Chapter 18: Miserable
After I had fulfilled the thoroughly difficult task of making the jam, and then jarring it up, I was shown to my new living quarters. I was led up a narrow, winding path of stairs, and already out of breath, the girl pushed me inside, and my mouth fell open in utter shock, "Our old maid used to live here," the girl explained, not daring to take a step inside; I couldn't blame her-- I didn't like the idea of entering the room either; it was filthy, "You can begin your usual routine tomorrow morning. Good night."
And without another word exchanged between the two of us, she slammed the door shut, leaving me to my new bedroom; I sneezed. The floors were ancient and filthy, while the single window was both cracked and equally filthy. I wandered further into the room, frightened that the floor would collapse under me; I had a view of the forest, and a water-well just below. The floor lurched to quite a disturbing extent, and I decided it best to sit, "This isn't right," I thought out loud, as the temperature of the stone around my neck quickly surged, and I was gently burned, "This isn't right," I repeated.
I slept upon the floors that night.
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The following afternoon, I scrubbed the floors after having experienced a grueling day of working in the garden; my body was aching, and soon my fingers and hands had grown wrinkled from the soapy water. I felt both depressed and saddened; I frowned, and pulled the dripping scrubber out of the heavy bucket. I gently set it down, and stared down at the filthy floors of the attic-- the room to be my new "living quarters." I want to go home, I realized, I want to go home; I sighed, bitterly, just as my eyes filled up with tears. They fell out of my eyes, and onto the floor-- I had not been 'home' in so long-- the word had almost lost all meaning, but I knew that Home had been a wonderful place-- full of beauty. Beauty. And most of all, hope.
Hope for a better life.
There no longer was hope.
I was miserable.
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The man, whom I had not bothered to learn the name of soon told me that I would be allowed some straw, and at first I did not realize what he meant by this queer statement, and when I at last realized what he meant, I was frankly sickened by the idea.
And so, I carried the armful of straw upstairs to the attic, whose scrubbed floors and window barely seemed to make a difference in its overall griminess.
I made a small bed for myself in the attic by spreading the straw over the floor, until it had formed a suitable mattress for someone of my size. I lay down, and bit back tears; I later learned that the straw was infested with fleas.
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I was awoken at around five thirty in the morning. Every single morning, by hearing the dreadful screams of "Servant-Girl! Make our breakfast!" For the members of the household had not even bothered to learn my name-- not that I cared, of course. I despised them. Each and every one of them.
And, without a moment's thought, I would jump out of my flea-ridden bed, and onto the cold floor. I would then dress in my clothes that were quickly becoming rags.
Usually, each and every morning, it was the same exact routine; I would slowly tiptoe down the stairs, as to not awaken the "sleeping beauties--" (as they would usually fall asleep after having woken me), and I would venture outside, into the cold, where I would draw a large bucket of water from the stone well. Blinking sleep from my eyes, and trying not to have my hands come into contact with the freezing cold water, as I wanted to avoid frostbite, I would wander into the kitchen, and place the bucket of water over the stove to boil for the morning tea. Then, I would prepare breakfast, and they would reawaken, and saunter out of their bedrooms; smelling their hot meals, and promptly begin to eat; I was never allowed breakfast or lunch, as they had reminded me countless times that I only cooked well enough to receive a free dinner-- although they ate with much relish.
When that ungrateful slob of a pig woman had first informed me of this, I had felt like shouting for her to go make here meals for herself then, but whenever I had these thoughts, I would remind myself that I was better off here, than in the oasis in the woods, slowly waiting for Jacqueline's return-- and the dreams had slowed as well. I rarely had them now.
I watched them eat from within the kitchen, and after the last had finished-- usually the woman, for she usually had seconds and thirds, I would rush back into the dining-room to clean up the mess they had made, feeling worse than I had the previous day.
And so, during this morning routine, with an empty stomach, and a weak feeling all over, I cried.
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I hated absolutely everything about my new life; Jessica, the mansion, her parents... Though I had been shown only the main rooms upon my immediate arrival, I soon found that the remaining hundreds of rooms were completely filthy; each caked with about a lair of dust, dirt, and grime. During the afternoons, I usually tried my best to make the rooms look "half-decent," but it was no easy task, and I barely had an hour before I was forced to go out into the garden.
The garden soon became my favorite place out of everything; I could be out in the sunshine; away from everyone, and though the work was just as backbreaking as everything else, while in the garden, I usually did not cry.
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In the evenings, after having prepared, and eaten supper, I lay down in my bed; itchy from all the flea-bites, while Jessica and her parents slept on feathered mattresses.
If awake at these hours, I usually cried.
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"That is beautiful," a nasal voice was whispering; dragging me away from my thoughts-- I opened my eyes, and stared; Jessica was watching me with her greedy eyes; I followed her gaze to find the stone that hung around my neck, "Give it to me," she demanded; holding out her heavily freckled hand.
"No," I whispered, clutching the stone until it burned, "it's mine. You can't have it."
"Give it to me, or I'll tell them," she whispered; and then sensing my weakness, "It's either that, or you can keep it, and go back into the woods."
And without another word said, I handed it over, and began to cry, after she had fastened it around her neck, and-- still gloating, left the room.
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"What are you doing in here?" a voice demanded, and I replied without turning around, "Just dusting, ma'am," I whispered, hoping that she wouldn't blow up at the sight of me in her bedroom.
"What are you doing to my things?" she asked, as if expecting me to have stolen all of the jewelry she kept in her box.
"Dusting," I repeated, frightened.
She swooped down over me, and her fat fingers clutched the jewelry box; she tore off the lid, and peeked inside, "Where is it?" she asked, angrily, after a few moments of shoving through the hundreds of jewels she possessed, "Where's what?" I asked, dreading her answer.
"Don't act innocent, you little bitch," she hissed, "My broach. My emerald broach. You took it, didn't you?"
"No," I answered, frightened, tears welling up in my eyes, "I didn't. Please. I wouldn't take anything."
"You little liar," she hissed, heaving the box to the floor, "You're a filthy little whore, and I know you've taken it. And until it is returned to its place, you won't have a scrap to eat off of our table-- Not a scrap," and, not yet satisfied with the tears streaming down my cheeks, she brought her open hand down upon my face, leaving a bruise.
The broach turned up under her bed the following week. And she still claimed I had had something to do with it.
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"I really do appreciate what you've been doing around here for us," a low voice whispered, and I lost focus on my chores, and abruptly turned around; in my fright, I caused the bucket of soapy water to be knocked over; the grimy floors of one of the lesser-used rooms was now covered in a lair of water about an inch thick; it would be a bitch to clean. I found that the intruder was the man; his wife and daughter had gone into town-- I had been under the impression that he had gone with them. I had been wrong.
"W-what are you doing here?" I asked, shakily; I was frightened for some reason; something about the atmosphere of the room just wasn't right...
"Just watching you... I watch you often," he was coming closer now; his footsteps echoed loudly in my ears; I shuddered, knowing what was going to happen.
"Please don't," I begged, as he sat on the floor beside me; avoiding the damp that had spread to half the room, "Just... Let me help you," I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck; I shuddered, and tried to ignore him as he slowly undressed me with his eyes by picking up the scrubber, and attempting to refocus on my work.
"Don't," I whispered, sensing his face leaning in towards me, but he would not be stopped; he pulled my face in towards him-- pulling me into an unwanted kiss. I wanted to scream, but he had silenced me; his mustache tickled my chin; I felt vomit in the back of my throat; he was a pedophile. A sickening little pedophile-- I was sharing my first kiss with a man nearly three times my age.
At long last, he pulled away from me; my vision was blurred with tears, but I was glad to see that he had gotten up from the floor, and had left the room.
And I knew that no one would ever believe me.
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Life worsened for me.
The list of chores grew; Jessica would flounce around the house, wearing my stone, and snickering whenever I would look at it, longingly; the pig-woman pretty much left me alone, but would continually complain that I was a sneak, a liar, and a thief; she continually begged her husband to fire me, but he would have none of it-- only I knew why.
I hated them all for different reasons-- but the man frightened me the most... Everyday-- or whenever I would be alone in the house with the man, I could feel him watching me; his cold gray eyes like stone penetrating me. I ignored his future advances, by simply getting up, and leaving the room-- but sometimes, he would follow me-- even into the garden. I hated him, and I feared him; he was relentless, but I would not be hurt by him again, although his initial action would pain me, and would continue to pain me until this day.
I fell deeper into depression, and so, for a third time in my sixteen years of life-- if that's how old I actually was, I felt myself going mad. For though I was in the company of people, I still felt alone and lost. I tried to avoid them-- but they always seemed to pop up in the most unexpected ways. As the routine went on and on, unchanged for weeks, I felt my mind slowly disappearing, and the madness creeping out from behind the shadows. I began to think only horrid thoughts of murder and suicide each and every time I scrubbed the floors; each time I cleaned the chimney, and each time I drew water from the well... The oasis was beginning to sound better than this.
One thing was for sure, and it was this: I hated my new life, and I wanted out.
