Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site



Originally titled The Maid Who Knows, changed to She Who Knows to give a more vague title. Hope you like it.. :)


Submitted:May 2, 2014    Reads: 20    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   


Each day goes by the same for her.

No matter who comes.

And who goes.

She does what she does.

Everyday.

She has since she can remember.

She doesn't question it.

She finishes her tasks without.

Hesitation.

The people around her.

Don't question it either.

She's there to help out.

As a maid she cleans the house.

Picks up the rooms.

Makes them look nice.

And tidy.

Children and adults.

Come and stay at the house.

They stay in the rooms.

The children play.

The adults keep watch.

The children smile at her.

As she does her rounds.

They pass a ball to her.

She gently passes it back.

But the adults don't see.

What the children do.

Notice how she will.

Just appear in the hall.

Or the doorway of a room.

Cleaning it.

Even though it's already clean.

Though to her it's not.

As a maid she has to do her job.

She does this everyday.

She can't leave.

The people who own the house.

Don't know that she's there.

They don't believe.

The maid in the house.

The one the children see.

But the parents don't.

The kids know.

That she's a ghost.

A spirit who forever.

Will be a maid.

Cleaning.

Already spotless rooms.

Thinking or seeing that they.

Are messy.

But in reality.

Are not.

Because she is stuck.

In time.

In history.

And that's the only thing.

She can't clean.

Can't fix.

But perhaps.

With the way things are.

The way she goes about cleaning rooms.

And picking up things that.

She just doesn't know.

That time around her has moved on.

That she's something of the past.

That's she's dead.

Just residual energy.

Going about her normal routine.

Like she would do if she were still.

Alive.

But she's not.

And all she can do.

Is clean.

Everyday.

Until she is set free.

Until she no longer has to stay.

In a world which has forgotten her.

Because she is dead.

The only ones to remember her.

Are children.

But who would believe the word.

Of a child?

So innocent.

And unknowing.

Of the world.

Who would believe that I am dead?





1

| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.