2. A House of Shadows

Life at home wasn’t any better than the torment I faced at college. If anything, it was worse. It was a daily grind of humiliation and neglect that left no room for peace or respite. The grand house on Thornwood Lane, with its ivy-covered walls and sprawling gardens, might have looked picturesque from the outside, but inside, it was a battlefield. And I was the lone soldier, always losing.

My stepsisters, Bianca and Lila, were everything I wasn’t: glamorous, confident, and cruel. Bianca, the elder of the two, was a sharp-tongued beauty with an appetite for dominance. She treated me like an unpaid maid, barking orders at me to fetch her coffee, clean her room, or iron her designer clothes. Lila, though younger, was just as vile. She had a talent for cutting remarks, finding ways to humiliate me in front of any guests who visited. “Oh, that’s just Seraphina,” she’d say with a sneer, “our little house help.”

Their mother, Eleanor, was the worst of them all. She made no effort to hide her disdain for me. In her eyes, I was a burden, a stain on their otherwise perfect family. “You’re just like your mother,” she’d hiss whenever I did something she disapproved of, which was practically everything. Her words were venomous, and her glares could freeze me in place. “Weak, unstable, and completely useless.”

But the worst part was my father. He was there, but he might as well have been a ghost. He didn’t intervene when Eleanor or my stepsisters tore into me like hungry lionesses. He didn’t shield me from their cruelty or even acknowledge it. Once, I’d clung to the hope that he’d step in, that he’d protect me as a father should. But I’d long since learned that my existence was nothing more than an inconvenience to him. He despised my mother, and by extension, me.

My mother’s death had been a quiet relief for him. She’d struggled for years with her mental health, her mind was a labyrinth of pain and confusion that she couldn’t escape. I remembered her soft voice, the way she’d hum lullabies to me even on her worst days. But I also remembered the nights she’d lock herself in her room, sobbing so loudly it echoed through the house. My father had barely tolerated her, his disgust thinly veiled. When she died, he didn’t shed a single tear. I heard him once, talking to Eleanor in hushed tones: “At least I don’t have to deal with that mess anymore.”

What little comfort I had left from my mother came in the form of her journals. She’d kept them religiously, pouring her thoughts, fears, and dreams onto the pages. They were my sanctuary, a way to feel close to her even after she was gone. But even that solace was ripped away from me. Isla had seen to that.

Before Isla became my tormentor, she’d been my best friend. She knew about my mother’s struggles, about the journals. Back then, I’d trusted her completely, sharing my pain in the hopes that she’d understand. But when our friendship fell apart, she used that trust as a weapon against me. She stole one of the journals and used it to mock me.

“You’re just like her, you know,” Isla sneered one day, cornering me in the library. “Crazy runs in the family, doesn’t it?” She dangled the journal in front of me like a trophy, her smirk slicing through me like a sharp blade.

“Give it back, Isla,” I pleaded, tears burning in my eyes. But she only laughed at my pain.

“Why? So you can hide what everyone already knows? That you’re the daughter of a madwoman?” Her words dripped with malice, and the other students nearby began to snicker.

Isla’s hatred for me had many layers, but the one that stung the most was her jealousy. There had been a guy, Dane, whom she’d liked for months. He was charming, the type who drew attention without even trying. I hadn’t meant to catch his eye, but I had, and Isla had noticed. It didn’t matter that I had no interest in him; for Isla, it was unforgivable.

She began extorting me, demanding money from my part-time job in exchange for keeping my mother’s secrets hidden. “You don’t want everyone knowing, do you?” she’d say, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. And I paid, because I couldn’t bear the thought of my mother’s pain becoming public fodder.

But even that wasn’t enough for her. I had to take on more job to pay keep up with her increasing demand just to block her from revealing my mother’s struggles to the entire college. The cruel whispers will follow me everywhere, the mocking stares, and the cruel taunts, that I cannot bear to hear or experience. “Seraphina’s mom went crazy,” they’d say. “Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s why she’s also crazy and pathetic”

******

That night, as I scrubbed the kitchen floor on Eleanor’s orders, I thought about all the ways I’d been betrayed. My hands were raw from the soapy water, my knees were aching from kneeling on the hard tiles. Bianca and Lila’s laughter echoed from the living room as they watched some reality show. Eleanor’s sharp voice cut through the air.

“Hurry up, Seraphina! I want this floor spotless before dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, keeping my eyes down. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. Crying only made things worse. I’d learned that the hard way.

As I scrubbed, I imagined a life where I wasn’t invisible. A life where I wasn’t the target of everyone’s hatred and disdain. Somewhere deep inside me, a spring of determination began to expand. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know when, but one day, I would escape this prison. One day, I would rise above all of them: Eleanor, Bianca, Lila, Isla, and even my father.

But for now, all I could do was survive.