It’s a lesson.
You could have this,I think, as Felice shudders against me.You could have my hands on you, my favour, my protection. All you have to do is fucking kneel, bitch.
But Grace doesn’t move.
And that, more than anything, makes the hunger in me burn brighter.
Failure only means I must try again.
And I will.
I will try again, and again.
Until she learns.
Until she crawls to me.
The next few weeks blur together in a haze of exhaustion and pain.
I scrub floors until my hands bleed, only for Felice to knock over some plant and spill soil over them moments before Mistress inspects. I’m then punished for my carelessness.
I polish silver until my fingers cramp and become useless, but when they’re presented they have great smears of grease all over them. That gifts me another punishment.
I’m given the heaviest baskets to carry, the dirtiest tasks, the longest hours. The other women lounge in one room after another, laughing behind their hands as I stumble under the weight.
“She is so strong,” Julie coos, her voice dripping with poison.”Look at those arms, like a workhorse.”
Felice smirks. ”She’s built for labour, isn’t she? All that sturdiness.”
Their words slither under my skin, festering.
I eat less, not that I’m given much anyway. I want to shrink, to disappear, but it doesn’t stop the comments.
“Careful Dog, you’ll break the chair.”
“Maybe if you moved faster, you’d burn some of that fat off.”
I want to scream. I want to fight. The one time I was stupid enough to snap back, Mistress had me locked in my cage without food, and I ended up soiling myself because she refused to let me out even when I begged.
I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night. They take turns, these women who share this space with me but hold me at arm’s length with their disdain. Felice with her sharp nails, Julie with something colder, harder.A stick maybe, or the tip of a knife. They poke and prod, leaving bruises that bloom like shadows beneath my skin.
I wake exhausted, my body aching, my mind frayed at the edges.
My mornings are a haze of chores while the other women watch from their chairs, their laughter ringing out as they sip tea and exchange stories.
They don’t lift a finger to help. Instead they sabotage my work, spilling water on the floors I’ve just cleaned, smudging the silver I’ve polished.
When the mistress inspects my efforts, she finds fault everywhere, and her punishments are swift and brutal.
Today, I’ve done something apparently so heinous I’m strung up by my wrists.
The metal cuts into my skin. My arms feel like they’re being torn from their sockets, and the pain radiates through my shoulders and down my back. Mistress stands before me, her face a mask of indifference. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to.
The cattle prod crackles in her hand, a sound that sends a jolt of terror through me.
The first shock hits my side, and I scream. The pain is electric, searing through my body like a wildfire. My muscles spasm, my vision blurs.
I can’t breathe.
