The young girl is seven years old. She has skin as dark as the twilight and eyes that are darker than the raven's feather. Her eyes are dark. Her face is round. Her eyes are overflowing with sorrow. But it's the type of sorrow no-one around her sees. No-one except for me. 

I keep an eye on her, all the time. Just as I keep an eye on all my people. Just as I see all their suffering and their hardships and their pain. I see how they all cling to life, out of compulsion rather than out of want, when truly there is no life to cling to. Not for them. I see how she floats and flits through life like a ghost, as her insides are hollowed out and left raw, scraped, bleeding. 

Inside her I see the key to our destiny. The key to our future. The key to finally making my domain my own again. But this she does not know. She does not even know that I look at her. And she cannot even know how much power she truly holds. Not yet. Not yet. The day will come. But it hasn't come yet. 

So she lives her life as a silent servant, as an unseen, technically-alive ghost in the household of the doctor. She does the bidding of the family and follows all their orders with a stony mask on her face that doesn't betray all the howling winds inside. And she works.

The doctor and his family make her do much work. Too much work for a little girl of seven years old to bear. She has to sweep and dust and wash and scrub and polish everything in their large, stretching house. She has to cook their meals, intricate meals made of flavourful, savoury foods. And she has to fetch and carry whatever they ask of her to fetch and carry. And she has to do it without complaint, without comment, without any indication at all that she has emotions. 

For you see, the doctor and his family do not see her as a little girl. They do not see her as a person at all. They see her as a possession. As a tool. As a thing to be used. As a servant. As a shadow. As someone, no something, that is undoubtedly and unalienably beneath them. And most of the time they do not see her at all. 

They sit around the large, polished, mahogany dinner table talking. And they sit on the many plush sofas in the living room, chatting. And they talk of their lives, and they talk of their dreams, and they talk of their thoughts and emotions and experiences and desires. 

The girl does not have anyone to talk to. Not in that big house with blinding white walls and reflective white floors with little stones studded in them. She does not have anyone to share her thoughts and feelings with. So she gulps them down. She hides them from everyone, even herself. And she does her work. 

Her little tiny figure holds a broom that oh-so-dusturbingly is actually the right size for her. She sweeps under the desks and under the tables and under the bed. She has to keep everything pristine, everything shining, everything spotless. All the rooms in the stretching house must shine. 

And the girl must make them shine with her blood and bones and whatever is left of her spirit.

The little child is in pain, all the time. She is overwhelmed by her long working day. She is overwhelmed by how she has to do the work of an adult, being only seven years old. She is overwhelmed by how she is treated by the family. She is overwhelmed by how she has to hide everything that she is, to the point where she doesn't even know what she is. She is overwhelmed by the fear she feels. 

You see, she fears the doctor's family a great deal. And she has very good cause to. 

For they yell at her, shouting with voices full of control and command and power and superiority. They bark orders at her, with voices full of hated and contempt and hardness and harshness and anger. And they shout at her whenever they are telling her to do something. And if they don't shout at her, because they do not have the energy to do so, then they still speak to her with tones as hard as stone, as sharp as razors, as harsh as gravel being rubbed on your bare skin. Their voices are filled with contempt and disdain, even if they are not shouting. And she has to put up with all of that. 

She has to put up with it, cowering and shivering and shuddering inside, but remaining a stony mask on the outside. For she knows that they would punish her if she ever shows emotion. That doesn't mean she doesn't feel it though. Her every emotion pierces into her insides and drowns her in a poison ocean. You would have to look, really look, deep into her eyes in order to see all the brokenness that is hidden away inside of her. You would have to really pay attention to her. But of course no-one does. No-one even thinks to. No-one remotely cares to. 

But she is a child. She is a child. She is a child, she is a child, she is a child. I see this. My people see this. But the doctor and his family, they do not see this. They do not remotely care to. 

And there is another reason she is afraid as well. And it is another good reason as well. The doctor and his family are the only ones keeping her alive. They are the ones who feed her and clothe her and keep a roof over her head. And they could easily stop doing these things, just as easily as they began doing them. 

She does not want life, not really. Every day, every hour, every moment a part of her feelings long for easeful death. She longs for the oblivion of simply ceasing to be. For in her life she is already in an oblivion. She is already seen as and treated like nothing. It is a much kinder, softer oblivion, the oblivion of death. Much kinder and softer than the harsh, cruel oblivion of life. 

But still, she is a child and it is her childish instinct to hold onto life. And so she cannot let herself die. She longs for death, but she also fears it. And she hates herself for longing for it. And she hates herself for fearing it. And she hates herself just in general, the child, for too many people have taught her to. And she fears the family. 

She knows that she has been brought here to work. She has been kept alive to work. If she doesn't work, she won't be kept alive. If she doesn't please them, she won't be kept alive. She knows that her purpose in front of them is to please them, and to work goodly and diligently, as young as she might be. 

She knows that she is not a real person. She is not a whole person. She is definitely not a child. Or at least, she is not allowed to be any of these things. She is only allowed to be a worker. 

And so she watches everything she says around them. She watches everything she does. She even watches everything she thinks, everything she feels. Until she feels not like a human at all. Until she feels like a puppet being pulled this way and that by harsh, strong chords she has no control over. 

She does not move through life as if she is a person at all. She moves through life as if she is a puppet. She does not feel as if she is a person at all. She feels as if she is a puppet. 

So she scrubs the floor on her hands and knees, working robotically fast though all she longs to do is rest. And so she ignores the way the sky is blue outside the window. So he tells herself that the blue sky is not for her. She tells herself that she is not blue. But she is blue. She is the darkest brown like the earth after rain. And underneath that brown she is the brightest blue like the sky on a sunny day. She just cannot see it. But I can. So she scrubs and scrubs the floor until it is shining. And she asks the mistress of the house what her next task for the day is. 

She sits on the floor of the kitchen, a dirty, grimy, dark kitchen. She sits all alone. And she eats the simple white rice with a bit of cooked leaves. It's the only food she's been given. It's the only food she's ever given. While the family talks loudly as they eat tenderly cooked meats. 

She feels hollow. She feels weary. She cannot even think thoughts of happiness, of childlike mirth, of brightness. Not even when she is alone. Not even when she has no work. All she can do is sink deeper and deeper into the mists of her sorrow, which is what she always does. 

I watch her. I watch her. Every single moment of every single day I watch her. And my heart breaks. And I weep all the tears that I wish I could weep. I weep all the tears that I know I will not be able to make known to the world. I weep and my heart shatters. I wish, more than anything, that I could deliver her from this fate. I wish I could deliver her. I wish I could deliver them all. 

But I cannot. Not yet. It's beyond my powers. For now. Only for now. My powers will grow stronger. And with her by my side, we will deliver them. We will deliver them all. 

I watch her polish the furniture until it is softly shining. I watch her dark eyes, at once both dull and shining. At once both hollow and filled. At once both saved and saviour. Though that last part is for the future. For now, she pays minute attention to detail as she makes sure to get into all the nooks and crannies of the carved wood. She is a good worker. Because she has to be. She always has to be. 

I watch as she sleeps on a blanket on the hard stone floor, alone in the darkness. I watch as she looks out into the darkness. And she thinks that it is as dark as her life. She thinks that it is not as dark as her life is. She sheds invisible tears from her dry eyes, lying there like a stone, like a doll, like a dead corpse, until the sweet oblivion of sleep takes her away. I sing a lullaby for no reason, knowing that she cannot hear me. 

I watch as she is forced to get up the next day. And I feel her wish that she didn't have to get up. I watch as she prepares breakfast for the family. 

The doctor's family is truly her own family. They are the only ones who are around her. They are the adults and other children in her life. They are the people who she has to live with. They are her only form of social interaction. They are the only people she has. The people who feed her. The people who keep her close. 

She could not possibly have a worse family. No-one could. 

She did have a good family once. A kind family. A family that truly held her close and hugged her and listened to her. A family that told her stories and told her she was beautiful and told her she was going to change the world. She had a family who played with her, who gave her the best food, who slept tucked close by her side. 

But that family had to let her go. They couldn't keep her, because they couldn't feed her. They couldn't clothe her. They couldn't keep her alive. That is the truth of the land's people. They often have children they cannot feed. Children they cannot clothe. Children they cannot keep alive. 

They wanted to keep her. More than anything they wanted to keep her. But they wanted to keep her. But they could not let her die. They could not cut her life short. No matter what she wanted. No matter what they wanted. They were not brave enough to. No-one is brave enough to let their child die. 

It's too painful for her to remember that family. But the grief she feels at losing them, the mourning she feels at missing them, it haunts her always. It drowns her, leaves her gasping and struggling. It leaves her chest and throat bloody. It makes her feel as if she is breathing salty, sorrow-laden tears instead of air. She can never escape her grief. And she is grieving for people who are not even dead. 

Or, she knows not if they are dead or alive. She knows not if her true mother still breathes, if her true father yet sings, if her older sister still weaves bracelets out of blades of tall grass, if her true brother still tells stories. 

She often wishes that the family who were forced to leave her was dead. Because if they were dead, they could be watching over her. They could see her. They could feel her pain and maybe even protect her a bit. If they were dead she could be closer to them.

And if they were dead they could be free of their own grief and pain. They could be free of the weight of their hungry bellies and their aching bodies. They could be free of the grief that comes naturally with being a member of this world. They could be free of their own toil and work. And they could be free of the weight and pain of having had to give their daughter up. 

She misses her family, she misses her friends, she misses her community, she misses her village. She misses them all so very much. But she cannot speak of this to anyone. She has to swallow it down like a lump of hard poison. She has to keep it deep within herself, clawing to be let out. She has to not acknowledge it, not even to herself. 

She has to only feel it, and let it down her. 

Sometimes she dreams of her village. Of its bright earth. Of its tall grasses. Of its kind inhabitants. She always wakes up crying after those dreams. She always wipes her tears away and suppresses her sobs before the family can come in and see her. 

For you see, the doctor and his family like pretending that they are good people. They like pretending that they are the saviours of their world. That they are the ones who keep the world standing. They have big egos, and those big egos call for them to be seen as big heroes. 

I know this. I watch them. I watch them with the same sort of hatred with which I watch all the other leaders and rulers of the land. Of course, the doctor and his family will deny that they are rulers. They will say that they are simply doctors. But they benefit from the system and they help keep it secure in its place. The doctor and his family are rulers just as any of the other rulers are. 

The doctor goes to the village every once in a while. There he treats the sicknesses of the people for free. He thinks that he is amazing for doing this. He thinks that he is exceptionally kind and generous. His family, his friends, they all sing him praises. They say that they have never met such a heroic and selfless man. They say that he is an example for all the people out in all the lands. 

I I know the truth of what he is.