Delphina's POV
In our house, innocence meant nothing, only who cried first. And Ceilia always cried first.
"Mummy!"
Ceilia's scream tore through the house.
I froze.
She stood in the centre of the bedroom, clutching her finger as blood welled from a neat crescent bite. Her bite. She had bitten her finger right in front of me.
"I'm bleeding!" she wailed.
My feet would not move. There was nowhere to hide anyway. The wardrobe door had no lock. The bathroom lock never worked. The window had iron bars.
I heard footsteps approaching, and my heart raced in my chest.
"What happened?"
Mum appeared at the doorway, holding a spatula still in her hand from the kitchen. Oil glistened on its surface. Her eyes moved from Ceilia's tears to the blood, then slowly to me.
"Delphina hurt my finger," Ceilia sobbed.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Mum took Ceilia's hand gently, inspecting it as if she were examining a crystal in her shop. She cooed softly. Wiped the blood with the edge of her apron.
Then her arm swung. The spatula struck my shoulder before I could brace myself.
"How dare you hurt her?" she shouted.
"Mummy, I didn't..."
The second blow landed across my arm. The third on my back.
The spatula made a flat, cracking sound each time it connected with my skin. She was holding my hand and repeatedly hitting me with the spatula.
Ceilia's crying softened.
"Mummy, please," I begged, while my attempt to free myself proved futile. "I didn't do it."
Like always, my voice did not exist.
She beat me until her breathing grew heavy and satisfied. When she finally stopped, I was shaking. My skin marked with red patches, and injuries resulting from the beating, but she didn't care.
She had never cared.
"As your punishment, you will stay locked in the basement," she said, seizing my wrist.
I was only six years old.
I stumbled as she dragged me down the narrow staircase. The basement door creaked open. Damp air rose to meet us.
While she shoved me inside, I turned.
Ceilia stood at the top of the stairs.
She stuck her tongue out teasingly.
The door slammed, and the lock clicked before I could get to it.
I pressed my back against the wood and slid down slowly. My arms burned. My legs stung. My skin would become redder by nightfall.
This was how it had always been.
Ceilia is my twin.
We shared a birthday, not a face. She had black hair and warm brown eyes that made people smile. I had brunette hair and green eyes that made people whisper.
From the day we were born, she had been the miracle, and I, the mistake.
I learned very early that one word was forbidden in Ceilia's world. No.
I had a storybook. Kevin from next door had given it to me. He said it was his favourite and that I was clever enough to understand it.
Ceilia wanted it.
"No," I said.
And that was it. She bit her own finger.
And here I was, beaten and locked up in a basement.
Father never questioned anything. He worked, ate, and slept. Mum owned a boutique where rich women shopped for imported silk and perfume.
We were not poor. Yet I delivered newspapers before dawn.
Ceilia went to school in polished shoes and pleated skirts. I scrubbed floors that were already clean. In the afternoons, I cooked, washed, ironed, and dusted until every surface shone like glass.
Yes, I started cooking for the family at the age of six.
The only good thing they did for me was buy the groceries and provide me with cooking books. That started when they discovered I had learned to read and write on my own.
"If there is dust, you do not eat," Mum would say.
We shared a room once. Ceilia slept on the queen-sized bed. I slept on the floor.
"It will be easier when Ceilia needs something," Mum had explained.
By the time I was thirteen years old, even that small space was taken from me. The servants who cleaned the compound were dismissed one by one. I replaced them all.
"You are old enough to earn your keep."
I moved into the kitchen storage room. It smelled of flour and detergent.
"It will help you wake early," Mum said.
It helped me understand what I was.
Staff.
Kevin was the only soft thing in my world.
Over weekends, he would teach me what he learned at school. Algebra frightened me. History fascinated me. He said I asked questions like someone meant for more.
When I turned fifteen, he told me his father had now taken over from his grandfather to manage the Wilson's Group. They were moving.
"Delphina, take this." He pressed a cheap plastic ring into my palm. Blue stone. Too large for my finger.
"I'll come back for you when I'm older," he said with a grin he believed in.
I hugged him tightly.
That was the last time I saw him.
I slid a thread through the ring and wore it around my neck for years. I wore high-neck tops, so it was easy to hide it from my family.
Hope is a stubborn thing, but it was the only thing that kept me going.
One day, I will be free.
I always encouraged myself with those words.
It will not be like this forever.
By twenty, hope had turned into something sharper.