Bridesmaid to Bride

Arabella had grown up tough—not because she wanted to, but because life had given her no other choice. At twenty, she dreamed of going to college, of escaping the suffocating life she had known since childhood. But her adoptive parents had other plans for her. They refused to let her study. Instead, they chained her to the farm, working her from dawn to midnight. She ate whatever scraps her cruel mother, Cecelia, decided to give her. “Ara! It’s about to rain! What are you doing, standing there like an i***t? Don’t just wait for the storm to hit!” Cecelia’s sharp voice cut through the air like a whip. “Yes, Ma!” Arabella called back, biting down her frustration. She stepped onto the damp grass, straddled her rusty old motorbike, and tore down the dirt path. The wind whipped against her face as she herded the cows across the sprawling field, steering them toward the barn. She counted quickly under her breath. “Fifteen… sixteen… seventeen… eighteen… nineteen…” Her heart dropped. It was supposed to be twenty. A tight knot formed in her stomach. She spun the bike around and headed back into the open grassland. The first drops of rain began to fall, cold and heavy against her skin, quickly turning into a torrential downpour. She was soaked within minutes. “If I only had a choice…” she whispered to herself. “I’d be home right now—in a warm bed, reading a good book.” But she didn’t have that choice. She never did. Still, she patted her own shoulder, as if offering herself comfort. “It’s okay, Ara. One day you’ll leave this place… and you’ll never look back.” She thought of Home of Angels—the orphanage where she had been left twenty years ago by someone whose face she could not remember. A deafening crack of thunder roared across the sky. The motorbike jolted violently as the muddy ground gave way beneath its wheels. The hill was slick and treacherous, and before she could regain control, the bike skidded. She crashed hard onto the wet earth. Pain shot through her hands and knees, the sting of fresh cuts mixing with the bitter taste of rain on her lips. And lying there in the mud, she wondered if this was how her life would always be—trapped, bruised, and struggling to climb back up. Arabella rose slowly from the muddy ground, brushing dirt and grass from her soaked pants. Her knees throbbed, but there was no time to dwell on the pain. One cow was still missing. And if she returned without it… she didn’t even want to think about what Cecelia would do to her. She trudged through the rain, her boots sinking into the soft, waterlogged earth. The air smelled of wet grass and cow dung, the storm rumbling low above her. She cupped her hands to her mouth and whistled, the sharp sound echoing faintly against the nearby hills. At last, a flicker of movement caught her eye near the foot of the mountain. She followed it, her heart lifting when she spotted the missing cow resting lazily inside a small, weathered hut near the wooden fence. “There you are, Alita!” she scolded, half relieved, half exasperated. “I’ve been searching for you in the storm, and here you are—enjoying the only dry spot in the whole field.” She gave the cow’s flank a light slap. Alita didn’t move, just blinked at her with lazy eyes. Arabella sighed and stepped inside the hut, letting herself collapse onto the dusty floor beside the cow. The rain pounded relentlessly against the roof, the wind howling through the gaps in the wood. Tilting her head back, she stared at the dim rafters and shouted, “God! Are you even real?!” Her voice cracked in the empty air. Only the rain and distant thunder answered her. The weight in her chest grew heavier. “Why don’t I have real parents? Parents who love me? Not the kind who only keep me because I can work their farm… Not adoptive parents who will beat me over one missing cow.” She laughed bitterly, tears mixing with the rain on her face. “Does a cow mean more than I do?” Her gaze drifted toward the sky through the hut’s open doorway. It was already dark, the horizon a blur of shadows and lightning. The rain didn’t let up—it only grew harsher, like the world itself was determined to drown her words before anyone could hear them. And sitting there, shivering beside the cow, Arabella wondered if maybe no one really cares if she would go missing tonight. An hour later, the storm finally began to ease. The heavy downpour softened to a drizzle, leaving the air damp and cold. Arabella’s clothes clung to her skin, and her stomach growled loudly, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since morning. She nudged Alita out of the small hut, the cow moving lazily as if unaware of the trouble she had caused. Arabella followed behind on her motorbike, every muscle in her body aching. The moment they reached the farmhouse, Cecelia stormed out of the doorway, her voice already sharp. “You stupid girl! Do you know what time it is? Why are you so late? Who’s going to cook now, huh?” Arabella didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength. The cold had seeped deep into her bones, her hands and knees burned from scrapes, and fatigue wrapped around her like a heavy blanket. Without a word, she headed for the outdoor wash area, grabbing a towel from the small comfort room by the side of the house. She poured cold water over herself, shivering as the chill bit into her skin. Her mind was blank—too tired to think, too numb to care about Cecelia’s rant echoing faintly from the kitchen. Once she was clean, she stepped into the kitchen and began preparing dinner, her movements slow but practiced. The aroma of sizzling oil and steaming rice filled the small space, but it only made her stomach clench tighter in hunger. When the food was ready, she set it on the table for Cecelia and her adoptive father. She didn’t sit down with them. Instead, she waited until they had finished, quietly collecting a plate of leftovers—whatever scraps were left behind. She carried the plate upstairs to her small room, a cramped space barely big enough for her bed and an old wooden dresser. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she ate quickly, almost mechanically. When her hunger was satisfied, she stacked the empty plate aside and reached for the pile of clean laundry waiting in the corner. One by one, she folded each shirt, each worn pair of pants, her eyelids growing heavier with every movement. By the time she finished, exhaustion had claimed her completely. Curling up under her thin blanket, Arabella let the day’s cold and pain fade into darkness. That morning, Ara was already awake by four. The cold bit through her thin sweater as she went about her usual chores in the dim light of the kitchen. She swept the dusty floor, washed the dishes from the night before, and stoked the dying embers in the stove until they glowed again. With a quick bite of bread, she stepped outside, the damp scent of soil clinging to the air. The farmhouse loomed quietly in the gray dawn, and inside, the cows were already restless. Twenty of them—each needing to be milked. It was backbreaking work, but Ara moved with practiced rhythm, her small hands swift and steady. By the time she was done, her arms ached. She headed for the mailbox, remembering her father’s request. He always wanted the mail early—especially when his lottery tickets were due to arrive. But as she rifled through the stack, something unusual caught her eye. An envelope—cream-colored, thick, with her name written in elegant script. She paused, heart skipping. It was an invitation. Blair’s wedding. Ara stared at the name for a long time, almost in disbelief. Blair—her best friend from the orphanage—was getting married. At twenty-one. She hadn’t even known Blair was into anyone seriously. They had once promised to stay in touch forever, but life had taken them on separate paths. Blair had been adopted by a kind, well-off family in the city. Ara had been taken in by farmers in the countryside—people who saw her more as free labor than a daughter. Ara’s throat tightened. How she had wished she could have gone to the city too. But her foster parents would never allow it. They barely let her step foot beyond the edge of the farm. She tucked the letter under her arm, gathered the rest of the mail, and trudged back to the house. That evening, she sat on the edge of her bed, the invitation trembling in her hands. Her name was etched among the bridesmaids, the letters curled in beautiful gold ink. Inside was a small amount of cash—for train fare, she realized. Blair had thought of everything. But how could she ever convince her foster parents to let her go? She sighed, sliding the envelope beneath her pillow as exhaustion from the day’s work pressed down on her. The sudden sound of shouting jolted her from her thoughts. Her foster father’s slurred voice rang through the thin walls, clashing with her foster mother’s shrill retorts. Glass shattered. Something heavy hit the floor. It was the same every night—his drinking, her gambling, their endless fights. This was her life. A cycle that never broke. Ara pulled the invitation out again, her fingers brushing over the embossed letters. Another crash echoed from the other room. Sometimes she wished she could run away and never look back. Then a thought struck her—sharp and daring. Why not run away? Her eyes fell to the address printed on the invitation. If she left now, she could go to the city. Maybe find work. Maybe, just maybe, escape this life. “God… is this even a good idea?” she whispered. Her mind warred with itself. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ara,” one voice cautioned. “Why not take a chance?” another whispered. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. “Why not take a risk?” she murmured. Quietly, she reached for her worn t-shirts and a pair of jeans, folding them with trembling hands. She packed lightly, slipping a small bag under the bed just as the sound of more breaking glass rang out in the kitchen. Her foster parents were still screaming at each other. She stared at the ceiling of her small bedroom, the shadows shifting in the faint moonlight. Will they even look for me if I left this house? The thought was a knife in her chest, sharp and cold. Her fingers tightened around the pillow, pressing it to her chest as if it could muffle the ache inside her. The muffled shouts from the next room still bled through the thin walls, a constant reminder of the life she longed to escape. Her eyes burned, but no tears came. She simply lay there, listening to the chaos, until the heaviness in her body began to pull her under. With one last shaky breath, she clutched the pillow tighter—like a small shield against the world—and drifted into a restless sleep.