The Don’s maid of secrets

Amanda’s POV My eyes drift to the pile of dishes in the sink, my shoulders sagging at the sheer number of them and the certainty that no help is coming. Being paired with Swanky for any duty is a curse, she won’t lift a finger. She just stands there, watching, and throwing insults my way. I don’t dare complain. The purple bruise beneath my eye is proof enough that Swanky isn’t someone you try to reason with. All I did was ask if she’d seen my soap? That was a terrible idea. She beat me senseless while the guards watched, even giggling from time to time as I begged for my life, because she’s Swanky, and I’m… just Amanda. Or “Skinny,” as she calls me. Steam clings to the air, thick and suffocating, curling up from the hot water and sticking to my skin. The kitchen floor, which is always wet, a mix of soap, spilled food, and smeared footprints that never quite disappear. Piles of trays tower to the side, crusted with dried food, rice stuck stubbornly to the corners. I scrub and scrub, but it feels like the stacks only keeps growing. “Hey, Skinny, hurry the f**k up,” she barks as yet another batch of trays arrives from the dining hall. Couldn’t they bring them all at once? I glance up at Racheal. Her lips form a small, silent sorry before she turns and heads back to fetch more. I don’t respond. There’s no point. My fingers tighten around the sponge, aching with strain, but the pile just keeps rising. For a second, I pause, staring at it all. The dishes. The noise. The weight of Swanky’s neglect pressing down on me. That’s when I hear it. Footsteps. I don’t need a preacher to tell me who it is. “Hey, Swanky,” I murmur as she slides up beside me. For a brief, foolish second, I think she might actually help. “Are you here to daydream in dirty water?” she snaps. “I’ve got a nap to catch, and you’ll regret it if I don’t.” I keep scrubbing. “b***h, you answer me when I talk to you,” she spits, her hand tangling in my hair, yanking hard at the roots. “Well, Swanky… if you helped a little, we’d be done before nap time,” I manage, breath catching as pain sparks behind my eyes. It happens fast. One second I’m at the sink. The next, I’m on the filthy kitchen floor, Swanky’s fists raining down on my face. I don’t fight back. I never do. I just lie there, watching as she hits me again and again. I don’t beg either. That only makes it worse. “Swanky, get off her,” the guard says, his voice thick and unsteady. She pauses mid-blow, her gaze burning into mine, strands of her dyed blonde hair falling across her face. Then, slowly, she stands. “No dinner for you, skinny,” she snaps, driving her foot into my stomach before the guard finally leads her away, back to the cell we share. It’s dinner time when I return to the cell, the ache in my stomach worsening with each step. Dinner is usually served in the cell, and I can’t help wishing we had to eat in the mess hall instead at least then, I wouldn’t have to sleep hungry. Swanky is eating my measly dinner of two small pieces of bread, potato pottage, and a tiny cup of water as I make my way to my bed without a word. I’ve thought about it countless times—Swanky is such a heavy sleeper. Would it raise suspicion if one day she never woke up? “The potato pottage tastes so good. Want some?” she taunts, her eyes glinting as I move toward my bed, stomach twisting in pain. “No, thank you, Swanky. Please, enjoy,” I reply, the words heavy on my tongue as I begin to strip off my grease-stained overalls. “You stink, you buffalo,” she barks, turning her back to me, her blue eyes still burning with rage. “I’ll go take a shower,” I answer quickly, signaling the male guard in the corridor. “Hi, sorry. I just finished kitchen duties, and Swanky is very uncomfortable with how I smell,” I explain. “Okay,” he grunts, eyes flicking to Swanky before a small, shy smile breaks across his face. “But if you try anything funny, the only way you’re leaving this place is in a body bag.” Being cellmates with Swanky is a nightmare, but I can’t deny the perks. I’m almost untouchable, at least by most guards and inmates. Swanky doesn’t like to share her “weakling,” and avoiding me altogether is safer than risking her anger. I also get to enjoy her discarded items, her shampoo, her books, her food sometimes once she’s done with them. But that hardly makes up for the endless bullying, the constant torture. The corridor is quieter than I remember. “Five minutes,” the guard says. My eyes adjust to the dim overhead light in the bathroom, the once-white tiles staring back at me. The cold air bites as I turn the shower knob, water splattering first in a thin stream, then stronger. With steady hands, I wash. The water isn’t warm, but it manages to strip away the grease and sweat. My gaze drifts to the doorway. The guard’s shadow stretches across the floor, unmoving. “Two more minutes,” he barks, leaning against the wall, eyes dark and watchful. Whenever I shower, I like to imagine a different life, that I finished high school fifteen years ago, that I work in finance, that I have two dogs, that I’m a dog mom, maybe even a boyfriend who loves me. “Time,” he screams. I wrap the towel around my chest and head back to the cell, where Swanky snores loudly, oblivious. Morning comes far too quickly, and I hate it, the rush of bathing, duties, and the measly breakfast. Every inmate is busy with their assigned tasks, some are cutting the grass, others are raking up what’s already been cut, everyone, that is, except Swanky. “Amanda Moore, report to the warden’s office now,” the speaker crackles as I weed my portion . Being called to the warden is never good news. It’s either a transfer to a private cell for violent behavior or punishment for not doing task correctly. “Good day, sir,” I greet, standing before the warden, his belt struggling to hold his round stomach. “Miss Amanda Moore, you have been pardoned. You’re being released immediately. Gather your things. You leave today.” I stare at him like he’s grown horns. A pardon? I’ve dreamed of this for years. For the first five, I held onto hope, and now… here it is. And I’m not even sure if I want it. “A pardon? Why now?” I ask, tears welling as I pick at my nails. “Yes, for good behavior. The president-elect requested a list, and I included your name. Congratulations, Amanda,” he says, pride evident on his face. A deep sadness envelops me as I pack. There’s not much to pack, just a picture of her, a matching scrunchies she gave me for my twelfth birthday and one of swanky’s books. For a second, I think I see tears in Swanky’s eyes, she is leaning against the door like she wants to say something but she doesn’t. “Hi, Swanky,” I say, bag in hand as I pass our cell door. “I’ll miss you.” She nods, expressionless. Swanky will find a new weakling. “Be good, Skinny”, she whispers but I hear her before I close the door. Tears stream down my face as I watch people rush to hug someone, while I stand here with no one waiting for me. My delusions betray me, how could I have expected anyone to wait, when for fifteen long years, no one ever came to visit me here? It’s all good, I am free now. But am I really free?