3. 3 – Stasi
I ’m counting in meals now.
One meal every twenty-four hours, slid through my door before it slams shut again. In between, I’m escorted to the shitty little bathroom twice a day.
The thin gruel can barely be called food, but I drink it down anyway, breaking off a tiny piece of the hard bread that accompanies it and keeping the rest to get me through the rest of the day. The bottle of water is harder to resist, but I ration it, taking small sips.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough.
Eleven meals.
That’s how many I get before the doors open again. I’m dozing on my cot, jerked into full, terrifying awareness by the overwhelming number of men entering my cell as I scramble back, pressing myself into the wall.
The meaty-faced guard, the one who kindly smashed his baton into the wall next to me, throws down a dark bundle of cloth in front of me with a sneer. “Put that on.”
I stare down at it, and then back to him. He doesn’t move.
I wait, and his lips curl up in a sneer. “You’re property of the crown now, bitch. You don’t get to have privacy.”
There’s a gleam in his eye that makes nausea rise up in my stomach. I cross my arms. “Then I guess I’m not getting changed after all.”
A few of the guards have the decency to shift uncomfortably. Not one of the cowards says anything, though. Meathead’s face bulges, making his beady little eyes pop. “Put the fucking dress on.”
I stare straight into his face. “No.”
I flinch when he steps forward, but another guard gets in his way. “Parrish. We don’t have time. They’re already waiting for us.”
The little weasel – Parrish - grunts in displeasure, but he storms out. The others follow. It feels like a small victory, even though he’s probably watching me through the creepy little peephole they use to spy on their prisoners.
It takes me a while to struggle out of my jeans. Caked in filth and fuck knows what from my cell, they’re almost solid as I wrestle with them. My shirt sticks to my skin stubbornly before I peel it away, and it lands with a thump as I pick up the new offering and shake it out.
“Paging the fashion police,” I mutter. The black dress is more of a sack, shapeless and baggy as I drag it on over my dirty underwear and let it fall past my knees. The thin material brushes against my ankles, and I slip my bare feet into the black slippers that came with it.
I raise a hand to my hair and immediately drop it. I’m not sure which is dirtier at this stage.
The door swings open, confirming my suspicion that someone was watching me through the door. “Can I have some water to wash, please?”
They ignore me, naturally.
With a guard holding each arm, my hands and ankles are chained together as though I’m some sort of high-risk psychopathic serial killer.
I almost laugh at the sheer fucking insanity of it all as I’m escorted out of my cell.
Moving towards fresh air for the first time in weeks, with at least half a dozen guards in front of and behind me.
When I stumble, they drag me to my feet without pausing, and I get the message.
Keep up or get dragged.
Wonderful.
I’m so focused on keeping my balance that I barely have chance to look around.
We climb the narrow staircase, winding around and around until a sheer bright light pierces my eyes painfully, forcing them closed.
A breeze dances across my filthy skin, and I suck the fresh, cool air into my lungs like it’s the water I’ve been craving.
The sunlight hurts. Burns the back of my eyes, leaving vivid orange circles behind as tears slip out of my closed eyelids.
How long have I been in that fucking cell?
My chest feels tight as I’m forced to keep my eyes closed.
This could be the last bit of daylight you ever see, Stasi. Open your damn eyes.
The thought is sobering, and I crack my lids open the barest amount to try and look. A van is waiting up ahead, white with blacked-out windows. The guards lift me into the back, shoving me down onto a bench as they take up seats around me.
My eyes open fully in the muted light, and I lean my head back, listening to the mutters of the guards as an engine rumbles to life beneath us.
They speak as though I’m not sat right here, listening to them gloat over the possibility of my death.
Deep breath.
In, out.
It helps a little, helps to dampen the fear filling my lungs, threatening to choke the air from my throat.
If today is the last day I have, I refuse to give them the satisfaction of watching me break. Not when I’ve held myself together in carefully crafted pieces for so long.
Courage, Anastasia.
We drive for a while before the van slows. I keep my breathing steady as something bangs heavily into the side, and the guards stiffen.
Another bang, and another.
The van slows to a crawl, and a voice calls through. “We have a crowd.”
A crowd. A baying mass of faceless people, all gathered to watch me fall, to gloat in the downfall of the ugly stepsister .
It shouldn’t sting, not when there are much bigger problems for me to focus on. It’s not the first time I’ve been called that, after all.
As ugly on the inside as you are on the outside.
I wonder what they would say, if they could see me now. If they’ve spoken about me, gloated at the downfall of the girl they once knew, watched the twisted, misshapen saga of my life being played out across every newspaper in the country.
I wonder if they ever even think of me at all. When I’ve barely gone a day without thinking of them.
Stop it, Stasi. Breathe.
I can hear the shouts now, the taunts. More hands bang against the sides of the vehicle, almost rocking it, jeers and shouts aimed in my direction.
And they call me ugly. Some of these people need to look in the damn mirror.
When the van stops, even the guards hesitate, sharing glances between each other as though debating who has the pleasure of going first.
I’m pulled to my feet. None of them look at me. Not one of them spare me a single word as the doors are pulled open.
The whole world narrows.
Flashes, shouts, screams.
Anger. Hatred .
Such pulsating, vibrant hatred that I can almost taste it, sour and prickly on my tongue as the guards drag me out, making a show of it, much to the delight of the crowd.
They push against the makeshift barriers someone thought to put up, screaming in my face, shrieking insults and vitriol as I’m pulled along towards the palace.
It feels like it’s miles away, and I wonder if they’ve done it deliberately. More of a spectacle.
I let them do it, let them almost drag me, unable to see beyond the twisted faces surrounding me.
This is so much worse than what I imagined.
A grunt escapes my throat as something hits my face, hard. The guards pause, scanning the area, and I stare down at the apple core on the ground.
Another hit connects with my cheekbone, and my head whips to the side. I suck in a breath at the spike of pain.
More follows. I wait to see if the guards will do something, anything, but they just look ahead, prodding me along.
No , I realize, glancing around.
They’re falling back, shoving me ahead of them with harsh hands, leaving just enough space for the public to have full access. Protecting themselves or throwing me to the wolves, it’s the same thing.
And the people screaming in my face take full advantage.
I lose track of the number of items that hit me as we walk towards the palace. People are pressed against the barriers all the way up the steep flight of white stone steps, shouting and laughing as I’m splattered with rotten fruit and vegetables.
I keep my head down, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a response, even as my ears ring and stinging slaps ring out against my skin. It’s only when something smashes against my forehead that I stagger, and the guards finally decide to step in.
They lift me up the last few steps as I shake my head, trying to get rid of the fuzziness. The ornate entrance doors are opened for us, and they pull me through, the sounds of the crowd dying away behind us as someone pushes them shut.
I don’t get a second to pull myself together.
They pick up the pace, yanking me forward, dragging me down a hallway filled with huge pieces of art in gilded golden frames.
Members of the royal family stare down at me in silent judgement, and I almost laugh when I catch sight of Ella’s perfect face amongst them.
Prim and delicate, seated on a throne next to Crispin.
Jesus. She works fast, considering they’re not even married yet.
I’m expecting a courtroom. Maybe a judge, a jury. But instead, I’m dragged into a long, high-ceilinged room, as ornate and overdone as the rest of this fucking place.
There is no judge. No jury to be seen.
No. Instead, my sister and her fiancée sit in matching thrones at the end of the room. Watching me as I’m escorted towards them. Rows of courtiers line the walls, every one of them ridiculously overdressed, whispering and giggling to themselves as I’m paraded past them.
At least none of this lot seem to have any rotten fruit at hand. Their eyes flick over me with distaste, lips curling back in disgust as they murmur about my hair, the sack of a dress I’m wearing.
One loud woman complains about the smell. My whole face heats in response, humiliation prickling the back of my neck.
But everyone silences as we reach the end of the room, and I’m pushed down onto my knees. They hit the stone floor solidly, and I bite back a wince as I shuffle in place before looking up.