Unwilling Mate

1. Abigail

1

ABIGAIL

Some days, it doesn’t even seem worth the effort to get out of bed in the morning. My birthday feels like it should be one of those days, but it’s my eighteenth birthday, and it shouldn’t feel this way, right?

I roll from my lumpy hay-stuffed mattress and wince as my feet touch the ice-cold floor. At least it’s clean , I note to myself, trying to grasp at anything that will tell me this day won’t be any worse than yesterday. It’s afternoon, late for me to be rising, but no one has yelled or dragged me up, and I fear being shoved out the door any faster than necessary.

My meager belongings sit neatly displayed around the room. It’s only a matter of time before my stepmother kicks me out. She’s been harping on me for years about leaving on my eighteenth birthday. No doubt she already has a burly man to throw me down the path the second I step foot outside my tiny attic bedroom.

I use the small basin of water I keep on the rickety dresser, propped up with books on one side to keep it as level as possible. Not that I have many items of clothing to stuff inside it, but it holds the basin at chest height for me to wash with. If I try to use the family bathrooms, then I have to clean them immediately or face my stepmother’s wrath. It’s easier to take care of my quick needs here and clean up later. Especially today.

It only takes a few minutes to wash and tie up my golden hair in a piece of cloth I ripped from an old towel. It keeps the mass of it away from my face while I work, which is really all I need.

When I finally get the courage to exit my room, there’s no one standing in the hall waiting to escort me out the door. There’s no one period, and no one screaming my name to cook breakfast, clean the kitchen, or scrub the toilets. Blissful silence. I draw in a deep breath and savor it for a moment. Then I head toward the kitchen, where, no doubt, my bliss will be shattered into a million sharp pieces and used to maim me repeatedly.

I find my two stepsisters, Angela and Cindy, sitting at the dining room table whispering to each other. My stepmother is absent, which should be setting off alarm bells in my head. I move my mouth wide so she can see me exaggerate the words in shapes with my lips, but of course, no sound comes out. Where’s your mom?

Cindy gasps exaggeratedly. “That’s none of your business. Besides, it’s your birthday. Don’t worry about her or any of us today.”

Okay, now every alarm and buzzer in my body is blaring, warning me something is going on. What does that mean?

She shrugs and shares a look with Angela. “This is a very special birthday for you. We want it to be special for you.”

I don’t believe that for a second. They’ve never cared about my birthday before. They never cared about me. The only people who ever care are both… I swallow down a wave of bile and cross to the counter to grab an apple. I don’t like to think about my parents.

“Oh, take two, dear. You’ll need to start putting on a little weight if you want to catch a man. They don’t like twig figures,” Cindy says. Her eyes sparkle as if we are sharing a private joke, but something irks me, telling me the joke is at my expense no matter what her words say.

I grab another apple, leveling her with a look, and walk out the back door to the balcony overlooking the deep woods around the house. It’s so peaceful out here. I can spend the entire day outside and never get tired of feeling the breeze or smelling the loamy dampness of the earth.

It also helps that my stepsisters and stepmother all equally hate being outdoors, which means I get left alone for many hours when I make it outside. It’s a haven for me and beats the dusty, cramped walls of my bedroom any day.

I head down the worn stairs to the path and cut through a trail to a copse of trees in a ring that makes me think of a wolf if you were looking at it a certain way. I throw myself down at the base of a tree and polish off the second apple, happy I listened to Cindy, even out of spite. I don’t often get to eat more than the scraps, so I happily accept when I’m offered more than my usual tiny portion.

The next thing I remember is the sun setting, and I scramble up from the dirt, swatting away the flies that had used me for a bed while I’d been out. I rush back toward the house, certain that if I don’t start dinner soon, my stepmother will hunt me down and punish me for not having it ready on time.

When I rush into the kitchen and head to the hook to grab my apron, it’s gone. Oh no, they are kicking me out already.

I turn to look for it but find my sisters sitting at the table, my mother serving a ladle of stew into a bowl in front of the empty seat. “I was wondering where you went off to.”

It takes everything I have not to fidget and brush dirt off my skirt or fix the hair which had come loose from its tie.

“Well, sit down. It won’t stay warm all night.”

I lower myself into the chair, eyeing them all. What’s going on? I try to mouth the words, but Angela places a pad of paper and a pen in my hands. “Use this, so we don’t spend all night trying to guess what you are saying.”

Another red flag waves in my mind. They don't like me writing stuff down. They like making a point of not letting me have an opinion or a voice. I scribble across the page before they change their minds. What’s going on?

Cindy squints to read it and then nudges the bowl toward me. There are bowls in front of everyone, but it’s as if they were all waiting. “Mom made stew for you. To celebrate your birthday. Go on, try it.”

Angela gets up and brings a bottle of wine to the table. “I know you’re only eighteen, but one little drink on your birthday won’t hurt anyone.”

I snag the glass and take a sip. It’s sweet like cherry and slightly bitter in the aftertaste, but I smile and pretend I like it.

“Eat, Abigail. Eat or I’m going to think you don’t like your birthday surprise.”

I gulp hard and hunch over the bowl to shove some of the thick stew into my mouth. It’s too salty and makes my eyes water, but I keep eating and give her a little smile to show I like it.

For some reason, she’s not kicking me out, and I’m not going to tempt fate by being ungrateful when she went to so much trouble to cook for me. In fact, I can’t remember the last time she cooked a meal or cleaned up after one. I’m usually the one who does all the chores since I’m the one who doesn’t have an income to support the family.

Now that I’m eighteen, though, I could go out and get a job, but since my stepmother wouldn't let me go to school, I have no education.

Swallowing down the thought of my dire future, I give her a wider smile and eat faster. Cindy chuckles from across the table, but I ignore her. All would feel wrong in the world if she weren’t being a spoiled brat some of the time.

“How’s the stew?” Cindy asks a moment later, a note of humor in her tone.

I smile toward my stepmother again, letting her know I like it, then scribble on the pad. It’s good. Thank you, guys, for thinking of me on my birthday.

Angela cheers her glass against mine and nudges the end of mine up, so I guzzle down most of the wine in one big gulp. Hopefully, she doesn’t use the empty glass as an opportunity to refill it. It turns out that wine really isn’t my favorite thing.

I keep eating, my head getting a little fuzzy, which I pin down to the wine since I’ve never had it before. I’ve witnessed many drunken nights between the three of them, though. No wonder they drink so much. It’s a sort of light-headed buzzy feeling that makes me happy in a way but also a little sad.

I don’t meet anyone’s eyes as I finish off the bowl and scrape the sides with a thick hunk of bread I'd made the day before. Cold hands touch my cheeks, and I jerk away from my stepmother’s boney fingers. “You look a little heated. Are you feeling okay?”

Quickly, I scribble on the pad. Fine, it’s probably just the wine, right?

She pats my hand this time, curling it around the pen. “Of course, while you have your pen out, could you scribble your name on this for me?”

I try to stare down at the white piece of paper she slides in front of me, but it looks like a bunch of vague black squiggles. If she wants me to add to them, then why now? I know something is off, but my mind is fuzzy, and I keep losing my train of thought. Why am I signing this again? How much wine did I have?

“Don’t forget to sign right here, dear. It’s important, remember?”

No, I don’t remember. What's important?

Angela wraps her hand around mine and guides it to the paper. “Right here. Just sign.” I scribble my signature and set the pen on the table. The room spins.

“Very good. Happy Birthday, by the way. I’ve been anticipating this day for a long time. Now, let’s get you into bed before you collapse. No more wine for you.”

I stand, and my legs feel like jelly. I let out a little sound of surprise and then clamp my hands on the table to keep my balance.

Cindy and Angela clear out of the way while my stepmother hikes her arms under mine and lifts me so I’m leaning against her shoulder. “You’re nothing more than skin and bones, girl.”

I swallow back a retort and let her lead me down the hall and up the stairs to my attic room. We make it without any serious mishaps, and I mostly fall onto the lumpy mattress and then list sideways until my head hits the pillow.

“Comfortable?” my stepmother asks.

I nod and feel her loosening my clothes to put a nightgown over my head. Once I’m dressed again, she lays the blanket flat over my body, and I catch a brief glimpse of her between shafts of moonlight. There’s something in her eyes as she stares at me. My stepsisters hover in the doorway, one stacked over the other so they can both see inside with their whole head. It makes them look ridiculous, but I don’t say anything. I never say anything.

My stepmother claps her hands together. “Well, I hope you had a lovely birthday. I need to go get these dishes cleaned up and pour myself a little glass of wine. You sleep tight now.”

She makes a quick exit, and my sisters slip into my room after she leaves. Cindy prowls around my space, and I want to tell her to stop touching my things, but I don’t have it in me. The wine must have hit me harder than I thought because I can’t really feel anything in my body to peel myself off the mattress and confront her.

Angela stares around the space, her arms crossed like she’s afraid she might accidentally brush something and get her snow-white sweater dirty. “How can you live like this?”

I want to scream at her that I don’t have a choice, but as usual, everything stays in my head. Every pain, every shout, every demand. All of it stays locked in my mind. I can’t utter a single word. Not since my father died. The room starts to spin, and I feel like I might be sick.

A low moan comes from somewhere, and I realize it was me. Okay, no more wine for Abigail.

Cindy saunters out of the room, Angela in her wake, but she casts me one last glance in the doorway. Whatever is in her eyes is rooted in fear. My stepmother stares at me like a beast for slaughter, and Cindy looks at me like competition. Angela…well…Angela never really looks at me at all. Not until tonight, and I swear there’s something like fear there.