"They made you
Into a weapon,
And told you to find peace."
- Anonymous.
Not long after, she heard the door beep, indicating that someone had entered. She went to check on it only to see the husband coming in with Vitoria. She collected their coat, before going to get them a champagne and glasses. When she returned to the living room, she saw they were already too deep in their throes of passion, then, she left quietly. She knew she couldn't sleep till the fall asleep, in case she needed something.
She kept herself awake by thinking back to the happenings of the party they attended. She remembered the man she met, wondering why he gave off a familiar energy. His words kept on ringing in her mind.
Not long after, the lovers movement stopped. It seems like they were done. She could finally go to sleep.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the room. Isabis moved silently, her footsteps barely making a sound on the cold floor. The events of the previous night lingered in her mind, a haunting reminder of her place in the household.
She busied herself with the morning routine, each task performed with meticulous care. The clinking of dishes, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the sizzle of eggs in the pan—all familiar sounds and scents that offered a semblance of normalcy.
But the tranquility was short-lived.
Vitoria descended the staircase, clad in nothing but his shirt, a gloating smile playing on her lips. She sauntered into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room with malice, waiting to nitpick on any single thing out of place.
"Is this supposed to be breakfast?" she sneered, picking up a piece of toast and inspecting it as if it were a garbage.
Isabis remained silent, her hands steady as she continued to prepare the meal.
"I've had better meals at stalls, " Vitoria continued, her voice dripping with unveiled disgust . "And the coffee? Why is it black?" She shrieked.
Isabis offered no response, her face a mask of calm. She had learned long ago that silence was her safest refuge.
Vitoria's eyes narrowed. "Are you deaf or just stupid? Or, are you mocking me?"
Still, Isabis said nothing.
The mistress scoffed, tossing the toast back onto the plate. "Pathetic," she mumbled before turning on her heel and leaving the kitchen.
Alone once more, Isabis allowed herself a moment to breathe. She leaned against the counter, her eyes closing briefly as she sought solace in the quiet.
Her thoughts drifted to the man from the party—the one whose presence had felt familiar, and almost like home.
"You don't belong here," he had said, mirth and mystery coating his words.
Those words had sparked something in her. She continued to anticipate her freedom as her birthday approached, though, she didn't understand why.
She opened her eyes, a newfound determination settling over her. She would endure, as she always had. But now, she would also plan. She would find a way to reclaim her life, to break free from the chains that bound her.
After clearing her mind, she went to set the table for breakfast. Immediately after setting it up, the echo of laughter drifted down the hallway. Isabis stood in the kitchen, hands wringing the cloth she used to dry the last plate. She didn't have to look up to know they were coming. Her body always knew first—tightened spine, thudding heart. Even now, the reaction came naturally, forgetting her earlier resolution.
He entered first, tall and brooding, the tailored collar of his shirt slightly askew, as if he had just been entangled in pleasure. Vitoria followed, barefoot, wearing a wicked smirk on her face.
"She talks back when no one is watching," Vitoria said casually, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt, the one she was wearing. "And I don't mean politely. You should hear the way she talks back behind one's back when she thinks no one can hear her."
The husband didn't reply immediately. He turned to look at Isabis, his expression unreadable but darkening. "Is that true?" he asked her, as if her answers were going to change his judgement.
Isabis shook her head slowly. "I never did that." She whispered.
"She called you pathetic," Vitoria added, voice still whiny, one she knew he couldn't resist. "And me—well, nothing worth repeating. But I wouldn't lie to you. Trust me."
"She's lying," Isabis whispered.
He stepped closer, slowly. Purposefully and menacingly. "Are you calling her a liar?"
"I never said those things." She replied again, despite knowing it was a bad idea.
His hand moved so quickly, the slap startled her more than it hurt. She staggered back, bumping into the counter. Vitoria cheered.
"You ungrateful little bitch ," he said. "I feed you, clothe you, and you repay my by disrespecting my woman?"
Feed. Clothe. That was all they've always told her.
"You've grown too comfortable," he continued coldly. "You need to be punished so that you can remember your place." He growled.
He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her toward the store room. Vitoria followed at a distance, humming a soft melody—one that Isabis later heard echoing in nightmares.
Once inside, he threw her to the floor roughly.
"You listen to me," he hissed, bending down so his breath struck her cheek. "You are nothing. You are here because I allow it. And if you ever breathe wrong near her again, you'll wish you were dead."
Isabis stared at the floor, her cheeks burning, her throat tight. His words were knives, but they no longer cut as deeply. Something had started to numb inside her. Something had started to shift.
He left her there for hours, the door locked behind him. The house grew quiet. Somewhere, Vitoria laughed again.
That night,after the door was opened for her, she barely made it to bed. Her limbs ached, her chest heavy with silence. But when she closed her eyes, the velvet-draped room from her dreams appeared again—waiting, unchanged.
He was already there.
"I saw what they did," he said quietly.
"You always do," she replied.
She was standing this time, and so was he, his form shadowed.
"I didn't say those things," she murmured, as if wanting him to believe her.
"I know," he said.
For the first time, she stepped toward him. Her feet made no sound. Her hands, though trembling, reached for the hem of his coat, stopping just short of touching. She broke down in tears, finally free to cry because there were no judgemental stares watching her.
"Why do I come here?" She asked once again.
"Because this is yours," "Before you forgot." He stated sadly.
"Forgot what?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out and gently pressed his hand to the center of her chest.
"You have one more birthday before the truth wakes up," he said. "You must endure until then."
"I don't want to endure anymore."
"But you will, my darling, you will."