What villainess am I?

Chapter 3 - Maids and Mother

"To Fate, a fickle mistress whose sense of justice is exceeded only by her sense of humor." - Teresa Medeiros

I often think of such words. Of Fate; her capricious hands always an aloof touch to mortality. Indeed, Fate's jests and japes are not oft of joy to mortal life. How Fate must smile to watch human minds fix themselves against her games. She now plays one upon me, a vile prank I cannot escape.

"Awww! Isn't she the cutest? Come on, my love, smile!"

Gods above, what did I do to deserve this? Is this to punish my curse upon thee? Is my rage such a matter of import to hold my soul in such a cage? Am I a pride to thou that to curse ye is to ruin?

"Maid Alice, I believe the Young Lady is... Less than amused. If I might suggest playing with her hands instead of her cheek?"

As I shudder, you may wonder what the cause of my torment may be. That is my current state. As I woke, I had thought nothing of myself held in my nurse's arms; I now regret my lack of planning. As to why? I became forced into a dress. One may think this is nothing, as I was already in one prior. However, this dress is to my new maid's tastes: large, puffy, elegant, and worse yet, expensive. I am positive this holds more gold than one gold bar, though I cannot prove such theories.

I hold tight to my nurse's hand to understand my mother and nurse as they converse, though I might not need to since she holds me up as my mother plays with my cheek and hands.

"Janet, does she always appear so pensive?" The younger maid, Alice, pauses her play, and she holds her words before continuing, "I fear she never seems to smile." As I hear such words, Maid Alice rests her hand on mine and her head on the couch. I lower my eyes to see hers: I've learned others like to see my eyes, and in any case, it hides my blindness. From Janet, my nurse's view, I see Maid Alice's eyes hold a soft worry in them as she plays with my fingers. "Maid Alice," the young maid shoots Janet a glare as she continues to use honorifics, "the Young Lady has always been something of... An anomaly. Even when she smiled or laughed, I felt she was thinking. She always was tense when doing so, so please, stop worrying so much. She's doing fine." "Hah..." A sigh falls from Maid Alice's lips, worry crossing her eyes as she squeezes my hand.

I give a slow nod, agreeing with my wet nurse. Maid Alice did not take that well, or so I assume, as her mouth is agape. I sigh; what if a fly was to settle on her tongue? I pause as I seem to have not chosen the best time to critique Maid Alice; I swallow a moment to clear my throat as I tense, waiting for her reaction: Fear, jubilation, worry, maybe a mixture. What I did not expect was for her to turn into a teapot. From her starts a slow squeal that shifts to a higher and higher pitch. As this is my first proper meeting with Maid Alice, I am puzzled at her reaction.

It didn't take me long to realize why she did this, but it was surprising nonetheless. Maid Alice lifts her head, and she begins to laugh, "Janet! She's so cute: how can you not pinch those cheeks?" She takes the same action and wiggles my face around with her hand. As Maid Alice does so, I see myself again through the vision of another, stared at with awe and glee. My face is lax, though routine, as I take more energy in observing than caring for my expression. I tilt my head and stare in disapproval as she abuses my face. Janet, ever the lady, promptly removes Alice's hands from my face, cutting off the direct vision of myself. I am still unused to my predicament of observation. Seeing myself from all angles and through others' eyes is still jarring.

Janet stares at me, but I can see some of Maid Alice's face, though I can not tell her expression, as I am unfamiliar with her: something between a petulant pout and a mirthful grin. I can guess her nature, though it is straining to suggest any of them. As Janet looks from me to Maid Alice to chastise her, I observe the room from her eyes. Strange, I realize, that she did not seem surprised by the blood and gore on my room's floor. I look through Janet's vision and still see the uncleaned viscera. Staining the carpet, chunks of flesh and skin stick to it as the smell of iron hangs loose on the nostril. As I look at where the stench curls from, I realize I feel no aversion to the sight; Curiosity is all that hangs deep in my heart as I try to contextualize my mother's view of the room. I ponder what may be the cause for my lack of empathy: Have I become misanthropic? Or simply cynical. Strange. I thought I held their deaths with fear when last supposed. I sigh and shake my head. Though I lolly in Janet's arms, I still can move my head: How glorious it is to be able to move my head! Sadly, I lament, I have yet to achieve great success with my endeavors to walk. On the nights I can, I act to increase my small body's structure, and yet it yields such minimal results.