The Devil's Canvas

Ava's POV

They say scars fade with time. But mine? Mine only grew deeper. Like a cruel signature, it adorned my face.

 _Flashback_ 

"Oh no, what's that?"

"Maybe it's black coal?" another child said, staring at my face as I looked down.

"Come, get away from her," their mother said, dragging them along.

"Don't you ever look at her again. Unless you want to end up like that," she warned, gesturing toward my face.

"What's that, Mum?" the youngest of the boys asked.

"Her face is a canvas, but guess who painted on it? The devil," she joked cruelly.

A tear escaped my eyelid.

"Her face is the devil's canvas, and that scar is his artwork." Her words pierced deep into my soul.

Why was I constantly blamed for something I had no control over?

Why was I always abused?

Did I ask to be born this way? I asked no one but myself.

That was three years ago. Nothing much had changed—except the abuse had become more of a routine... like a schedule I followed.

SLAP!

A slender hand collided with my cheek, snapping me out of my reverie.

"Are you deaf?" my elder sister, Vera, sneered. Her voice was cold like wet venom.

I barely blinked before the second slap landed. My face stung from the pain that shot through.

I held my face as I took in the pain from both cheeks.

"Don't you ever look me straight in the eyes, you Scarface Princess!"

That was the nickname I got when I once dared to ask why they didn't treat me like a princess.

"Are you a princess? A Scarface Princess, I guess," my mother had responded, making everyone laugh.

"I'm sorry, Vera," I mumbled.

"What?!" she snapped, squeezing my ears.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I corrected myself. Vera had warned me never to call her by her name.

She adjusted her dark-shaded glasses, the ones she always wore whenever she had to see me.

"You have three hours," she said coldly, "Mum wants all thirty-eight bedrooms lit and glowing. Make dinner, clean and iron the clothes, wash mine carefully—don't you dare ruin anything or you will regret it. When you are done, milk all the cows. That should be just in time for you to set the table for dinner."

"Am I clear?"

How in God's name was I supposed to do all that in three hours? Besides, we had maids for these tasks! I wanted to protest, but I didn't want another slap.

"Clear, ma'am," I whispered.

"Good. Now get to work," Vera ordered before leaving me in my crabby cell of a room.

I started immediately. As I passed the garden, the garden smelled of roses and mockery—beautiful yet thorny like the maids who sat lazing around.

Classic me... Ava, the maid of maids.

"Hey, don't let that water touch me," one of them sneered as I rinsed the clothes I had washed. The others burst out laughing.

I swallowed their insults and focused on my work.

By the time I finished most of my tasks, it was time to cook for our guests. I worked tirelessly, knowing Vera had deliberately assigned me an impossible workload.

I set the table and went to call them for dinner. As I approached, Vera descended the stairs, walking like a queen, her posture mocking a true princess.

She reached the dining table, grabbing the tablecloth, and flipped it over, sending all the food crashing to the ground.

"We'll be eating out tonight. We don't want trash," she smirked. "Clean this up before we get back."

My fists clenched. She knew they were never going to eat at home. She just wanted to punish me.

My hand stretched to pick up the broken dishes, but before I could, Vera stomped on my hand, pressing it against the shattered glass.

I screamed as sharp pain shot through me.

"Ouch! Does it hurt?" Vera mocked.

"Vera, why?" I cried, not caring that I had used her name. "Why are you doing this to me? Aren't I your sister?"

"May the moon goddess curse you if you ever call me that again," she spat. "And to answer your—"

"Why?" I asked, my voice breaking, interrupting her words.

"Why?" She smirked, "Because you're ugly. You're a stigma to us. Dad left because of you. You're a Scarface bitch." She flicked her gown at my face and walked away.

I crumbled to the floor, crying, silently begging the heavens for a way out of my miserable existence.

I walked through the grand hall after Vera had left. And by the time I finished ironing and placing the clothes in everyone's rooms, it was past 2 AM. All thanks to the injury that she had inflicted on me, which made me slow. After one last check, I whispered to myself, Finally, a few minutes of rest.

I lay down in my room, wondering how differently my life would have been if I didn't have this so-called 'devil's artwork' on my face. The thought that should have lulled me into much-needed sleep didn't. Instead, I couldn't help but wonder.

Two days from now... that was my last straw of hope.

I would be eighteen, and it so happened to be the same date the mating ceremony would take place this year.

I prayed the moon goddess would be merciful enough for me to find a mate... But what if he didn't accept me...

I sighed as I gave way to my eyes.

...

I thought the day couldn't get worse until swine piss soaked my last hope of dignity.

SPLASH!

A bucket of swine pee was dumped over me.

I gasped, choking on the stench. My skin burned from the filth.

"What the hell—" I had started.

"What is your lazy ass still doing sleeping by this time?"

My head tilted to the side as I glanced at the clock that kept ticking. It was barely a few minutes after 4 in the morning.

I looked up, my heart sinking.

"Greetings, Mother," I choked out.

"I have warned you countless times," she snapped, "never call me that!"

She let her gaze linger on me, staring at my scar, hoping it would disappear into my skin, but as always, she was disappointed.

"You are my curse," she spat. "My greatest mistake was birthing you."

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the foul liquid that clung to my skin.

"Why are all the rooms a mess?"

"What?" I barely got the word out before—

SLAP!

I had barely registered her presence in my room.

"Are you questioning Mom?" Vera taunted. Then, turning to our mother, she smirked. "Mom, she's useless to us. What do you say we sell her off?"

"Sell her?" Vera's words hung in the air, not as a joke, but a plan already too real.

I turned to my mother, hoping—praying—for a different answer.

But deep down, I already knew what was coming.