To Love A Curse

CHAPTER 2

It didn’t take long for me to realize how wrong I was.

Dina! Go fetch me water, now!” Senior Martha barked the very next morning, tossing her empty bucket at my feet. She wasted no time showing her true colors. “You better hurry. it won’t be my fault if you’re late to class.”

I hurriedly grabbed the bucket and ran out towards the taps, stumbling on my way. By the time I returned, soaked in sweat, Senior Martha was already waiting with her rumpled uniform in her hands.

“Iron my uniform. Be careful, if you burn it, you'll replace it.”

Yes, Senior Martha,” I replied as I reached for my own uniform too, hoping to iron both.

“What do you think you're doing?” She sat up from her bed with a look of disbelief on her face.

“I… I was thinking I could iron mine as well,” I stammered, “It’s very scruffy.”

Senior Martha turned to her friends, “Can you imagine this little good-for-nothing? Who does she think she is trying to iron my uniform with hers?” She then turned back to me with a look of sheer disgust and spat, “If you don't drop that piece of garbage you call a uniform right now, I’ll break every single bone in that small body of yours!”

I didn't respond, I simply dropped my uniform back on my bed and ran off to the laundry, their laughter trailing close behind.

From then on, the errands never stopped: fetching, scrubbing, ironing, polishing, running messages. And the insults, well they came just as quickly: spoilt, lazy, good-for-nothing, cockroach. These names caught on soon enough. Seniors shouted them across the hallways, and eventually my classmates picked up on them too.

I honestly thought the girls in my year would be kinder. How wrong I was.

One day, during lunch, I sat alone at the edge of the bench like I always did, quietly eating a bowl of hot porridge, when a group of girls across from me giggled.

“Madam Cockroach eats as if she's never seen food before,” one whispered loudly.

“Shh, she might hear you.”

“That’s the point,” the first girl replied, smirking.

They all erupted into laughter. My face burned in resentment, but I kept eating.

Things weren't any better in class. One afternoon as I was going through my locker, a girl nearby wrinkled her nose.

“Why do you always smell like bleach?” she asked condescendingly.

“Because she’s Martha’s housemaid!” Another replied, “Always carrying her buckets and washing her clothes.”

The class broke into giggles.

“I’m not a maid.” I replied sharply, shocked at my own sudden confidence.

“Whatever you say, Cockroach.” The entire class roared with laughter.

I wanted to respond, to bite back, but my throat felt tight.

By the end of the week, I was known as “Cockroach” to the seniors and “Martha’s slave” to my own classmates.

That night, as I folded my uniform, getting ready to sleep, Chelsea, one of my roommates who didn't talk a lot, approached me.

“Don’t mind them.” She spoke softly. “They pick on the vulnerable ones.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one?” I asked, fighting back tears.

“You let it show, you care too much.”

The next day, I booked a session with the school guidance counselor, airing out all my grievances; the insults, the endless errands and the cruel nicknames.

The counselor smiled slightly, “Dina, it seems you are yet to adapt to our school culture. You must respect your seniors, no matter what.”

“Culture?” I repeated in shock. “Being treated like garbage is culture?”

“Careful with the way you speak to me,” She warned. “You are not the first and will certainly not be the last student to be teased by her peers and seniors. If you can't adapt, then maybe St. Cecilia’s isn't the right place for you.”

Her words hit me harder than Martha’s ever could.

Once I returned to my dorm room, I lay on my bed, body sore from chores and ears throbbing from insults. Staring at the ceiling, I thought back to how I had once believed that this would be a fresh start, but all I found was a different kind of the same cage, one made of cruelty, mockery, and pain.