———

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.