* * * * *
DAY NINETEEN
I am no longer a newborn; I have grown into the body of a six-year-old girl. This is due in no small part to the exertion of my will upon the anatomy of my host, a process that is all at once liberating and torturous. Often am I aware of the suffering I inflict upon her, yet I never experience it for myself -- it is distant, like the feeling of the Master-Creator. This unformed mind is not yet capable of withstanding a connection of that magnitude. For now, I spend the majority of my time watching, waiting.
My parents -- for lack of a better term -- have sequestered me in a room with boarded windows and no furnishings. Save for a chamber pot that is brought in twice a day and the straw piled in a corner, now flat and uncomfortable from my sleeping on it, and the clean clothes I am given every morning, I have no amenities. To the outside world, I may as well have died. Perhaps that is what my so-called parents have told those they know and love, and surely none would question it, more out of respect than any possible concern or trust -- or lack thereof.
So I watch, and I wait.
I watch the walls. North and south, east and west, as above, so below -- I watch them all.
I wait for life. I wait for death.
And I know that one will come sooner rather than later.
