Trampled Flowers Along the Way

Smile wide, smile bright, smile so the world knows you're happy. I wipe the water from my face and smile, big and bright and beaming at my reflection. Hello me. It's me. What shall we do today? We should find Mistress, ask her for a task. No, no, no. Mistress said today was our day. My day. How could a day be mine? It was so silly.

I am supposed to do whatever I want today. I just want to find her and do what she wants. That's what good girls do, that's what wonderful toys do. That is... that was... my smile breaks for a minute, a moment, an instant. It falters and flies away and I am left to stare at me. Just me. How long am I going to do this. How long can I play and smile and sing and spin and laugh and... It makes my brain feel fuzzy. But not good fuzzy like a stuffed rancor, bad fuzzy like a prickly bush. I've fallen into a thicket, my good dress is all tangled and dirty and I am crying for my Mistress to rescue me.

I am Lyydea Amarra.

Salty heat fills my eyes, I hate, hate, hate the wet eyes. I push them away, wipe them away, drive them away. Sniffling into my sleeve, sighing into my chest, a bit of fabric from my pretty red dress; so nice, such a wonderful gift; a bit of the pretty red lace is caught between my lips - holding there as I chew, and fraying the edge of it.

I am Lyydea Amarra.

It's... hard for me to think this way, to see myself in the reflection. Mistress, not owner, just mistress is trying to help me see this. Help me learn this. It is such a different way of teaching than before. Other teachers held me, hurt me, hit me, taught with yells and screams and pain. It would have been easier. This hurt in a way the whips didn't, this hurt in a way that I don't... I still can't... I can't understand. I want to understand. She makes me want to understand.

I am Lyydea Amarra.

I grip the metal bowl beneath the reflection looking back, not smiling, not happy and obedient. Unhappy. No, not unhappy. Unhappy is the wrong word. This is different. This is harder. Not a toy. I am not. I am not a thing. I am not. I am not a slave. I am not.

I am Lyydea Amarra.

I do not believe these words. She wants me to believe them. I want to believe them. I manage to push my hand against the reflection, the me in reverse, the me I see. I try and wipe the tears away, console and comfort. Be the good girl. 'There, there - no crying. Good girls don't cry. They just obey. Smile and be happy, do as you're told.' I wipe the mirror with a hand and smudge it, leaving my appearance muddled and smeared.

I am Lyydea Amarra.

I am trying. Hot warmth flows again and I feel my knees buckle, no hands pushing me down, but I cannot hold my weight. I slip against the metal and cling to it for support. I grind my teeth, I rage inside, I grip and I growl and I... I...

I am Lyydea Amarra. I am sitting on the floor of a refresher and crying. I am 16 years old. Today is my birthday, and I am trying to remember how to be a person.

My day had been fun, fun, fun! There had been laughter and games and grumpy Mr. Lancer even gave me a pat on the head and told me how good I was! YAY! But... the day is over, my day. My birthday. My knees tuck up to my chest and I sigh into the soft pink skin as I sit on my mattress. This morning comes back to me, the refresher. The unhappy thoughts, the wet eyes. I hate this. It was so simple before. I was a good girl, who smiled and said "Yes, master. Of course, master." and did what I was told. This is so much harder. I feel like I'm learning, something? Something. I think it's something.

Mistress De'Ville told me I had a mother, which... seemed mean. Slaves don't have mothers. They're slaves, things. But she also says, tells me, 'Lyydea! You are not a slave!' and that just seems silly. Lyyda is a slave, that is all Lyydea has ever been. But Mistress wouldn't lie. Mistress is good, she is a GOOD mistress - so... did I have a mother? I remember the first woman, so like my Mistress De'Ville. So patient and kind and caring and wonderful. It hurts to remember her. My wet eyes get blurry and I bury my face harder against my knees.

I... I want to remember. I want to know if it's real. I have to... I have to think. Thinking hurts so much. My brain gets all 'BZZZZ' and I just want to stop - but, I should know. I bite into my lower lip, I taste metal. I know that taste, I've had that flavor on my tongue a lot. I clench my legs and try to force it. Force a thought, a memory, something. Something, something! Please! PLEASE, ANYTHING. PLEASE.

I see her face again. I feel her hand on my cheek, those eyes, warm and bright and loving and... and... not an owner's. Owners don't look at you like that. My shoulder's slouch into my curled up body tighter, I can feel myself squeezing myself into a ball, small and lost.

"Momma."

It barely sounds like my voice when it comes out in a crack, and I struggle to hang on to it. I had a mother. I know I had a mother. She was so good. I just wanted to make her happy. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. My sobs are ragged and my voice dies out on my lips as I fall into a tearful sleep.

I want to draw. I have pens, which are like worse crayons, and a pretty blue notebook that Mistress De'Ville had given me for my day. I sigh and huff and kick my feet under the desk in my room. Mistress De'Ville had given me that too. A desk and a chair and a light that I can turn off and on with a click, click, click, click, click. I should stop Mr. Lancer says that's annoying. Pffft. He's annoying - with his telling me what to do when he's not even Mistress De'Ville. He could at least play games with me more if he wants me to listen to his scrunchy, crunchy face.

I flip open the book, empty pages in front of me and think about drawing a pretty lylek, all lines and teeth and oh it's so much fun to imagine them! I kick the underside of my desk again as I remember I'm not supposed to use the book for drawing. Which is just like... why? No, no. Mistress wants me to learn to 'read and write' - and I don't understand why any slave would ever need to know those things. Except I'm not a slave, I remind myself. Which still feels like a lie. I am reminding myself of it whenever I forget though, and it feels less itchy in my brain to believe it than it used to. I guess that means its better now? I don't know.

She wants me to learn though, and not in the way I've been taught before. Not about smiling, or about obeying, or about cleaning or cooking or... other things. Icky things. No she wants me to learn what other people learn. Things like she knows. Like her helmet men know. I hope that means I can learn some of the fun dances they do. Sharp toys and bright blasters as they practice the dances with each other. Right now I am supposed to write. I don't want to write.

With another sigh I accept my fate. I am still the good girl. I am still my Mistresses favorite, which means I will do as I am told. For being a not slave this feels like being a slave. I take the pen in hand and open the other book I was given, the one I don't like. No pictures, no fun colors, just words and words and words and oh won't someone end it? I press the pen down, a smile beaming as I notice the ink is such a lovely, lovely, lovely red and follow along with the other book.

See Jay'n
se jay'ne run.
Run,Jay'ne run!,

It's... not perfect. I look at the other book and I look at mine. But it is better. Closer than last time I wrote in my pretty book.

"See. Jay... jay knee? Jayne? See Jayknee, no Jay'ne. See Jay'ne run. Run, Jay'ne, run." I blink at the words in the book and then my own and my smile returns, my eyes bright and wide with excitement. I did it? I DID IT! I DID IT! I wrote something, I wrote something and I read something! Learning is done. I have finished. I am sooooo good.

I move to close the book and notice there is more. I am not done. I sigh again and put the pen back to the paper. I will keep going, Mistress wants what is best for me, and I will do my best for her.

I am at my desk again, the one with the clicky light that goes, no... no. Be the good girl Lyydea. Don't click the light. Don't... just once, no one would mind, I know no one would mind, it would be SOOOO fun. I click it, and it lights up bright and beaming, casting warmth on the desk. Mmmmm, hello Mr. Mini Sun, thank you for being on my desk today. You are a very good friend. Unlike Mr. Lancer. Cranky. Stanky. JANKY. Mr. Lancer. He is the worst, the WORST.

I showed him my book. I said 'Mr. Lancer looK!' and held it up proud and bright, and he had looked at it, and smiled and told me to keep trying. Trying? TRYING?! I am doing. It is good. I got all the points and lines right this time. Nothing out of place. Maybe one thing out of place. I am done writing. I did all the words, I saw Jay'ne. I pet Sp't. I laughed at Diik falling in the mud. I spelled all my letters.

And I was rewarded with a new book. A worse book. I can't believe it's worse, how can it be worse? The words were the worst, and now this is the worser. These aren't even words. These are numbers. Numbers are like dumb letters, though at least I can put them on my fingers. One, two, buckle my shoe. I move my fingers to count with each number and laugh. Silly. But this book, this book, it tells me to change the numbers by putting in more numbers. It's dumb and I don't like it. I puff my cheeks out and stare at the paper in front of me, the blue book and my pretty red pen.

1+1=
2+3=
4+7=

It's so dumb. Why do I need to do this? Why would Mistress De'Ville make me do this? Does she hate me, have I been bad? Is this my punishment? I sulk deeper against the chair, but don't kick it this time. Mistress says not to do that again, because it's loud and could hurt the desk. It was a gift from her, so I should treat it better. I look at the numbers again, and I want to doodle on the pages. I hold my fingers up again and sigh.

"One." I lift one finger. "Plus one." I put my finger down and raise it back up, "Ugh. It's just one. The number one." I don't understand how you're supposed to make new numbers. One and one is just more ones. I start playing with my fingers. "One." I say again, and raise another finger on the hand. "One." Wait. Wait. WAIT. WAIT. I stare at my hand for a long time, the longest time, a SUPER long time. There are two fingers up. I had one. I put another one. Now there are two. I look at the paper, then at my hand, then at the paper, and again to my hand.

"Two." I put up two fingers. "Three." I raise three fingers. Hmm. "Two." Two different fingers. "Three." I add an extra finger, but that's still just three. One more try. "Two." I say again, staring hard at my fingers as I raise my fingers on one side. "Threeeeee." I say slowly and uncurl three more fingers from the other side of my hand, three new fingers. "Five." I say with a shock, a gasp and a squeal of delight. Two and three are five. One and one is two. One and Two are... I repeat the process on my hand "Three!"

Oh this is fun! I was wrong, this book is much, much, much better! "One and Three is four." I am flying through my fingers now moving and changing them. From one to five I get them all. I look back at the book and at the last numbers. Four and seven. I can't get to seven on my hand. This will be harder. I stare at my hand wondering if I imagine hard enough if I can get more fingers to pop out. Enough to get to seven. No good, no luck. I can do this though, now I know what this is. This is a game. I just need to figure out how to win. I have four fingers on one hand extended. "But how will I get seven?" I say quietly, before I notice my other hand tapping the table. Lazy hand doing nothing but playing! Wait. I extend two fingers on the lazy hand, and think. "This is two." My other hand opens up so it is flat on the table, all fingers out. "This is five." I push my hands together in front of me and gasp. "Seven."

This is such a tricky puzzle. I must be a genius. My two hands have made a seven. And now if I use the same trick I can figure out what the answer is. I open up my remaining fingers counting as i do. "One. Two. Three." I stop and stare. All fingers are open. I have no more fingers. But I am only at three. Seven and Three. "Ten." I say as I count them. But I am one short. I needed to get to Four, not three. I have 10. Can I just...? I close my hands and open one finger. "And one. Ten and one." I extend my fingers again as ten, then close to make the one once more. I imagine them all being together at the same time. "Eleven. Ten and one. Four and Seven is ten and one." I blink and smile, and feel a warmth grow inside my chest, this is... i have done something. This is something right. I know this. I very quickly write the numbers on the paper in front of me.

1+1= 2
2+3= 5
4+7= 11

This feels good. I am smiling, and I feel happy and oh it's as good as one hundred pancakes. I could COUNT one hundred pancakes. My eyes widen at that thought, of one hundred pancakes, and eating each one as I count them. I could be smart, happy and full of sweet, delicious pancakes. WOW! I laugh and giggle and lean back with such happy joy! I am the best, most smart girl!

I am at my desk. I am writing in my book. It is a beautiful book. It is has been with me since my day, my... birthday. That is what it is called. Mr. Lancer tells me I am improving. Mistress seems happy. She is such a great woman, so smart, so patient. My favorite pen goes clicky, clicky, clicky in my fingers, and I smile. A lovely, wonderful little sound. Finally I put the red ink to the paper, small doodles on the side of it's pages, but fewer than the pages before, and those fewer than the pages before those.

Dear diary,
today was a good day. Today I watched Mr. Lancer and Mistriss train. Mistriss says when I am better I can do it 2. The things they do are amayzing, and I cannot wayt.

My words are getting better. I practice them every day. I am even learning new maths, with times and divisions. It is confusing. But the plusses and minusses were confusing once, and now I am good at those. I can even do them without counting fingers now. one and one is 2.

I am very smart.

I drew a picture of Momma. Mistriss said it was good and smiled. It made me feel good. I am glad I can be so good. It is differant than the good I was. This new good is better. I feel better. My birthday is closer now. I will be 17. That is 1 year older than 16.

Okay, I love you.

~ Lyydea

My words look good on the paper, and I smile, smile, smile. This is getting easier. It doesn't hurt so much anymore, thinking is easier now. I know I had a mother now. I wish I could remember more about her, all I remember is her smile. Her eyes, and how much she loved me.

I was not always a slave. I do finally believe this. I am thankful for my Mistress. I am thankful for Mr. Lancer. I am thankful for my new family.

I flip the book over in my hand, feeling breath rush from between parted lips as I set it down against the desk and scrunch down deeper into my seat. Scrunch is such a fun word. I'm learning so many fun words now, even if some of the others say I am too young to be saying such words. I should write in my diary. I should tell it about all the things I have experienced since the last time I wrote in it. I did not even write in it when my birthday came. It is some time past that now.

I let out another annoyed huff of air before picking up the red pen to write, and stopping. No. Today I will write with something else, I love the red pen, but it feels outdated now. A part of a person I am very quickly moving away from.

Hello diary. I am sorry I have not written in you in some time, I've been busy. Mistress De'Ville says I'm learning very quikly, that soon she'll be ready to start my training for real. As you can tell, I've gotten better at letters. Not all of them, but I try to use the ones I'm sure I know. I understand a bit more now. Feel a bit more sure about who I am.

So I will start again.

My name is Lyydea Amarra. I am 17 years old, and I used to be a slave. I was sold into slavery when my mother died in an accidant. I miss her. I live with Mistress De'Ville, who rescued me and the rest of her friends. I have spent the last year trying to learn enough to be a person, instead of a thing. Sometimes I feel myself fall again, slip into old habits, but I am able to pull myself out of that now. I owe Mistress so much. I hope I can make her proud.

Yours,
Lyydea Amarra

I nod at the paper and slowly close the book. It's something, even if it's not much. Something is better than nothing, and I can smile, wide and happy and warm because I know I am finally starting to be something, instead of nothing.