The Execution of Light from a Lamp

She sat with her head low, blond hair shining in the dim light as it napped about her shoulders. Each of her hands were occupied with a utensil, steam engines of nourishment and experience led in on tracks of unpolished silver into an uninhabited village, the mouth, the digestive system of a seemingly young girl. Dressed like a child, yet this creature seemed quite a few frolics older. Oh, but still ever so innocent with those oceanic eyes.
"It's six of the clock. Now serve the girl her wine." She sat at a monstrous old dining table. All of it dark wood, the chairs, the table, the cabinets, even the gargantuan clock with the circular mirror in the center. The girl sat in an ornate high-backed chair. Carvings lined it in entirety, so I suppose "lined" wouldn't be the correct description. Blankness lined it. Dates, numbers, crying cherubs... these things were everywhere but could be seen only faintly for the room was lit by merely one candelabra in the center of the fifty foot long table.
From across the, I'd say "large" but although the room could accommodate a fifty foot dinner table, it was rather small, or perhaps it only seemed that way due to its crowdedness, anyhow... the monstrosity of a clock chimed to announce the morning had come six hours ago; also to confirm that it, as had been stated earlier, was time for the girl to drink her wine.
As though the words had stirred something in her, a hiccough erupted daintily from her faded cardinal lips. "Oh Horace," sounded that familiar voice every celled being knows "get the cleaning kerchief." At the command, a rather tall, faceless man pulled a cheesecloth of astronomical size out of the pocket of the coat of the tails suit he was clothed in. Now that was a piece of work, that cloth, looked like the work of spiders but in the center of their jagged spirals were dates; months, years, hours, minutes, even a few words here and there although illegible in the gossamer thread.
Horace, now a short, faceless old woman wearing a handsome red tails suit fitted to her tired old shell, held it out three feet wide below the girl's pale chin. Out fell a shower of vomit. All at once, but no sound and supper was gone out of that poor creature. Horace kindly cleaned her up with a pure, white handkerchief retrieved with one of her withered, old hands. What's a girl to do if she's got her own second supper on her?
"There we are." The voice crooned so soothingly, vocal fingers weaving through her hair to whisper it in her ear "Your wine, Dear Girl." Blue eyes stared dully at the table, as a corpse stunned only half to life. "Horace..." A small boy wearing a striped tails coat and trousers pulled up a footstool next to the postmortem photograph sitting in the chair. Tiny hands grasped the wineglass and put it to the girl's mouth. With mousy hair, the child nodded encouragingly, faceless. He tipped it ever so slightly and she took only one sip.
As if she'd been struck by a horizontal guillotine, her head fell back, mouth left open gasping for air that didn't exist. The floor seemed to be falling away and she began to sweat something thick. As soon as she came to, the girl managed to bring her head to a proper angle.
"Dear Girl, you're sweating stars..." The grown child looked at her hands and saw that in each bead of sweat was something dull but almost shining. "I do believe you need a new name..." Candlelight flickered on the chains which were wrapped loosely around her wrists, keeping her (Oh and I use that term loosely.) attached to the chair. Link by link they dissolved into water and dripped to the floor, chilling her wrists but setting her free.
A ladder appeared, leading to the ceiling and she climbed. Her petticoat rustled as though to say harsh goodbyes to the voice and to Horace. She climbed up and up and up. There were faces, paintings lining the ceiling, smiling at her and waving. When she finally reached the top, a seemingly dead end, she tapped the dark brown material. The girl could no longer hear the pleas of the cruel ones below. Dirt fell, on her cheeks, on her frock, in her hair. So she dug up.