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.