Page 140 of Damsel in Disguise

I already know what happens when people notice you. People noticed my mother for having the most beautiful blue eyes and the lightest shade of blonde hair. Being poor, she could do nothing but endure all of it in silence.

So the children push me to my limits. Mock me to see me break. Take things that don’t belong to them and call it fun.

I let them.

I’m still testing variables, still mapping responses, still trying to understand what triggers escalation and what diffuses it.

“He was a dapper-dan Cinderella…”

I remember that line, though I didn’t understand it then. What I understand is the tone—light, playful, laced with something that sounds almost mocking.

The same tone they use when they shove my face into the dirt, laughter spilling out of them in uneven bursts as if my pain amused them more than resistance ever could.

“Why don’t you fight back?”

“Say something.”

“Cry, at least.”

I smile. Always do.

That makes them angrier, and they always take it out on me.

So I start coming home with bruises on my whole body, especially my back—cuts lining my knuckles, my cheek, sometimes split skin that stings long after the impact fades. Dirt clings to my clothes, dried blood flakes against my skin.

I used to step through the door already calculating how much of it she’ll notice before I can make it seem insignificant.

She always notices.

Her expression dulls for a fraction of a second before smoothing out into that ever-familiar sweet smile, the one she insists I return.

“Be kind,” is what she always said, as if kindness were a shield instead of an invitation for others to take advantage of you. “Smile. Don’t let them change you.”

I obey. Because I’ve started noticing marks on her too.

Faint at first, then deepening. Discolored patches along her wrists, the shadow of fingers pressed too hard into her fragile neck, the subtle stiffness in the way she moved some nights.

She never explained them, never acknowledged them.

But she smiles through it all with a consistency that borders on unnatural. So I do the same.

If my mother can smile through pain, then so can I.

And when I do, when I force that same expression onto my face despite the ache settling deep beneath my skin, I notice how it makes her happy. How it eases something inside her, even if only slightly.

With that, the pain becomes manageable.

The scholarship arrives on a Tuesday.

I remember the weight of the paper in my hands, the way it feels heavier than it should, feeling the ink itself carrying something more than words.

Alistair Benette.

I took after my mother’s last name since I still don’t know who my father is. Still seeing my name printed in formal lettering looks unfamiliar, like it belongs to someone who exists in a world that doesn’t smell like cheap alcohol, antiseptic, and strangers.

Oxford University.

Fully funded.