With the fury of seven years worth of mistreatment raging through my veins I marched determined to my cupboard and jerked it open.
The time had come.
With resolute hands I threw the scores of shabby, worn overlarge clothes on the floor. These past years I had only worn one color, that reflected my crushed spirit, gray but not anymore
After ten minutes a heap of clothes lay scattered on my floor, their stark gray color a satisfying contrast against my soft purple carpet.
Next I emptied my dressers. I snatched the numerous pairs of glasses, I never really required, and broke each pair with a vengeance. The snap of the plastic echoed in my mind like the snip of a bond being broken.
The bonds to my past.
I gathered all the props of my past, the props that made Rose Hamilton, and discarded them from my room. I picked up the intercom at my study table and dialed for Martha, our domestic supervisor.
The efficient Martha answered at the second ring.
“Yes Miss Hamilton, how may I be of help”
I winced at her use of the name Hamilton. It had taken me seven years, but I had finally come to my senses. I would never be a Hamilton.
I cleared my throat.
“Martha, there are some boxes outside my room, they contain clothes that must be sent to charity.”
Even though we were on the phone I could sense Martha’s surprise. Rose Hamilton contributing to charity for the first time? She herself was a charity case.
But the efficient Martha never missed a beat.
“Sure ma’am. Will The Weston Sister’s House for orphans be satisfactory?”
I mumbled in assent and hung up.
With steady feet I approached the en suite bathroom and got the bath ready
There were two hours to the rehearsal dinner.
Two hours to my escape from my cage.
The sound of someone knocking on my bathroom door broke me from my reverie. I jerked up from the tub, the muscles in my back tensing in surprise.
Was it Carla? Did she finally comprehend what she’d done and was repenting?
Had she come to apologize?
But the meek voice, which followed my thoughts behind the door could never belong to my stepsister.
“Er, umm… Is that Rose?”
I forgot all about Carla as I wondered who the stranger behind the door was.
“Who is that?” I asked bluntly.
“Umm… you don’t know me but I’m Angela. I was with your sister earlier, you know upstairs when…” Her voice faded as she remembered the exact events.
I remembered too.
I still did.
“Oh.” I replied in a voice devoid of any emotion, “You’re one of her friends.”
Nervous Laughter behind the door.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it that, more of an acquaintance, you could say” she twittered in a nervous voice, “Actually I’m her best friend Kristine’s cousin sister… I just arrived here yesterday and Kristine sort of dragged me here and I… well, yes… I’m here.” She finished awkwardly.
“Oh” I replied back lamely not knowing what exactly to say to that.
“Yes” she answered, her tone matching mine.
“Well actually I came here, to know… I-I mean to ask whether you were alright because earlier- “
But I cut her short.
“I don’t want your pity. Take it and please leave.” I shot out in a cold voice.
I expected to hear a timid ‘Ok’ and sound of her fleeing footsteps but instead was shocked to hear her giggling.
“I’ve not come here to offer you my sympathy” she giggled amusedly, “Actually I’m here to bitch about you sister together.”
Or rather I’ve turned speechless.
“Well… I guess I’ll go first then.” She mumbled after two heartbeats, “Okay Carla has to be the most evil thing I saw after Damien in The Omen. I swear Damien himself would wet his pants and burst into tears if he ever met Carla.”