Now Things Will Start

See: I am a little girl. They can look at me and guess maybe fourteen, fifteen. It is easy to be waited on. It is easy to be pampered and consoled and fawned over because of your youth delicate youth fragile intentions and innocent thoughts.

But for once for now I think I want my voice to be heard.

It will come in the slow cracked hum of an old woman whose bitterness became fury with age. A lacy white innocuous pathetic even (that's what they'd think of her, wouldn't they?) bubbling under the surface with frothy heat. Not a lonely cantankerous old woman but possessed with a sort of psychosis, a schizophrenic delusion of grandeur pulled from the shape of a Dostoyevsky novel and crudely shaped into her own vaguely clever but most blatantly third-rate creaking stooped form.