Page 3 of The Silent Princess

I spend the rest of the day moving through meetings and reading contracts in my office, dreading the evening festivities approaching me at the speed of a tsunami. I'll be surrounded by people who don't know me, smiling and dancing and asking me all the polite questions people like us are supposed to ask. They'll be studying me, waiting for their chance to grab a bite of my fortune and influence, feeding on whatever crumbs I let them have. Too bad I'd planned on reading in bed a Second World War autobiography by a chief commander of the American Army. It seemed far more appealing.

I take in the view, endless buildings stretching before me, their grey, dark silhouettes matching my soul as though it had all been planned. Sharp lines and concrete shape the landscape beyond the window. My temples pulse with pain. I can almost feel an eyesight migraine coming on just from looking at this view. When was the last time I’ve seen a round shape? Even my eye sockets throb at the thought. Everything has angles. We're far from anything Baroque or the kind of Italian architecture that could ever offer softness. This here is capitalism at its finest. A field of buildings, an endless palette of greys.

“Perspective,” I mutter. Not for me, though. There's no happiness in sight for me. No end of the line with a wife and children and a heartbeat somewhere. There's nothing of the sort waiting for me in this world.

All I have is a bunch of skyscrapers.

Ella

“You missed a spot.” The familiarity of this sentence strips away another inch of my dignity, and just like every other time she says it, I nod silently, cleaning whatever invisible stain she wishes me to wash away with the soapy sponge in my hand. It's not like I could actually answer her since I never could, not since birth. Sometimes I wonder if she actually likes that about me. The fact that she can never hear me. Or perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I look nothing like her and my sisters. Long, silky black hair, parted down the middle into a butterfly cut. Large brown almond-shaped eyes inherited from my mom, whose ancestry never left Asia. I have a small nose that's different from their tiny button ones, and my lips are full, tinted in a natural, soft cherry shade. I've often been told my face reminds people of something soft, of someone you'd want to tell your hardships to. So different from their blonde, doll-like appearance.

The words just stay stuck in my throat, unable to echo through the air. Even on days like today, when I wish they could loosen their grip on my vocal cords and let me just...speak. From where I am, all I can see are her blue lagoon high heels, clicking away as she leaves the bathroom. Normal people use mops. Here, they have me. Mara didn't wait a second after marrying my father to make me contribute, as she so lovingly puts it. Emily and Valeria are far too delicate for these kinds of tasks anyway, she stated. You'll do it, Ella. You'll clean everything. All the time. Everywhere. It doesn't matter that my father's fortune, and now hers, could afford us an army of maids. Why would she need one when she has me? I remember Mom's words.

Be grateful, brave and kind.

I'm trying, Mom. I really am.

Mara gives me a roof over my head, and I'm grateful to her, even if she's not the stepmother I dreamed of. My expectations were set to unrealistic standards when my mom died when I was eight. I'm the one who should try to make it work. After all, my father fell in love with her. There must be something in her that I have yet to uncover. A softness behind her armour. Anything that could make her love me and accept me one day. I'll try harder, Mom. I promise.

I scrub the spot I missed with fervour, my hands dry from using these chemicals every day. She doesn't let me wear gloves. Says I'm being too precious.

The twins' bathroom is crowded with glittery tubes of makeup and body lotions of every kind. Everything, from top to bottom, is covered in pink, butterflies dancing across the wallpaper, golden accents decorating the shower, and there's even a sitting area with a fluffy white cushion beside the fairy-tale-like bathtub. The glass chandelier above my head twinkles as the breeze brushes against it when I open the window. From here, endless greenery stretches before me across the massive estate that is now my home.

I mean...technically. Since the only room I'm tolerated in is my bedroom on the top floor, the one reserved for the staff back in the day.

The amount of cobwebs I had to get rid of when we first moved in was appalling. One single room, just big enough for a bed, a wardrobe, a chair, and a window opening up to a small balcony. The metal-framed bed is pushed against the wall, covered with plain white sheets I found in one of the drawers downstairs. A tall window sits in the middle of the wall, letting in daylight and adding a little color to my tiny space. Near it is a small wooden desk where I write and draw at night. Across from the bed stands a wardrobe beside a single upholstered chair that reminds me of the ones you'd find in a castle. It isn't much, but...it's mine. Dad doesn't know I don't have a bedroom on the second floor like Emily and Valeria. He'd be right to assume I do. There are four rooms upstairs. The master suite and three bedrooms with one large shared bathroom, the very one I'm currently kneeling in, cleaning my stepsisters' smeared lipstick off the marble floor.

Whore, Valeria wrote this morning. How original. I'm used to Valeria dragging her red lip gloss in different shapes for me to clean later. I guess they were in a good mood this morning to leave me a message.

Anyway, Dad doesn't know I'm sleeping in the attic, I mean, on the staff floor, as Mara calls it. It's not that bad, really. I actually enjoy having an entire floor to myself. Any additional space between the twins and me is only beneficial for my sanity.

If I told Dad I wasn't in the comfortable third bedroom on the second floor, he wouldn't understand. Sickness is already playing with his mind every day. I couldn't let him worry about me with what little strength he has left. My dad is dying, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut not to cry right now over how unfair life has been to me since the day I came into this world. An autoimmune disease no doctor seems to know how to treat. It attacks his bones, taking away his ability to walk, sit, or move. He's been on bed rest for two years now, which is exactly how long it's been since we moved in here and everything...changed. It was bad before, but we were still living in our home, my childhood home, hours away from this giant mansion, when I still had a semblance of normality. Mara wasn't as cruel then, since my father could see everything.

Now…Now I'm the last piece of the puzzle she wants to get rid of. There's no use telling him how bad things are for me. That I'm no longer studying literature at university since Mara cut off his financial support and now manages his money. That I'm not allowed to eat with them or use the living room when they're in it. That she makes me cook all their meals and clean everything, from floor to ceiling, drowning me in laundry and grocery runs. That I have to find money to buy my own food since she’s not a bank, as she so nicely put it.

All of this for a roof over my head and my father’s closeness. That's all she gives me. That's all you get because that's all you deserve, Mara always says. Without money, I can't study, which has been breaking my heart since the beginning of the year. I only completed one year, and I loved it so much. But then I had to stop and watch September go by, unable to go back. Even when my professors encouraged me to pursue writing, I had to quit because she didn't want to pay anymore. It’s been five months now.

She doesn't know that I found a job as a maid for a cleaning company and that I've been working every evening, five days a week, to save enough money for next year's tuition. A year from now, I'll have enough savings to pay for my second year at university. As for escaping this place...

“Ella, your father's asking for you.” The heels come back, spitting across the floor. I stand with difficulty; my knees are killing me. I take my bucket and empty it into the toilet. I'll finish later. Taking the stairs, I make my way to the first floor, into the hallway behind the kitchen and living room, where there's a study and my dad's bedroom. Since he couldn't walk, what was the point of finding a way to get him upstairs? I looked into it. Eight thousand dollars, and we could have an electric stairlift installed at the push of a button. I begged Mara, but she wouldn't have it. It's not worth it, she said. It would damage the staircase, and houses are valuable, aren't they, Ella? You wouldn't want to find yourself without one. If I save enough, maybe I could have one installed for him. But then I'd have to postpone my second year at university by another year. I run a hand over my face and knock.

“Come in, love,” I hear his weak voice and I make my way inside. A nurse comes every morning to wash him and help move his legs and arms to improve his blood flow. “Aw, my pretty little mouse,” he says with a sad smile, the dark circles under his eyes betraying a night spent in the trenches of insomnia. I'm wearing blue jeans and a white long-sleeved cotton shirt. Dad always says I look like Mom. I got her eyes. People have always said that. You have your mother's eyes. Sometimes, back when Dad wasn't this sick, he'd look at me a little too long with that sad look in his eyes. I could tell he was somewhere else, revisiting her in a memory. My long black hair falls over my shoulders in loose layers. I cut it myself after watching a video online. It makes it look as though I've had a blowout. As if.

I notice the tray of food is still sitting at the foot of the bed. If I had a voice, I'd definitely use it right now. As if he could hear me, Dad weakly motions with his hand.

“She was in a hurry,” he says, and I shake my head before signing back to him.

“Hurry, hurry. Nothing could be more important than you, Dad,” I sign while he reads my hands. My parents learned sign language the moment they understood I would never utter a word. But Dad's disease trapped his nerves and bones in concrete, and in less than two years he lost almost all ability to move his forearms. Only slight movements of his wrists and fingers remain. I mourned that every morning. We used to have our own language, one that I'm now the only one still fluent in. It was a secret victory, having a silent dialect only Dad and I could understand. One Mara and the twins couldn't read or take away from us. At least Dad can still read my signs. If he couldn't, no one in this house would ever be able to understand me.

“Just like your mother,” he sighs kindly, “always running around for others.” Only for you, Dad. I wish I could say it, but the lie tastes bitter in my mouth. I run around for everyone in this house, even the people who will never have the smallest place in my heart.

“Come.” He pats the bed, the tartan blanket tucked around him, the only reminder of his former self, resting in the long-sleeved polo shirt and navy sweater he still likes to wear at home. I guess it brings him back to who he used to be before his life became a nightmare of doctors and treatments. If I could take his place, I would in a heartbeat. “Is everything okay? You've been...” He coughs hard. “Sorry, honey. You've been a bit agitated lately.” I sit on the edge of his bed, resting a palm over his hand, looking at my father, who used to be so different. So strong. Full of life. He had a laugh that made me think of barbecues and Christmas. He used to make my mom sway around the living room before dipping her like they do in the movies. He'd tell jokes and hunting stories. He wasn't always confined to a bed. He wasn't always watching television and looking at me, resigned, like a man who had already made a pact with death.

“I... Everything is fine, Dad. Don't worry about me,” I sign.

“But I do, Ella. I do.”

“It's nothing. I...just have lots of homework and projects to work on.” My hands move, the lie like sand in my mouth, stinging my heart with shame. Lying is wrong, Mom used to say, but I've come to a different realization. Sometimes it protects the ones you love. There's no use telling him how much misery has become my companion, how I cry myself to sleep at night wishing I could escape this place, knowing that as long as he's here, I never will. And that the day he leaves me, I'll be all alone in this world. There's no escape because there simply isn't one. Staying is awful. Leaving is awful. And I'm caught in the middle of it. Struggling to stay awake during the day after working nights in office buildings, scrubbing stains and washing floors. I use the small pockets of time to read, write, and stay afloat to be ready to start again next year. But I can only do so much with all the tasks Mara piles onto my shoulders every day, her little notes left on my doorstep multiplying by the day. Laundry, dry cleaning, cooking, baking, picking up flowers, washing the floors, changing light bulbs… There's no rest for me in this world. Five hours, at most, before Mara wakes me up with a little golden bell she shakes above my head.