I've been trapped in this house for as long as I can remember.
Walls that whisper. Floors that creak. A hallway that never ends.
"Get back here, you silly girl!"
Seleya's voice cracks like a whip. It slices through the air, rattling the tiles, bouncing off the walls, shattering the silence. Glass-breaking sharp. I shrink. Always shrink.
Seleya Jonathan—my stepsister, my cousin by scandal, the legitimate daughter of my father and my mother's sister—has made it her life's work to remind me of the sin that birthed me: my mother's affair, a scandal that stole everything.
Daughter of a slut. A cheap prostitute.
She has made it her life's work to remind me of the sin that birthed me—my mother's affair, a scandal that stole everything.
"Zari! Bring those clothes. Make her scrub until her hands bleed. And if any of you dare help her, you're fired!"
I stare at the floor, at a scuffed tile. Maybe it can shield me. Maybe it can swallow me. I've folded myself into myself, origami-thin, in Seleya's presence for as long as I can remember.
Her heels scrape the wood as she spins on her heel, a warning in every sharp echo. "And if you don't scrub harder, I'll double your punishment. Maybe then your useless mother will learn to keep her filthy legs shut instead of chasing other women's husbands."
Silence falls like dust. Thick. Suffocating. The air smells faintly of old soap and varnish. Metallic tang of fear curls around my lungs.
What can I say? Words are meaningless here. My mother's sins carved scars deeper than any cut. She jumped. The world blamed her. I called it abandonment. Every November 17th I visit her grave and drop scorpions there. Not for revenge—maybe a little—but to remind the world she isn't forgotten.
Today isn't November 17th. Today isn't special. But the urge lingers. I am supposed to be at school, writing exams that decide my life. Yet here I am, scrubbing floors. Hands raw. Skin stinging. Punished for crimes I didn't commit, for sins I didn't make. My father walks free. Average. Pathetic. Unscathed. Why does he live while I suffer?
Zari hovers near the corridor's edge. Her eyes flick between pity and anger. Seleya's shadow looms over us. Suffocating. Deliberate.
I feel it flare inside me—the fire I buried long ago. The dangerous spark I entertained at fifteen: poison my father. I remember Zarina whispering plans, urging me, daring me. Heart hammering, hands shaking, I backed away then. But the thought lingers. The fire stays.
The basin water burns my hands. Soap stings. Yet nothing compares to the fire in my chest. Every scrub, every swipe, I weave defiance into the rhythm. I will not bend. Not entirely.
"Come here, Zari." Seleya's voice cuts the air again, sharp as broken glass. I freeze. My shadow stretches long along the corridor. I take a slow step toward her command, measured, careful.
Warm lemon-scented water in my hands. Clothes soaked, beaten with effort, but still the bitterness remains, sticking like a second skin.
Zarina whispers beside me. "Why do you take it? You're family too. You're supposed to fight. You're supposed to plan revenge. I brought ideas—tons of them—but you refused. Do you like suffering?"
"No." My voice is quiet. Wrings through the cloth like water through my hands. "My mother is dead. My father… useless. Let them rot in their world. Misogynists, both. I wouldn't do what they do to me now—but I can't blame them. My father deserves it most."
Zarina nods, but her eyes betray her worry. She's five months older than me. An orphan, found on the edge of the mansion years ago. My closest companion. My light in this suffocating house.
"By the way," she whispers again, "I heard Seleya telling Catherina your step-witch and loser father will be back tomorrow. Why can't they stay away? And your exams—how are you going to do them? She said you'll wash the curtains."
I narrow my eyes. Spark of defiance igniting in. "Wash what? that bitch must Must be Delusional. She can't make me leave my exams."
"What will you do?" Zarina asks.
"Sneak out. Go to school. Write my exams. What else? She can insult my mother, punish me, try all she wants. I will leave. Tomorrow."
I ignore the last shirt, leaving my hands red and raw. There are maids. There's a washing machine. Yet here I am, punished for my mother's sins, my father's mediocrity. I think of Threnax—not for revenge, not yet—but as a reminder. Why should I suffer while my father enjoys life? Seleya or no Seleya, tomorrow I reclaim my future.
"Zari, help me iron my uniform. Tomorrow is almost here."
"On it," she says, rising gracefully. I watch her go. Gratitude pools in my chest. Without her, I would be swallowed by this mansion's darkness.
Laughter echoes. Maids straighten. Murmurs. Greetings. Seleya calls out, steel in her voice, hugs her parents as if nothing exists beyond her perfect world. The butler, Chen, motions the maids to the luggage, the clatter punctuating the air.
I spot Zarina again. "What's happening?"
"Step-witch and loser dad are back," she replies, disgust and amusement mixed in her tone.
"Really? I thought you said tomorrow."
"I said tomorrow, but Seleya arrived early. Rumor travels fast."
The fire in me tightens. Tomorrow. I will go. I will reclaim. I will not let this house, this woman, or my father define me. I will not bend. Not entirely.
The corridor stretches endlessly. Soap stings. Heels echo. Shadows twist. I close my eyes. Tomorrow, I am not just a girl scrubbing floors. Tomorrow, I am Hina.
I take a breath. Hands wet. Fingers red. Heart thrumming. My shadow stretches long, but it no longer feels heavy. It feels like power. Like waiting. Like fire.
I hum softly as I scrub, thread of defiance weaving into every motion. The mansion, the cruelty, the weight of family sins—none of it can stop me.
Tomorrow, Seleya will wake to an empty hallway. Tomorrow, I will walk into the sun. And nothing, not even her, will hold me back.