Clouds lazily cross the window, sheathing the moonlight. For whatever reason the temperature drops, the chill gently nipping her clammy skin. She burrows deeper into the covers but it offers no relief. They are hard, lumpy and uncomfortable just like the body she wears. A pitiful, dependent child-No-an orphan with not a family or friend to call her own. She drags in a ragged breath, then stops, the air foul in her lungs. Tainted with wretchedness, despair and the cruelty that the inhabitants of the orphanage posses, the atmosphere absorbed it until it spreads like an affliction. There are no happy days, just days that are more tolerable than the others. One eye flickers open, then the other. There are no shadows to mark the walls and entertain her imagination neither is there a person who can be awakened in service of the princess. Yes, she is the princess that night, in her own canopy bed with the sweet song of silence and the gentle caress of the breeze from one open window. A crown moulded from the respectful and deferential gazes of her peers. It was wonderful. Caught between the realm of sleep and consciousness, she could stray between her desires and reality.
A canopy bed. Subjects at her feet. Breakfast in bed. Her fingers curled to claws around the tattered blanket, stains morphing to a garnish red against golden silk. Shutting her eyes tightly, she listened for the admiring cries of the lower class and the promises of faithful service. The irony was that it wasn't much of a dream than her planning for tomorrow. The Princess has to test the loyalty of her subjects. The first click was like a knife to her gut, fear quick and unexpected. She stalls her breathing, stilling any movement. Like a tidal wave it engulfs her body, runs deep, icier and is an alien concept because the strong-willed know naught of stark terror. It is her fortitude that keeps her steady. She recognizes the ragged breathing, harsh and rabbit-quick, punctuated with animalistic grunts. Almost hearing the creak of old limbs as they worked for silence. Body under the blanket refuses to yield to childish trembling or pathetic entreaties. Teeth snag the bottom of her lip and holds on, transferring the fear into grinding the soft flesh. Eyelashes flutter, torn between waking up or laying in silence. The conundrum shreds her gut because there is something ominous in that walk. A furtive walk if she has ever heard, maybe when she and Meg want to sneak up on Jennifer that they tip toe until her crams tighten the skin of their feet and the giggles threaten to spill from their sneering lips, gleeful with contempt for dumb, oblivious Jennifer. She turns on her side. The position somewhat safer. The scent of lust rolls off him and enters her nose like acid. Thickness of his salacious look distributed like marmalade over her lithe form. The blanket felt thin. Futile.
"Clara!" Whisper as dank and rancid as the corpse of the rat that had found its way into Jennifer's bed. Diane had thought nothing of it then. Now, it crawled alive inside, the rodent. An incessant, dirty and disgusting motion inside her. Skin crawls and she imagines how much better it would feel if every inch of her pretty skin, tinged with a light blush, was abraded with ease. She could feel the heaviness of tears.
Breath scorched the back of her neck, spine stiffened in response. Chuckles resounded crassly in the closeted space of his mouth. Then-then his nose breathes in deeply as if he intents to suck the resolve from her or feed the fear that eats at her inside. "My Clara!" He breathed in a voice that feigned love but it trembled with such warped potential that it settles like poisonous lead on her heart. "You are mine!" Something inside her snaps. Heard it with her burning ears and felt it clamp on her heart like a vice. Throwing open the covers, she faces him squarely. Eyes smouldering and mouth ready to spit venom and heap abuses on his aged form.
Anger seeped onto her face, the colour of ash as she seething at the mere idea of being owned. Ownership was for stupid, dismal little girls named Jennifer who knew little and the dog that tagged along. His face jerked with shock, but it smoothed itself out to be replaced by a pale plastic mask. "Diana!" The slither of her names on his tongue made her stomach turn violently. "What are you doing here?" Eyebrows gave a curious raise. Diana's expression hardened, her voice trying to retain an essence of steel but it faltered, her breath hitched in her throat, "Clara said I could use her bed."
His chapped lips turned slightly upwards in an amused smirk that didn't quiet reach his eyes, they were silvered with something predatory. Diana knew not to be pliant, it was a trait shared by the wretched girls of the lower aristocracy.
Diana is frozen to the spot, subject to the intense burning gaze of Mr. Hoffman, whose very soul shinning in his eyes is that of a malevolent and hungry ghost that preys on children. His crone eyes raked her form, detailing the slump of her shoulders, the distrustful wariness in her eyes and the tiny tremble of her lips. He saw through her and it made her blood run cold with fear. "Whatever you want?" Swallowing the lump in her throat, "I will fetch Clara for you!" Frown appearing on her forehead, mouth set in a mutinous line. Eyes roll languidly in his head, a indulgent smile balancing crookedly on his lips, "It is too late and Clara will not be awake-" "I will wake her up!" Diana forced in a tone of hard determination, averting her eyes to the door, open, granting freedom. His tongue slid out to sweep his lower lip as his eyes intimately roam her face, appraising for whatever worth she might have to him. Diana bit the inside of her cheek, aware of his stare tarnishing her body and slowly, it filtered into her and dropped like lead into her stomach, his true intentions.
Diana loved the bed, it wasn't much but compared to the state of the other rooms, it sufficed. She used to think that nothing could make her leave it. Mr Hoffman watched her with idle interest, eyes vacuous and wandering. "Diana" He whispered in sickly saccharine notes, pupils full-blown with a twisted sort of lust. Diana jumped off the other side of the bed. The minute the bottom of her feet hit the floor, she sprinted off in the direction of the girl's dorm. Heart hammering in her ears, breathing is rabbit-quick and rasping, wet with tears. She cannot face the other girls, drenched in the aftermath of his wickedness. Now, more than ever, he seems this merciless, unrelenting force above her, suffocating as if the morbid ambience of the place isn't enough. She buries herself in the closet, stinky clothes piled on her. There she can let the tears flow freely. Then, there is this strange feeling of self-recrimination and she wants to laugh aloud scornfully at her own stupidity. There was an agenda behind the surrender of Clara's bed.
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