Bleeding Petals
1462 Words
Martha finally stepped back, her chest heaving with the exertion of her work.
She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of a hand that had just spent an hour inflicting pain.
"I’m tired of beating them," she muttered, her voice thick with a sickening sense of accomplishment.
She looked down at us—two broken women on a floor with the boredom of someone who had just finished a tedious chore.
"Give her the dresses we prepared," she ordered, gesturing to the girls standing by the racks.
I didn't look at the dresses. I couldn't. My world had shrunk to the space of a few inches where Luba lay.
I crawled toward her, my knees barking in protest as they dragged across the grit on the floor.
My hands shook so violently I had to tuck them into my lap for a moment just to find the strength to reach out.
When I finally touched her, I felt the heat radiating off her skin.
Her face was swollen to the size of a fist, and her palms... they were shredded by the wooden ruler until they wept a slow, sluggish red.
A single tear fell from my eyes, hitting the floor with a tiny, hollow sound. My eyes felt like empty sockets, burned out by the sheer volume of grief they had been forced to hold.
"Luba..." I whispered.
"You silly girl. All you had to do was agree with them. All you had to do was step aside and let them beat me. You could have saved yourself."
I pulled her into a hug, ignoring the flare of pain in my own ribs. I wanted to shield her, even now, even when I was the very reason she was broken.
Luba sobbed into my shoulder, her breath coming in wet gasps.
"Miss... I'm sorry," she choked out, her hot tears soaking into my collar.
"I couldn’t protect you. I tried... I’m so sorry." She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes clouded with a terrifying, naive hope.
"Miss, don't worry. Once the young master comes home... once Mr. Harrington sees what they did... he'll avenge you. He won't let them get away with this."
A bitter sound escaped my lips. A laugh that had no joy in it, only the rot of disillusionment.
Avenge me? August was the one who had sharpened the knife and handed it to Martha. He was the architect of this hell; Martha was just the mason.
"Would he, Luba?" I asked.
"Would he really?"
Before she could answer, Martha’s minions stepped forward. They threw the dresses. Three garments landed in a heap on the floor.
"Take them," Martha mocked, her lip curling in disdain.
"A murderer can never be a mistress, no matter what expensive dresses she wears."
They left then, their laughter trailing behind them like a foul scent. The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving the hallway in a suffocating silence.
I forced myself up. Every bone in my body felt like it had been systematically unmade and put back together wrong.
I reached down and pulled Luba up, my muscles screaming as I guided her to a nearby chair. She tried to resist, her instinct to serve still fighting against her trauma.
"Let me apply some medicine on your wounds," I said, my voice firm despite the tremors in my hands.
"No, Miss," she stammered, flinching as she tried to hide her hands behind her back.
"I can do it. You're injured more than me. You need to rest."
"Shh." I gave her a look that silenced her.
"Don't ever offend them for me again. Do you understand? Your life is worth more than my comfort. You got it?"
She didn’t reply. She turned her head away, her shoulders shaking with silent, exhausted sobs. I let out a soft breath.
I found the first-aid kit in the hallway cabinet and began to work. I applied a cooling ointment to her swollen face and the angry red welts on her back.
When I reached her hands, my heart stuttered. I cleaned the blood away with trembling fingers and gave her a double dose of painkillers.
"Ms. Willow... what about you?" she asked as I finished bandaging her palms.
"I'll do it myself," I told her, my voice devoid of emotion.
"Go. Go to your room and take some rest."
She stood slowly, and shuffled away. I watched her disappear into the shadows of the servant’s corridor, and only then did I let my shoulders drop.
I went into the bathroom and peeled off the ruined dress. I forced myself to look in the full-length mirror.
Who is she? I asked the reflection. The girl staring back was a stranger. Her eyes were hollowed out, two dark pits of nothingness set in a pale, bruised face.
There were black and purple blossoms blooming across my back and shoulders—August’s fingerprints, Martha’s kicks.
I applied the ointment to my own skin, the sting of the medicine a dull roar against the throb of my nerves.
When I was done, I picked up one of the dresses Martha had thrown at me. It was a pale, icy blue—Winter’s color.
I put it on. I tied my hair back in a tight, severe ponytail.
I applied layers of concealer to hide the handprints on my neck and the shadows under my eyes. I painted my lips a blood-red.
By the time I was finished, I felt a gnawing hunger in my stomach. It was a stubborn, primal urge to survive that annoyed me.
I didn't want to eat, but my body demanded fuel to keep the heart beating.
I walked down to the dining room. The table was set. The other maids were there, polishing and adjusting floral arrangements.
When I entered, they didn't bow. They looked at me with a sharp, pointed disdain, their whispers loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to be denied.
I sat down and served myself. I forced myself to chew and swallow. I felt their eyes on me, waiting for me to cry, waiting for me to run back to my room. I didn't give them the satisfaction. I ate with my back straight, my expression as cold as the walls.
"Can I go out today?" I asked Martha as she entered the room to supervise. My voice was a flat, icy monotone.
"No," she replied, not even bothering to look at me. She adjusted a vase of lilies—Winter’s favorite with a smirk.
I didn't argue. I didn't plead. I simply stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the floor.
"Can I go to the garden?"
Martha spat on the floor near the hem of my blue dress.
"Sure. Go. Maybe the fresh air will help you remember how to be a proper wife."
She turned to the two hulking bodyguards standing at the arched entrance.
"Keep eyes on her. Make sure she doesn’t try to escape her happy home."
The guards nodded in a synchronized, robotic motion.
I walked out into the gardens. It was the season of cherry blossoms, but the trees looked wrong to me.
The petals were falling in a constant, silent rain, carpeting the grass in a pink that looked like faded blood.
Without the vibrant life they usually held, the trees looked skeletal, unalive—breathing, yet dead inside. Just like me.
I walked until my legs threatened to give out, then sat on a stone bench near the edge of the estate’s private lake.
In the distance, rising out of the center of the green water, stood a beautiful white pavilion.
It was a resting place, shimmering like a jewel in the afternoon sun. It looked peaceful. It looked like a place where the screams of the manor couldn't reach.
"Can I go there?" I asked, looking toward the guards who had followed me at a distance.
They didn't answer. They stood like statues, their eyes fixed on the horizon, intentionally avoiding my gaze. I was a ghost in a blue dress, asking questions to the wind.
I gripped the edge of the stone bench. The frustration boiled in my chest, a suffocating whirlpool of helplessness.
I wanted to scream until the glass in the pavilion shattered. I wanted to tear the cherry blossoms from the trees.
Instead, I sat in silence, watching the water ripple, wondering how much more blood it would take to satisfy a man who had already taken everything.
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- Writer
