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Thread: Trampled Flowers Along the Way

  1. #1

    Thread Semi-Open 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.
    Last edited by Lyydea Amarra; Jan 8th, 2020 at 09:20:26 PM.

  2. #2
    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.

  3. #3
    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.

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