Chapter 2:
Ella's
The mirror was a lie. The girl staring back from the glass shared my panic, but the face was not mine. I reached out and touched the smooth surface; she mimicked the gesture, wide-eyed and visibly shaking. My soul had somehow stolen the skin of another.
The small room was heavy with the smell of damp cloth and stale. Dresses lay strewn across the floor, crumpled and defeated like fallen soldiers.
I began to shove them into the corners, then grabbed a rag and scrubbed the sticky ground until my unfamiliar knees ached and trembled from the effort.
When my arms finally gave out, I collapsed onto the thin mattress pushed into the corner. My chest heaved up and down too fast, and I could hear the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat echoing against my teeth.
Then it struck—a flash of white-hot pain slicing through my skull. I clutched my head as a torrent of strange memories flooded into my mind: a tiny coffin being lowered into dark earth, a woman's sharp, cruel laugh, the sickening hiss of a belt striking bare skin.
None of these experiences belonged to me, yet I felt every single lash, every raw, desperate tear. I buried my face deep into the pillow and screamed until my throat was burning and raw.
The door burst open. A thick, broad woman filled the frame, her wrapper tied so tight it seemed to be a physical expression of her anger.
"Why are you screaming?" she barked out, her voice sharp enough to cut. "The plates are waiting to be washed, the water drums are empty, and you're lying here like a dead rat. Move now before I drag you out myself!"
She stormed off before I could manage to speak a single word. But I knew her. The flood of memories that were not mine provided her name—stepmother. A different country, perhaps, but the poison was exactly the same. The girl who had violently kicked me awake earlier this morning? Her daughter. Same suffocating arrogance, just a new accent.
I sat up slowly. My reflection still quivered in the cracked mirror, eyes huge and profoundly unsure. I stared at her until my breathing finally evened out, then I whispered the words: "New game. New rules."
I stood and straightened the borrowed, coarse dress. It was rough to the touch and torn at the hem, but it would have to do.
My body moved differently here—it was smaller, leaner—but I sensed a new, hidden strength coiled beneath the bones. I walked out of the room, my feet silent on the uneven floorboards.
The living room was small and suffocatingly hot. A pot of pepper soup steamed vigorously in the center of a worn, faded mat.
The stepmother sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a church flyer back and forth to try and chase away the oppressive heat.
Her daughter was there too, licking soup from her fingers, her gold bangles clinking noisily as she reached into the pot for another piece of meat.
I stopped directly in front of them. They barely glanced up at my presence.
"Have you finished washing everything?" the woman asked, her eyes still focused intently on her bowl.
"No," I said clearly and firmly. "And I won't start until I eat what you are eating."
Her daughter instantly froze mid-bite, then erupted into harsh, mocking laughter that bounced sharply off the close walls. "Who in the world do you think you are?" she sneered at me.
I met her challenging eyes without blinking or backing down. "Someone who cooked that food while you sat here painting your nails."
The smile vanished from her face instantly.
The stepmother rose from the floor slowly, her face tightening with pure fury. "You ungrateful thing!" she shouted, her voice rising. "Your father died, and I was the one who kept you in this house! You should be on your knees thanking me right now!"
I stepped closer, keeping my voice low but steady and unwavering. "You didn't keep me—you only trapped me. My father built this house with his own sweat and hard work, and you have simply lived off his name and money ever since. You didn't save me. You just used me."
Her hand flew up into the air, moving as fast and quick as a whip. Instinct took over my body completely. I caught her wrist midair and held it firmly, the intended slap dying before it could ever land. For one frozen heartbeat, the entire room went completely still.
My grip tightened just a fraction. "Listen very carefully to what I say," I said, my voice calm but unnervingly cold. "I am not the Amara you used to slap around and bully. Touch me again, and you will lose the hand that spends my father's money."
Her mouth fell open, but no words were able to escape. Her daughter immediately jumped to her feet, her bracelets jangling frantically. "Let Mama go right now!"
I glanced at the girl without letting go of her mother's wrist. "Stay exactly where you are. You absolutely do not want to test me."
The stepmother struggled and tried to pull her wrist free, but I twisted it just enough to make her gasp sharply in pain. Then, I released her. She stumbled backward, her eyes wide with total disbelief. Her daughter behind her stared at me as if she had suddenly seen a ghost.
I took a slow, steady breath, straightened my shoulders, and looked directly between the two of them. "Hear me well and understand this," I stated. "The old Amara is gone forever. The one you beat and starved and bullied—she is never coming back. Try to break me again, and you will meet someone entirely new."
The room fell into a heavy, absolute silence. Even the bubbling soup seemed to hold its breath.
For the very first time since I arrived, I saw genuine fear in their eyes.
I turned toward the door, my steps measured and perfectly calm. Behind me, the stepmother's voice cracked with a desperate urgency. "Amara! Come back here immediately!"
I didn't stop walking. I didn't even look back over my shoulder.
Not this time.