1. One Ella
One: Ella
Once upon a time, this house had been my castle—a testament to grandeur and love, a place where laughter echoed off the walls and the gardens bloomed with endless promise. Now, I stood before its skeletal remains, the grandeur replaced by decay. The peeling paint hung like aged skin, and the overgrown gardens clawed at the earth as if trying to escape their own neglect. This was no fairy tale; it was a cemetery of dreams, weathered by storms and indifference. I couldn’t wait to be out of New Orleans. This place just reminded me of all the pain I held inside.
My gaze traveled up the imposing facade, catching on broken shutters that flapped in the breeze. Each step toward the once majestic front doors tightened the knot in my chest.
"Late night?" My stepmother's voice sliced through the morning silence.
Priscilla Trevaine loomed in the doorway, her presence commanding even the sun to retreat behind clouds. Tall, elegant, a statue carved from ice—her beauty was matched only by her cruelty. Shadows played across her features, casting her dark eyes into hollow pits that seemed to swallow the light.
"Work ran late," I replied, voice steady despite the quiver in my heart.
"Those tables won't clean themselves." A thin smile curved her lips, but her eyes remained cold, unfeeling.
"Of course not." My fingers curled into my palms, nails biting into the skin until they left crescent shaped indents.
"Now you can clean ours." She stepped back, granting me entry, her perfume trailing behind her.
The door creaked closed behind us with an ominous thud, sealing me inside. I moved past her, each step echoing too loudly in the oppressive silence. The air felt colder here, tainted by whispers of the Cinder Crew’s dealings— of violence and power that had seeped into the very foundation. My father would have been appalled. With a sigh, I cleaned the kitchen before heading toward my room.
In the clutches of this crumbling sanctuary, Priscilla was queen—a spider at the center of a web woven with deceit and ambition. And me? I was merely the butterfly pinned against the wall, wings torn, yearning for the sky. But as I ascended the staircase, avoiding the creaking boards, my mind turned to my secret escape—the online courses that promised knowledge and perhaps, one day, freedom. Somewhere beyond these suffocating walls lay a world where I could weave dreams anew, far from the reach of Queen Bitch's icy grasp.
The first ray of sunlight was a traitor, sneaking through the cracks in the curtains to drag me from the clutches of sleep. I lay there for a moment, letting the warmth tease the chill from my skin—a fleeting caress before reality set in. My lids fluttered open, revealing the stark walls of my prison cell masquerading as a bedroom.
Another day.
I rolled out of bed, my feet touching the cold floor. The threadbare rug did nothing to shield them from the bite of early morning. Making the bed was a silent ritual, smoothing out the creases, aligning the faded patchwork quilt just right.
My clothes hung limply on the back of the door; the fabric worn thin. I dressed quickly, the familiar texture of cotton clinging to my skin. There was no mirror here; I didn't need one to know the pale shadow I'd become, the way these clothes hung off me like whispers of a life half-lived.
I tiptoed across the creaky wooden floorboards. My stepsisters slept in and hated being woken by me making them breakfast. It was easier this way. The less time in their presence, the less time they had to make my life hell.
The staircase loomed before me—my daily descent into a world that didn't want me. I counted the steps, a silent rhythm that kept time with my heart. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen... At the bottom, I paused, listening for any sign of life. Nothing stirred—yet.
Creeping through the dim hallway, I slid past the kitchen towards the back door. The scent of stale wine lingered, mixing with the mustiness that permeated the house. It clawed at my throat as the reality of my life hit me once again.
Can't let them see you flinch, I reminded myself, straightening my spine as I made my way to the back door. This was the tightrope I walked every dawn, the fine line between subservience and rebellion.
I stepped outside, the cool air nipping at my exposed skin. A shiver ran down my spine, not from the cold but the knowledge of what lay beyond the overgrown gardens and peeling paint—the world of the Cinder Crew, dark and all-consuming.
Freedom's just a heartbeat away, I hummed under my breath. But I held onto the mantra against the bleakness. Stretching my arms towards the sky, I sat on the worn chair and closed my eyes. The birds were already chirping their happy tune and the leaves were rustling gently in the breeze.
Clank.
Oh shit. They're awake.
I slipped back inside, the door's creak a soft betrayal of my return. The kitchen was still dim and lifeless. I busied myself wiping surfaces, a futile attempt to scrub away the grime that clung to this place. Setting a pan on the stove with butter, I began to prepare to make eggs and toast. Soft. Just the way they liked it.
"Look at Cinder-Ella, playing housemaid," Annie's voice cut through the quiet. She and Izzy stood in the doorway; their silhouettes framed by the weak morning light.
"Doesn't she realize it's all she's good for?" Izzy's laugh was like nails down a chalkboard. They prowled forward, circling me – a vulture and a snake eyeing their next meal.
"Perhaps if you actually cleaned up after yourselves—" My voice cracked in the air.
"Or what, little Ella? You'll cry to your dead daddy?" Annie's lips twisted into a cruel mimicry of a smile, her eyes glinting with the thrill of the taunt.
"Stop." My hands clenched the dishrag tighter, knuckles white. "Just stop."
"Aw, don't be upset. It's not like you ever had a future beyond these walls anyway." Izzy leaned in; her breath hot against my cheek.
"Your life’s always been a dead end, asswipe." Annie sneered.
I watched them saunter off, their laughter a lingering echo before I dared to exhale. My chest felt tight, as tears burned behind my eyes. I glanced toward the stairs, ensuring they were gone before slipping into my room and locking the door behind me. Fuck making their breakfast. Fuck them all.
My breath came out in shuddering gasps as I pulled out the laptop from its hiding spot under the bed, its surface cool beneath my fingertips. I flipped it open, the screen illuminating my face, a beacon amidst the shadows.
"Psychology 101," I murmured, scrolling through the online course, "the study of the soul." It was the key to understanding them, to freeing myself from their torment. Every lesson, a step closer to getting out of here.
The theories danced across the screen, words like 'cognitive dissonance,' 'operant conditioning,' 'empathy.' Laughing to myself, I repeated the definitions. Empathy: the ability to figure out and understand someone else's emotions. Safe to say those two have none.
"Behavior is the mirror in which everyone shows their image," I read aloud, the quote resonating within me. I imagined dissecting Annie and Izzy's cruelty, peeling back layers of venom to find the festering wounds beneath.
Understanding won't erase what they've done. But it might give me power over how it shapes me.
A surge of excitement coursed through me; adrenaline tinged with hope. Here, in the glow of knowledge, I wasn't just Ella Trevaine, the downtrodden stepdaughter. I was a student of the human mind, a silent revolutionary plotting her rise.
As my dad would always say, knowledge is power.
My eyes flicked to the clock; time had slipped away. I was late for work. Again.