3

Emily

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The room was completely silent except for that sound.

I knelt on the floor of what used to be my mother’s house. My own blood was staining the wood. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a numb, silly thought popped up: I wonder if that stain will ever come out.

“I’m sorry, Miss Anna.”

Anna stood over me. I felt the sharp, freezing edge of the broken glass as she pressed it deeper into my fingers. I clenched my jaw so hard that my teeth ached. I bit my lower lip, trapping the scream that wanted to tear out of my throat. If I made any sound, she would take it as an invitation to hurt me more.

“If you cannot obey me,” she said, her voice sounding completely bored, “you will only suffer. That is all you are good for now.”

She pressed harder. The sharp pain flared up my arm, but I forced myself to breathe through my nose. Slow and steady.

“I hate your face,” she whispered. “I hate you, Emily. You made me suffer for twenty years.”

Suffer.

The word caught me off guard. That wasn’t the story I knew. My mother had always made sure Anna and her mother, Clara, had everything they needed. They ate well; they were welcomed into our home, and they were protected.

But I hadn’t seen Anna’s life outside these walls. I didn’t know what it felt like to grow up without a father’s name, or to be the child people pointed at and whispered about in the streets.

“You had father’s love for twenty years,” she continued, her voice dropping to a dark hiss. “While I was called every horrible name you can imagine. My mother was called a whore for having a child with no mate.” Her grip tightened, grinding the glass into my skin. “You stole him from me.”

“Look at me.”

I lifted my head. Her eyes were blazing with pure hatred.

“This is only the beginning, Emily,” she said quietly. “I will make sure you regret the day you were born. I will make you suffer everything I ever suffered, and more.”

She finally let go of my hand and stood up straight.

“Now get up and go clean my bathroom.”

I scrambled away, my hands shaking and slick with wet blood. I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and reached for a cleaning cloth. That was when I made the mistake of looking up.

The mirror.

I froze.

The girl looking back at me was a stranger. She had my eyes, I suppose, but everything else had been stolen away. Her cheekbones pressed too sharply against her skin. Her collarbones stuck out like the frame of a house that had been gutted by fire.

The corners of her mouth were cracked and dry, and the dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises. Her hair—which she used to brush so carefully—was dull, thin, and falling out in clumps.

Is this me?

I whispered the question to the glass. The girl in the mirror moved her lips, but neither of us had an answer.

Just a few months ago, I was the center of attention whenever I walked into a room. Girls wanted to be me, and boys forgot how to speak when I looked at them.

That girl was dead.

I wasn’t sure exactly when she had died. It happened slowly, the way a fire burns down to ash, until one day you look down and realize everything is gone.

I looked away, unable to stomach the sight of myself, and dropped to my knees. The smell of copper and bleach mixed in the air as I began to scrub. Every single movement sent a jolt of agony through my sliced fingers, turning the cleaning water a faint, pale pink.

When I finished, I walked back into the bedroom, keeping my eyes glued to the floor.

“I’m done, Miss Anna.”

She was sitting on the bed, flipping through a magazine, completely ignoring me.

I waited.

She said nothing.

So I turned to leave.

“It’s still dirty.”

I paused and turned back. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t even gone into the bathroom to check. She was still looking at the pages in her hands.

“Miss—”

“Don’t question me.” She turned a page, the sharp snap of the paper echoing in the quiet room. “Go back and do it again.”

I went back.

This time, I scrubbed until my muscles burned. I cleaned every tile, every corner, every single inch of the room.

“Done, Miss Anna.”

“Still dirty.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

By the tenth time, my hands were shaking so violently that I could barely hold the rag. My knees were stiff and bruised from the hard floor. My fingers had stopped bleeding, replaced by a deep, heavy throbbing that matched the frantic beating of my heart.