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Freedom's just a heartbeat away, I hummed under my breath. But I held onto the mantra against the bleakness. Stretching my arms towards the sky, I sat on the worn chair and closed my eyes. The birds were already chirping their happy tune and the leaves were rustling gently in the breeze.
Clank.
Oh shit. They're awake.
I slipped back inside, the door's creak a soft betrayal of my return. The kitchen was still dim and lifeless. I busied myself wiping surfaces, a futile attempt to scrub away the grime that clung to this place. Setting a pan on the stove with butter, I began to prepare to make eggs and toast. Soft. Just the way they liked it.
"Look at Cinder-Ella, playing housemaid," Annie's voice cut through the quiet. She and Izzy stood in the doorway; their silhouettes framed by the weak morning light.
"Doesn't she realize it's all she's good for?" Izzy's laugh was like nails down a chalkboard. They prowled forward, circling me – a vulture and a snake eyeing their next meal.
"Perhaps if you actually cleaned up after yourselves—" My voice cracked in the air.
"Or what, little Ella? You'll cry to your dead daddy?" Annie's lips twisted into a cruel mimicry of a smile, her eyes glinting with the thrill of the taunt.
"Stop." My hands clenched the dishrag tighter, knuckles white. "Just stop."
"Aw, don't be upset. It's not like you ever had a future beyond these walls anyway." Izzy leaned in; her breath hot against my cheek.
"Your life’s always been a dead end, asswipe." Annie sneered.
I watched them saunter off, their laughter a lingering echo before I dared to exhale. My chest felt tight, as tears burned behind my eyes. I glanced toward the stairs, ensuring they were gone before slipping into my room and locking the door behind me. Fuck making their breakfast. Fuck them all.
My breath came out in shuddering gasps as I pulled out the laptop from its hiding spot under the bed, its surface cool beneath my fingertips. I flipped it open, the screen illuminating my face, a beacon amidst the shadows.
"Psychology 101," I murmured, scrolling through the online course, "the study of the soul." It was the key to understanding them, to freeing myself from their torment. Every lesson, a step closer to getting out of here.
The theories danced across the screen, words like 'cognitive dissonance,' 'operant conditioning,' 'empathy.' Laughing to myself, I repeated the definitions. Empathy: the ability to figure out and understand someone else's emotions. Safe to say those two have none.
"Behavior is the mirror in which everyone shows their image," I read aloud, the quote resonating within me. I imagined dissecting Annie and Izzy's cruelty, peeling back layers of venom to find the festering wounds beneath.
Understanding won't erase what they've done. But it might give me power over how it shapes me.
A surge of excitement coursed through me; adrenaline tinged with hope. Here, in the glow of knowledge, I wasn't just Ella Trevaine, the downtrodden stepdaughter. I was a student of the human mind, a silent revolutionary plotting her rise.
As my dad would always say, knowledge is power.
My eyes flicked to the clock; time had slipped away. I was late for work. Again.
Two: Ella
Morning hit like a ton of bricks, as I slipped from my bed. My shadow stretched across the room, following my every move as I dressed in the faded uniform that hung off my frame—a uniform that screamed of small town. I didn't hate working at the diner. In fact, I loved my boss and the customers. But it just wasn't what I wanted to do.
The soles of my shoes kissed the ground in a soft patter, a rhythm of resignation as I descended the stairs.
The air outside clung to my skin, a reminder of confinement even in open space. Gravel crunched underfoot, the path to the diner unfolding before me; a well-worn track embedded with the imprints of countless days just like this one. The town was waking, stretching its limbs with the creaks and groans of storefronts coming to life, but none of it held promise for me.
"Morning, Ella!" A voice called out. It belonged to Mr. Roth, perched behind his newspaper at his usual booth by the window. He was as much a part of the diner's furniture as the chipped tables and the jukebox stuck on songs from a forgotten era.
"Good morning," I returned, the smile I offered him practiced, yet genuine. There was an art to it—the curve of the lips, the crinkle around the eyes—perfected over years of serving up pleasantries along with pancakes and coffee.
"Same as always, sweetheart?"
"Coming right up." My hands moved with confidence, pouring coffee with a flourish. Sliding it onto his table, I smiled. "Anything else today?"
"No thanks, darling. You're the sunshine of this old place, you know that?" His chuckle was a familiar tune.
"Sunshine doesn't last forever, Mr. Roth." My response was a murmur lost in the clatter of dishes and the sizzle from the kitchen. But he didn't need to hear the truth that churned beneath my smile; the darkness I hid wasn't meant for kind souls like him.
