this makes a noise like crash

She looked out the window. It was early morning - the sun had not chosen to rise yet, and so everything was bathed in a beautiful, blue light. It was the kind of light that made her want to whisper - not that she didn't always whisper when she spoke, didn't always keep her head down and her eyes averted. That was what she'd been taught to do from birth.

It was too early for anyone else in the house to be up yet, so she began to climb out of her cot. It squeaked loudly into the room of still- sleeping servants, and she winced, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. But they slept on, so she (carefully, carefully!) left the room.

The halls of the servants' quarters were cold, and she wished she'd thought to put her shoes on before leaving the room, but now that she was out, she wouldn't go back in. The room wasn't so much a room as a drawer, a place to tuck away the servants until they were needed again, a place to keep them out of sight, because He didn't like to see filth unless it was absolutely necessary. And that's what they all were: filth, with their dirty, black skins. That's all they would ever be.

The door to the backyard was slightly ajar. She was not surprised; the man in charge of locking the doors at night was a (careless, carefree) forgetful man, and one day, bandits would be able to get in and murder them all, but she didn't really mind. At least it would be a change. She pushed the door open a little further; just enough to slip through, and out she went, into the garden behind.

The grass was moist and springy with dew, and now she was glad that she hadn't worn her shoes, even if the morning was cold. She danced barefoot through the sparse grass, which tickled and teased, and over the mud, which squished delightfully between her toes. Exhilaration rose up in her chest, like a breath of fresh air (or was it fresh air, from the cold morning atmosphere, which few have polluted yet?) and bubbled out, spilling into laughter. She'd like to say that she laughed long and low and that her joy rang out in sweet peals that echoed across the valley (garden; same thing), but most likely, she had only been giggling.

She danced her way to the plum trees. Someone had said that they would be ripe soon, and she wanted to try some. The frosty purple fruits offered no reply, no visible way to tell their readiness, so she leaned in close to the tree, and (inhaled, processed, digested) smelled the sweetandheavy scent of plums. Well, if scent counted for anything, these were ready. She plucked a plum from the tree and, wiping it on her shirt, bit into the plum greedily. Juice squirted out from the wound, splashing her face, covering her with the sweetandheavy scent of plums and then –

She'd been wrong. Oh so wrong, bitterly (like the plums), tragically (also, quite like the plums) wrong. Shuddering, she spat out her mouthful of bitter, tragic plum and dropped the humiliated fruit to her feet, letting it roll until it stopped (which was very close, seeing as she'd bitten the plum and ruined its perfect shape). Ooh, if she was in any kind of mood, she'd make the plum a metaphor for life, but now she was upset or, at least, awake.

She aimed a half-hearted kick for the plum, but had not planned on the fruit to offer so little resistance. Her foot embedded itself into the red pulp of the plum (squish) and she overbalanced, and fell (which sounds more like splat). It did not stop there, however: the mud she fell in was, apparently and against all logic, very muddy, so she slipped and rolled all across the garden. (Katunk katunk katunk.)

Later, looking back on it, she supposed she should've thought that this would be the start to a very eventful day. But now, she was too busy trying to slip back into the house unnoticed (failed), wash the mud off before she was called to work (failed), and balance three dishes on her muddy hands (also, alas, failed; and this makes a noise like crash).