The Dance That Started It All

I remember as a child, my mother would always say to my brother and me that "happiness can be found even in the most miserable of places". Every time my brother would come home from school with a bad mark, or my father would have to give up a fishing trip or a date night with mother, that would be the first thing to spill forth from her lips. I love her, even now she's the first thing in my mind when I wake up and the last thing I think about at night before I fall asleep. However, while gently applying pressure to the latest of the blooming red carnal blossoms blooming on my arms, I found out that she was wrong. Dead wrong.
I wrapped the gauze tighter around my forearm and flexed my fingers, curling the digits into my palm and out again. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. They weren't that deep, at least the ones scattered around my wrists. I knew that they would be healed around this time come next week; which, while not ideal meant that at least cleaning wouldn't be as painful as it could be.
The flickering florescent lights harshly illuminated the cramped basement bathroom. In the cold hue, I could trace the crescent-shaped indents on my swollen, left cheek. The unforgiving claw marks lay there, with thin strings of translucent patches of skin hanging over the gauges. I barley recognized the girl staring back at me.
I thought back to them, as I often found during times like these. What would they do had they seen me in such a state: battered and bruised like a cheap doll in a primary school courtyard. Would they be enraged? Would my brother start beating down doors and threatening people, demanding blood on my behalf? Or would they collectively bow their heads and usher me all hush-like into the back of my mother's beat up lemon, as per the case like all those times when mother had to pick me up from the guidance counselor's office during Junior High?
I raised my palm oh so slowly upwards towards the glass and rested it on my reflection's rounded cheeks, bloody and dirt stained. Those days were long gone, though. Dead and gone and never coming back.
I suppose it all started with that damn hotel. She was tall and well-kept with a aura of stability. I think that's what drew him in, an unspoken promise of something corporeal that could be held and felt. Perfect for a widow like him. Although seeming to be smooth as water, smooth she was not. Because you see, even vodka can be mistaken for water under the right circumstances. And unfortunately, some people don't realize that until they've drunk themselves half to death.
Helga was her name; a Nordic woman she was, with a fragile face and gray eyes like a fierce winter wind with a guttural, deep accent that reminded twelve year old me of gnashing metals.
At the time, I had not the knowledge to understand why they had screamed so loudly that night. I had thought my father was still mourning, still crying. So I cried too, wailing for the family that couldn't hear me, and for the family that didn't care. No one had come to comfort me: soothe my tired lungs, or calm my raging thoughts. It was just me, not understanding that my only father had mistaken Grey Goose for water and was slowly drowning his senses in that burning nectar.
Norwegian, I learned a few months later, after the engagement was finalized. Around the same time, I remember, was when I was told I would have two new sisters- one older and one younger. Anna and Elsa, who spoke in the same way as their mother: in garbled gnashing that couldn't be farther from mother's gentle chirping soprano.
She corrected me, the first time I asked her name. 'Ah-na not An-a!' she cried and screamed until I was put in a corner as punishment, only to watch my father comfort her as though she was the victim there. It was mutually distasteful, to say the least, that underwent an evolution over the years. It went from two sisters disliking their new step-sibling to two mistresses who couldn't tolerate the very presence of their filthy, fat-bottomed housemaid.
I sighed, gently applying a very generous amount of ointment on my cheeks. All of this was a mess; nothing was the way it should have been. I listened to the crackle and faint sputter of top 40s of the radio. White noise, but it was better than silence. There wasn't much furniture in the basement, save for the absolute bare minimum. So even the little things helped to make it seem less akin to a lengthy prison sentence. However, no matter what anyone labeled it, my predicament still felt like one.
The speakers crinkled and whined. I threw my head back and wondered what New York would sound like at this time of night. Maybe if one closed their eyes and focused, the dull static could pass as the roar of traffic, nonstop engines upon engines that purred like eager kittens, and the 'whoosh' of nightlife. Maybe if one focused, the musty basement stench could be confused for an obscure, alternative brewery, filled to the brim with counter-culture sentiment and music that I've never heard the likes of before. Maybe if one focused, the deep red streaks adorning my face could have been war paint from a particularly raucous night out on the town, where I stumbled in a half-drunk stupor towards my loft- all the while giggling like a madwoman as I tumbled and tripped over my expensive heel. Its rat-ta-tat-tapping on polished tile would echo alone, not even remembering on which crosswalk I had lost the other. Maybe perhaps a mysterious, good-natured lad would stop to help me up, not bothered by my weight and all the while making passes at me from behind a charming smile and and icy blue eyes that wrinkled around the corners when he laughed.
Except it wasn't New York. I was still here in a musky basement in suburbia where I was a live-in maid for my newly reassembled family. The fantasy dissolved before my eyes: the playful man's silver locks dissolving before my mind's eye, the grungy lounge's musk dissipating to give way to the basement's, and the traffic on the Manhattan strip tuning back into monotonous static. Longing. That's what they called it, but it felt more like dying to me. But, as empty and lonesome those nights were- lusting for a life that wasn't mine; they were still far better than busy days that were to inevitably come afterwards.
"You there! Hey!"
"Yes, Helga?" I swiveled to a halt, balancing the two silver trays of breakfast in both hands, careful not to drop them. I didn't need to face her to tell that she was displeased; for, not only was she that way most of the time, but the room temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. The hairs on the back of my neck stood in defiance of her evaluating gaze.
"I'm sure your mother would be disappointed at your lack of manners, or did she not teach you to look at people when they're talking to you?" I heard the billow of her skirt before I felt it.
With a 'thud' I was seeing stars. She brought her open palm against the back of my head. Once was more than enough for me. My head jerked forward, my body following similarly; however somehow I still managed to keep a grip on the increasingly burdensome platters.
"Good girl." Helga 'tch'ed behind me, before striding into my line of sight. Her ankle-length skirt moved freely behind her, flourishing dangerously in the nonexistent wind.
"You've neglected your duties again, I see. The garden looks atrocious." She pursed her chapped lips before meeting my gaze.
"I did it exactly the way you asked." I grit my teeth and hoped she hadn't noticed the my eye twitch.
"I am a fickle woman, as are my tastes and yet my point stands." The woman took a step forward, casting a long shadow over my much shorter frame. It was a challenge, I knew as much. Her intense gaze of frost enveloped me until my skin crawled with the vengeance of a thousand pinpricks. The trays wobbled uncertainly in my hands, growing more weighty as the moments ticked by. I lowered my head.
"I understand."
"Good, I'll also hope you see to it that the errands get done by lunch."
"Yes, Helga."
She stood there for a minute: stocky and foreboding. Her lip curled in a slow, lingering movement, before she pivoted sharply on her left heel and continued down the Spanish-tiled floor. The navy blue fabric followed her, dancing as though compelled by a breeze that wasn't there and leaving me alone with only the soft clicks of her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I took a deep breath and regained my composure: stand up straight and keep your head held high. That and ignore the incessant, dull throbbing that engulfed nearly my entire skull in a repetitive drumbeat.
Ah-na was the younger of the two, and objectively the most annoying in the fact that she was spoiled to a poison. She was child-like in her tastes and I oftentimes had to put aside money from the weekly budget into satisfying her sweet tooth: imported Swiss chocolates, Italian pastries from ivy embraced bakeries across town, and French sweet breads from places I couldn't pronounce- much less visit. A part of me envied her palette- to eat so much as not to gain an ounce. She was the opposite of me in that regard; a fact that both Helga and her freely point out anytime I had the audacity to send a wayward glance towards the confectioneries.
I hoped that she would still be asleep. For, the sky had only just lightened not nearly a half an hour ago and I knew that sometimes, had she been out with a boy, she would sleep until the sun was far past risen. However the winter months were always the worst for me, luck-wise. I raised my hand to knock. I rapped once and waited.
There was a low mumble on the other end, and the creaking of box springs.
"Mmm-hmmm, 'ma wake..."
I cursed my misfortune and swallowed my pride, entering the all too familiar room. It was, after all, once mine. I set the other sister's tray on the dresser, gleaming mockingly at me under the early morning rays.
"Today's breakfast is fette biscottate with assorted jams and hot spiced milk."
The ginger girl reached halfheartedly for the tray, groping the air in a disinterested manner. Not even a 'thanks'... Tentatively, I placed it on the bedside table. It was within her reach but not close enough to spill; unfortunately I learned this the hard way.
If I were to say one good thing it would be that at least the poor girl isn't intentionally malicious. No, that goes to the one and only Elsa herself. That girl was the same order of thing as her mother: tall, broad-shouldered, and frightful. Just as Helga's very presence seemed to drop a room's temperature by at least a half, as did Elsa's. Her room (or my brother's) was always seemingly below zero; I swear I've even seen icicle-like frost on the inside windows a few times. However, Elsa's taste was a lot more subtle, which made it somewhat easy for me, preferring smoked salmon or herring with dill on crispy rye to Anna's exotic sweet bread and imported saccharine jams.
I repeated the ritual. Knock once and wait and wait and wait, that is until she deems my waiting an appropriate length. Today it was five minutes.
She leaned against the door frame, looking at me with narrowed eyes. Elsa didn't talk much to me, or to my father, so it wasn't particularly out of place for her to spend at least a few seconds sizing me up.
"Finally." She arched a brow, placing her hands out in front of her. Expecting.
Even though my hands shook and my eye twitched, I humored her.
"You've done a good job at being our doggy," The vowels on the tail end dipped low and menacing. I couldn't tell if that was simply the way her accent was, or if she was trying to insult me. "So I will give you a tip. Eat less and work more."
The door shut harshly, the noise bouncing across the hall and back into my throbbing eardrums and worsening my already intense headache.
"One of these days..." I muttered, pushing back the sleeves to my work shirt.
I spent the next seeming eternity working among the bougainvilleas and hydrenas; first snowfall was late this year and I yearned for the days in which I did not have to plant and replant according to Helga's indecisiveness. Though secretly, I thought that she would never be satisfied until all traces of mother were gone from the property, and her garden was her pride when she was here. Contests upon contests she won with her green thumb and lively morning glories or forget-me-nots. However, Helga's first order was to rid the garden of those, replacing them with gaudy, thorny flowering shrubs, saying that they looked 'queer'. But she was never satisfied for long. I had never liked gardening even when mom was around, so I imagine it only worsened when I was elbows-deep in razor-like thorns.
I groaned, looking at my currently bleeding forearms. Great. Now the damage that was already there was going to take longer to heal. The cool breeze tickled my neck as I worked, borderline robotic: pluck, plant, spread, pluck, plant, spread, pluck, plant- so on and so forth until I could no longer feel my fingertips and my arms shook like leaves in the wind. But nonetheless, it was done. Or at least until tomorrow- when Helga inevitably changed her mind again. Smaller and smaller that piece of my life before all of this became with each one of her step-mother's orders. Sad and dying under its new mistress, trapped and boxed in. Maybe I could relate to the garden after all...
"Hey! Handmaid!" A voice called from behind.
I was ripped from my musings in an instant, scrambling to get to my feet.
Anna stood with a flower pinned into her plaited hair, hands behind her back and head in the clouds. Her floral-patterned skirt wavered lightly as if to say hello.
"Yes?" I tilted my head; the two almost never came back here. So I immediately thought it was about another arbitrary duty Helga was looking to get me in for.
"Here, there's a boy whose a regular at the market," the heiress produced a childishly pink envelope, "and I want you to bring it to him when you go! It'll be so romantic- passing secret notes with the aid of the family help!"
I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Did she...forget that I was technically related? Apparently, at some point my jaw had gone slack, because she felt the need to comment.
"Oh! Do say you'll help!" She grasped my shoulders firmly, "I know it may be daunting, but-"
I was not staying for this. There was only so many things I was willing to put up with but listening to her go on about some lad and their imaginary relationship was a hard no from me.
"You know what, I'll do it- as long as you keep this secret." I struggled to come up for a reason why, besides it was irritating and I didn't want to listen to her ramble on about her infamous five minute romances. "You, uh, don't want anyone to try and come between you two? Yeah?"
"You're right!" She gasped audibly, before leaning in closer. "His name's Jack. Jack Overland."