Trampled Flowers Along the Way

[Lyydea Amarra]

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.