Not Home, But Hell

"Wake up, Althea! Stop lazing around. There's work to do!"

Althea stirred awake at the sudden, sharp noise that echoed through the cold, dimly lit room. A loud bang rattled the wooden door, sending a tremor down her spine. She knew that sound too well.

Althea took a deep breath, letting it out in a slow, tired sigh. Her whole body hurt, the exhaustion sticking to her like a heavy blanket. She was tired—more than usual—but arguing was pointless. She forced herself to sit up, brushing a few strands of her chestnut-brown hair from her face. The candle on the bedside table had long since burned out, leaving only the dim, bluish light of the early dawn filtering through the small window. The room was bare and chilly, nothing like the fancy estate it was part of. Just a narrow bed, a wooden dresser with a cracked mirror, and a small basin of water.

Another loud knock made her flinch. "I heard you the first time, Elda," she muttered under her breath as she stood. Her nightgown, thin and worn, did little to keep her warm against the morning chill. Moving carefully, she unlocked the door and swung it open, coming face to face with the woman outside.

Elda stood there in her perfectly pressed maid uniform, arms crossed and a smug grin on her face. Her sharp features were drawn into an expression of arrogant amusement, her dark eyes flashed with open disdain.

"Took you long enough," Elda sneered. "I swear, you're getting slower by the day. Do you think you can sleep in just because you're the Count's daughter?" Her voice dripped with mockery, her stance unwavering.

Althea met her gaze with quiet composure, refusing to let the words sting. "You could wake me up nicely, you know,."

Elda let out a short, cruel laugh. "Why would I? Do you think you deserve kindness? You should be grateful we even bother waking you at all. Or have you forgotten what you are?" She leaned in, her voice lowering into something venomous. "You're just an illegitimate child. Nothing more."

Althea remained silent. There was no point in defending herself when the truth was undeniable. She was the illegitimate daughter of Count Desmond Thornwell, a child born from his betrayal. Her father had taken her in only after her mother passed, but not as his daughter—never as his daughter. He made her live as a servant, a stain upon the family name. And his wife, Lady Vivianne, made sure everyone in the household knew it.

The maids scorned her. The guards ignored her. The noble guests whispered about her existence with distaste. To them, she was an unwanted presence, an embarrassment that should never have been acknowledged. Elda, like many others, took pleasure in reminding her of that fact.

Althea exhaled slowly, looking toward the window. The sky outside was still dark, the sun barely beginning to rise. She had overslept by a little, though she wasn't sure why she felt so worn down today. Her limbs felt heavy, her muscles sore. But it didn't matter. Excuses would not be tolerated, and she had no desire to argue.

"I was about to wake up anyway," she said, brushing past Elda's remark as she stepped aside. "I'll be ready soon."

Elda huffed. "See that you are. You're needed in the kitchen." With a final scoff, she turned on her heel and walked away, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall.

Althea closed the door and leaned against it, releasing a weary sigh. Her gaze drifted to the cracked mirror on her dresser, and she approached it, staring at her own reflection. Soft hazel eyes, framed by thick lashes, stared back at her. Her long, wavy chestnut-brown hair tumbled past her waist, wild and free—nothing like the perfectly styled locks of her stepmother and stepsister. Her skin was so pale it almost looked sickly, a result of too much work and too little food. Yet, despite it all, she mustered a small, fragile smile.

"It's fine," she whispered to herself. "Everything's fine."

She quickly cleaned up, threw on her boring servant uniform, and pulled her hair back into a simple tie. Then, she made her way to the kitchen. The warm scent of bread and firewood filled the air, yet it offered no comfort. She fell into her routine without hesitation—boiling water, cleaning countertops, scrubbing dishes. The work was mindless, a cycle she had long since grown accustomed to.

Later, she was sent to the back garden to sweep. The chilly morning air bit at her skin as she worked, the rough wooden broom scraping against the stone path. The only sounds were the leaves rustling outside and the faint voices of people talking.

Then, footsteps approached. Two figures emerged from the hallway ahead, their presence making her pause. Her grip on the broom tightened, her head instinctively bowing as they drew closer.

"Truly, what bad luck," a woman's voice rang out, cold and sharp. "Running into her so early in the morning."

Althea remained still, her eyes lowering further. She knew that voice.

"Mother, don't be so harsh," a second voice chimed in—a younger, sweeter tone, laced with amusement. "She might start crying."

Lady Vivianne and Evelyne.

Althea's stepmother, adorned in an elegant crimson gown, walked with calculated grace, her head held high as though the very air around her was beneath her. Her sharp blue eyes bore down on Althea with thinly veiled contempt. Beside her, Evelyne—dressed in a soft lavender gown with golden embroidery—grinned mockingly, her delicate features twisted with delight.

Vivianne barely spared her another glance, but Evelyne, oh, Evelyne enjoyed this far too much. She stepped closer, stopping just in front of Althea, who remained unmoving.

"You're working so hard," Evelyne cooed, faking admiration. "Perhaps if you keep this up, I'll convince Father to let you stay forever as a maid. Wouldn't that be wonderful? A place just for you, right here in the estate."

Her voice was sickly sweet, her words dripping with false generosity. Althea said nothing. She knew better than to respond.

Evelyne giggled, clearly entertained, before turning away. "Let's go, Mother," she said, looping her arm through Vivianne's. The two walked away, their laughter trailing behind them like a lingering curse.

Althea slowly looked up, her face giving nothing away as she watched them walk away. A chuckle escaped her lips—not one of amusement, but something bitter, something resolved.

"No," she murmured to herself, gripping the broom handle tighter. "I won't stay in this hell any longer."

She would escape.

One day soon, she would leave this place and never look back.