud.
Andronicha was getting older. No-one has come to take her away. We thought maybe things would be different for our children.
And then came Mafalia. Young eyes holding so much wisdom somehow. She saw wonder in the world somehow. Held secrets in the depths of her like the morning mist does. And she cried, like all our kids did.
But at least they were our's. At least it looked like they wouldn't be dragged screaming into the same fate we were dragged into.
Oh how wrong we were though.
The Fates are merciless to the good. The Fates are monsters.112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAgA0X7w4dS
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