Sold to the Devil

The small, cramped living room was warm with laughter, a rare thing in a house that usually echoed with silence or shouting. Emilia sat cross-legged on the worn-out rug, peeling the sticker off an old soda bottle, while Alina lounged on the sagging couch with her legs draped over the side.

“I swear,” Alina said between giggles, “Mr. Carlton bent over in class and his pants actually ripped. You could see the Spongebob boxers!”

Emilia burst out laughing, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. “You’re lying!”

“I’m not!” Alina wheezed. “And he just stood there like nothing happened. Full-on Spongebob staring at the class.”

Emilia wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “That man already looks like he hates his life. This might have pushed him over the edge.”

Alina tossed a pillow at her. “Don’t be evil.”

“I’m not evil,” Emilia teased. “Just… honest.”

They both dissolved into laughter again, forgetting for a few minutes the peeling paint on the walls, the way the heater only worked in half the rooms, and the fact that dinner had been plain rice for the third night in a row.

For Emilia, these were the moments she lived for. Alina could be snarky, dramatic, and occasionally cruel—but sometimes, when her stepmother wasn’t looking, she was just a girl like her. A friend. A sister.

But the moment was too good to last.

A sharp voice sliced through the air like a blade. “Alina!”

The laughter died instantly. Alina jumped off the couch, straightening her hoodie like a soldier called to attention.

Emilia didn’t move. She already knew what was coming

Her stepmother, Vanessa, stomped into the room wearing her usual scowl and a faded robe. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and her eyes went straight to Alina.

“What did I say about hanging around her?” Vanessa snapped, pointing at Emilia like she was some disease

Alina shrank a little. “We were just talking.”

“She’s not your friend,” Vanessa said through gritted teeth. “She’s not even your blood. She’s a burden. And the only reason she’s still in this house is because your father’s too soft.”

“Mom, please—”

“Go to your room.”

“But—”

“Now, Alina.”

Alina gave Emilia a helpless look, full of apology and regret, before ducking her head and walking out of the room.

Vanessa turned to Emilia, her eyes narrowing. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” Emilia said quietly. “We were just laughing.”

“Well, maybe you should laugh less and work more,” she snapped. “Since you’re so full of energy, I’ve got something for you.”

Emilia sat up straighter, bracing herself.

“I need you to go to the laundromat. Take the big basket. All of it. I don’t care how long the line is. And don’t come back until it’s all clean and folded.”

Emilia’s mouth opened slightly. The laundromat was a twenty-minute walk, and the basket was so heavy she usually had to drag it with both hands.

“It’s already getting dark…”

Vanessa raised an eyebrow. “And? Afraid of a little fresh air? Or do you think living here means you don’t have to earn your keep?”

Emilia stood slowly, swallowing her frustration. “No, ma’am.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She turned and walked off, the matter settled.

Emilia sighed and went to the hallway, grabbing the overstuffed laundry basket. It was already overflowing, the weight awkward and painful to carry. She shifted it against her hip and opened the front door, the cold air smacking her in the face like reality reminding her who she was.

The laundromat buzzed with the hum of dryers and the low murmur of voices. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and the air smelled like detergent and tiredness. Emilia shoved the last of the clothes into a machine and sank into a cracked plastic chair.

Her arms ached. Her fingers were raw. She didn’t even have headphones—just the rhythmic thump of the machines and the occasional cry of a child running past.

She stared at the spinning clothes and thought about her father—how he used to sing while doing the laundry, off-key and cheerful. He used to make these things feel lighter, like the weight of life wasn’t crushing.

But since her mom died and Vanessa moved in, everything changed. He worked longer hours. Came home quieter. More tired. He didn’t even notice when Vanessa started pushing Emilia further and further into the margins of their lives.

She folded the clothes mechanically, one by one, trying not to think about the blister forming on her thumb or the fact that her shoes were soaked from stepping in a puddle.

It was nearly 9:30 p.m. by the time she got back, dragging the clean laundry behind her. Her fingers were stiff from the cold, her back sore. She stumbled into the apartment and headed for the hall without a word.

“Hey,” a voice whispered.

Alina peeked out from behind her bedroom door. Her face was shadowed, her hair messy from lying on the bed.

“I waited for you,” she said.

Emilia dropped the basket in the hallway. “Why?”

“Because I felt bad. You shouldn’t have to do all that alone.”

Emilia shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Alina said softly. “She blames you for everything. Like it was your fault your mom died. Like it was your fault your dad brought us here.”

Emilia looked at her stepsister, surprised. Alina rarely spoke against her mother.

“I wish things were different,” Alina whispered. “I wish she wasn’t like this.”

“Yeah,” Emilia murmured. “Me too.”

There was a long pause, then Alina smiled a little. “You’re stronger than her, you know.”

Emilia blinked. “What?”

“You carry more weight than anyone in this house. She tries to break you, but you’re still standing. Still laughing.”

A tightness rose in Emilia’s throat, but she forced a smile.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I had to get strong somehow.”

Alina gave a soft laugh and disappeared back into her room. Emilia stood in the hallway a moment longer, then bent to pick up the laundry basket and started putting everything away.

It wasn’t much. But it was survival.

And sometimes, survival was enough—for now.