We lived in an attic of some rich person's house. My mother was one if their many maids living in disgusting places provided by them, having nowhere else to go. Lula, my older sister, watched as I lay in my mother's arms, sleeping, knowing we couldn't go, yet wishing we could. Everything was so miserable, the moth-eaten bed, the rickety chair, the tiny wardrobe for out clothes, and the clothing itself.
As I grew up, my sister took care of me every time. When I was was eight, and she eleven, she told me she had to work for the rich man's son because she was old enough.
It was in a few weeks that I found my rat friends, Bitsy (the black), Stone (the dark grey) and Moon (the pale grey).
But I suppose it was coming. When my sister was fourteen, the rich man's son fell in love with her. The rich man announced their engagement was to come in a few weeks. My sister was desperate, and ran. My mother used her money to buy us a place in the old unused woodshed, and we moved in. There, we found a little girl. My mother, overcome with passion, took her in, calling her Dandelion, or Delie. She was only five then.
I suppose I myself should've been more careful. When I was fourteen, I was stunning, just like my mother was when she was that age. I was popular among men, maybe too popular, but I was too ridiculous to even think about anything. And that led me an the path of a warrior.
It took me a year to get used to the feel of a sword and to master the art of sword fighting, but I did. I managed it and when someone tried to be like that man a long time ago . . . death comes.