The Deal That Made Me His

EBONY

The ceiling of the attic looks no different today than it does any other day—aged plaster mottled with faint water stains and a cobweb blinking weakly in the shaft of sunlight slipping through the dusty window. Still, I stare at it like it is the only thing that won’t disappoint me.

I am turning eighteen today.

Eighteen. Legal. Grown. Still curled beneath an old quilt in an attic that smells like mildew and too many unsaid things.

The ache in my spine is dull, but ever-present. I wince when I shift, every muscle in my back protesting the hours I spent scrubbing floors and beating out carpets yesterday. I had worked hard so I wouldn’t have to today. I'd saved, painfully, over the last few months—coins slipped from grocery change, a forgotten tip from a café job long gone—just enough for a one-time massage at an affordable spa.

It probably wouldn’t fix anything. But for once, I want something soft. Something that belongs to me.

A sharp ding from my cracked phone pulls me out of my thoughts. The screen lights up with a message from Melody.

Happy birthday, E. Harper says the same. Wicked Witch sent us to the store, said we were “using up oxygen for free.” We’ll steal you cake later. Swear.

I smile. Not much, but enough that it feels unfamiliar on my lips.

Melody and Harper. The only good things I got out of this cursed house.

I text back quickly, thumbs tapping sluggishly over shattered glass: Thanks. Don’t get caught. I’m claiming the biggest piece.

I toss the phone aside and slide slowly out of bed, my body screaming at the effort. Every muscle feels like it had been wrung dry, tight and sore. But I still move—because I have to. I creep down the narrow steps and into the hallway, glancing around cautiously. The house is quiet. Empty enough.

I pad barefoot to the guest bathroom and lock the door behind me.

The mirror is cracked, spider webbed at the corner like my life. I strip off my clothes and step under the weak stream of lukewarm water, letting it hit my skin in a silent rhythm. It isn’t comfort, but it’s something.

After a long moment, I step out and face the mirror again, towel clutched around my chest. My hair is a black curtain down my back—waist-length, wild, thick.

Too much for the single broken-toothed comb I own to tame. I try anyway, tugging and yanking it into some shape of order.

My eyes rise slowly to meet my own. They look like a storm that had already passed. The kind that left nothing behind.

I stare at myself, wondering—Will I ever know what it’s like to be loved? To be truly seen and wanted, not used or hated or tolerated?

The thought is dangerous. And fleeting.

I shake it away.

No. Love isn’t on the agenda. Not now. Not ever.

I want success. I want power. I want to be the kind of woman who makes people shut up when she enters a room. Not the girl they laugh at. Not the girl they hit.

My eyes travel upward, to the healed gash just past my hairline. Stitched neatly now, almost invisible—but I can still feel it, like a whisper under my skin.

I got that when I thought I was helping my mother. Instead I'd just made her pain worse.

The memory stabs its way into my lungs and sucks the air right out of them. Her voice echoes in the hollow corners of my mind:

“What have you done, you demon?”

My mother had always disliked me because I was the reason my father didn't love her.Feeding me was the best she ever did. But that incident brought life to her hatred. My father never loved anybody but himself but my mother was too far gone to see that.

Nobody could ever want something like me. Broken. Ugly. Useless. My father's voice had said it so many times, it became a litany. A rhythm I couldn’t shake.

And I just want, once, to prove him wrong. I want someone—anyone—to see me. Not the bruises. Not the mistakes. Me.

A harsh, screeching bellow shatters the quiet. “EBONY!”

I flinch, my heart jackhammering.

The pounding starts on the bathroom door. I turn and face the mirror again, startled by the tears slicking my cheeks.

I hadn’t even noticed them falling.

“What are you doing in there?! Open this door right now! How dare you lock it?”

I wipe my face, yanking the door open.

The slap lands before I can brace myself. My head snaps sideways, cheek stinging.

“How long will it take you to get dressed, you defective girl? It’s ten in the morning!”

I mumble an apology, eyes burning, voice tight. My stepmother glares at me like I am some disease she hasn’t scrubbed off the floor yet.

“Your father’s back. He’s waiting for breakfast. Move!”

I bolt past her, bare feet skidding on the cold floor, and hurry toward the kitchen.

No gift. No card. No smile.

Just another day in hell.