Badlands

1

Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and began her descent into the lush expanse of the gardens, her white dress billowing around her like a spectre's shroud. In her wake, the air seemed colder, the peace I had found among the snowdrops now tainted by the poison of her presence.

I spend the remainder of the day pressing a coarse brush into the ornate carpet, my arms moving in vigorous circles to work out the stubborn stains. Biting back a curse, I can feel the rough fabric beneath me chafing at my skin, the red of my raw knees matching the angry imprint on my thigh.

The last of the sun's rays bled away beyond the horizon, leaving a twilight cloak draped over the manor.

In the deepening gloom of my tiny chamber, shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs. I hesitated, pondering the wisdom of slipping away to the fields, my nightly refuge from the ruthless stone walls that encased my existence. But now she knew—Theana, with eyes like sharp daggers and a heart colder than the north winds.

With a sigh, I struck a match, coaxing a timid flame to life. It flickered uncertainly before finding courage in the wick of my candle, casting a quivering light across the room. Shadows danced upon the walls, retreating to their corners as though scared of the small beacon in my trembling hand. Wrapping my arms around the worn brown bear that had seen more tears than any living soul.

The hush of night lay thick upon the chamber, broken only by the whisper of my own breath and the distant, mournful hoot of an owl. Clutching my brown bear to my chest, I sought solace in its unyielding presence, yet peace eluded me.

Then it came—a thud, deliberate and heavy, reverberating through the stone floor and up the walls of my sanctuary. My heart hitched, a silent gasp caught in my throat. Those footsteps; they were harbingers of pain and fear, echoes of past torments that haunted the corridors of this place.

I lay frozen, barely daring to breathe as the sound drew nearer, each step a drumbeat to some grim procession. A sliver of light from the corridor encroached upon the darkness of my room, sliding beneath the door like a spectre seeking entry. It was joined by the shadows of shoes, monstrous in their size, distorted by the flickering candlelight.

"Please, not tonight," I prayed silently to whatever gods might be listening, to whatever fates held sway over the lives of lowly maids. The bear seemed to tighten its embrace around me, a stalwart guardian in a world where guardians were scarce.

As though drawn by my silent plea, the light wavered, the monstrous shadows shifting as the bearer of the heavy footsteps paused. My every sinew tensed, bracing for the creak of the door, for the invasion of my meagre haven. But the moment stretched, teetering on the precipice of nightmare.

Then, the light dimmed, retreating with the ominous tread of those dreadful shoes. Away from my door, away from my room, down the hall where other maids slept—or lay in silent vigil, just as I. Relief cascaded over me, a tide that carried both gratitude and guilt.

With trembling fingers, I pinched the wick of the candle, and the flame hesitated before succumbing to a wisp of smoke. The room plunged into darkness, a concealing shroud that felt both oppressive and protective. My chest heaved with stifled sobs, the air thick with the smell of burnt wax and my own fear.

The cries began then, distant yet piercing, slipping through the cracks of my sanctuary. With each whimper and plea, I pressed the bear harder against my ears, desperately willing the sounds away. But they were relentless, weaving their way into the very fabric of my thoughts, a reminder of how thin the barrier was between safety and torment.

"Please," I whispered.

I knew not whose voice it was that shattered the silence—another soul caught in this gilded cage of servitude—or what fresh hell had been visited upon them.

And so, with my head buried in the comfort of my bear and hands clasped over my ears, I waited for dawn, for the light that would dispel the shadows but never the memories they cast.

The transition from the murky abyss of sleep to the harsh reality of waking was always abrupt. This morning, it came with a searing reminder—a sharp pain flared across my cheekbone, pulling a gasp from my lips before I could capture it. With tremulous fingers, I traced the tender skin, wincing at the raw sensation that greeted my touch. My breath hitched, a silent prayer that the morn would not reveal what I already knew to be true—a mark borne from cruelty, fresh upon my flesh.

I lingered for a moment, gathering the shards of my resolve, for this was not the first odd gash that turmoiled my skin.

The chill of the dusk air brushes against my skin as I peel back the tattered woollen covers. Silence of the early morning is a cloak around me as I push myself upright and edge toward the small window with its pane of uneven glass.

My hand touches the pane, fingertips resting lightly upon the surface as though afraid to disturb the stillness. My eyes are drawn to the place where a small mole used to reside beneath my left eye, now obscured by a raw gash. The reality of it makes my stomach clench; it's a mark that will speak for me without any need for words.

The creaking of the floorboards outside my room pulls my attention away from my marred visage. Hushed voices and the soft rustle of skirts fill the corridor—the other maids are beginning their descent to the day's labour. I know I must join them soon.

I draw back from the window, my image fading from the glass as I turn away. Each step towards the door weighs heavy.

I press my hand against the cool wall for support, steadying my breath as I step into the narrow hallway. The other maids line up like sentinels, their faces a mixture of pity and discomfort at the sight that meets them. Each pair of eyes that falls upon me seems to burn hotter than the sting on my cheek.

"Maude," one whispers—a sound that barely rises above a sigh, though it carries the weight of a scream in the silence of our procession. I skim the line for last nights victim, yet I am left with no tell-tale signs.

I do not respond; there are no words that could bridge the chasm of our shared understanding. Instead, I slip into the empty space in line, feeling their gazes flit away as if my wound is a contagion they fear might spread.

A young maid with hair the colour of fresh straw bites her lip hard enough to draw blood, averting her eyes to the warped wood planks beneath us. Another, older and more haggard, looks on with eyes etched by too many years of seeing too much, her grimace a permanent fixture carved from countless similar mornings.