THE DEVIL WEARS MY RING

I have gotten used to the coldness of the tiles, i almost laughed when my step mother flinched when she stepped on the tiles barefooted because she couldn't find her fluffy slippers.

I scrubbed the same patch of floor again and again, not because it was dirty, but because I had nothing else to do. Thinking about it now, i realized there is absolutely nothing here worth staying for, no siblings or loved ones.

My knees were sore. My fingers numb. But in this house, pain was the only thing that ever stayed consistent.

Greta's voice tore through the hallway like a blade.

"You useless girl! No doubt your mother raised you to be this stupid and useless" i hear this every time.

I didn't flinch. at least not this time.

I lowered my head and kept scrubbing. The scent of bleach burned my nose,and my palms were peeling due to a combination of different detergent and bleach I use in cleaning , but I welcomed the sting. It was the only reminder that I was still here, still breathing.

Sometimes I wondered if dying would hurt more than living in this house.

But trust me, I know the answer. We need a new mop stick in this house but, i don't know how to face Greta and talk to her about it, this particular mop is already doing the opposite of its purpose, the strands now follow me as i mop and i hate to admit that i will have to do another round of cleaning. As i was about turning to do the needful, unaware of the fact that my oversized skirt had hooked the sharp steel edge of the bucket I was using in cleaning, all the dirty water I have in the bucket poured on the tiles I have been scrubbing and mopping since I woke up making me slip from and falling with a heavy ad embarrassing thud on the wet floor. "Damn!!" I spewed out of frustration, unable to stand up immediately. I whimpered in pain and anger "I get it now" Everything in this house is aware that I don't belong here and are trying their best to frustrate me outta here. Cause what the fuck just happened, I haven't recovered from one and now this?!" crawled to the shelf by the wall and held it for support, my legs still shaking from the fall. I stood up, not upright but was able to get my ass from the pool of dirty water around me. I didn't know where to start.

They say home is where the heart is but what happens when your heart doesn't even want to stay? Lol, home my foot!

I couldn't remember the last time I laughed. Not the fake chuckles I gave Renzo when he tried to lighten the mood or tease me about how grumpy I always looked. The real kind, the one that bubbles from somewhere deep inside and catches you by surprise. I think I left that version of myself behind the day my mother died. I was just 10 but trust me I could stillremember those moments, probably my memory kept them intact to keep me sane and bring anytime I am at the verge of loosing it as a human.

She used to braid my hair every Sunday after church, humming softly, her hands gentle. She had a soft voice and kind eyes. I remember the way she used to tuck me in at night and whisper that everything would be okay. She lied.

Nothing has been okay since she left.

I don't even visit her grave anymore not because I don't want to, but because Greta made it clear I had no right. "You keep living in the past, you'll never have a future, " she snapped at me once when I dared to mention my mother. But the truth is, my past was warmer than my present.

My eyes darted to the pile of sealed packages Greta received yesterday. Thank God. The water hasn't reached them yet. I grab a rag and block the stream before it can touch anything important.

If those boxes got wet, I wouldn't survive the night.

Sadness is my perpetual emotion.

I don't remember what happiness feels like anymore. The only time I feel safe and normal is when I'm with Renzo. He's my only escape from this place, even if only for a few stolen hours. But Greta rarely lets me out. She says girls like me attract trouble.

Renzo... he's different. When I feel like disappearing and leaving this pothole, his words are the only thing that hold me here. He always says, "You're stronger than this house. Stronger than them.

" And for a moment, I believe him.

But it never lasts. Trust me it never did.

Sometimes I think Greta is possessed or cursed. The way she turned my father's heart against me was almost supernatural. It took her just a few months after marrying him. Now he can barely look me in the eye, as though my presence disgusts him.

Sometimes I wonder if she was sent from some dark realm, appointed just to destroy me slowly.

And maybe it's working.

The house is silent again. Greta has retreated to her room, probably to sip her wine and scroll through pictures of other people's children, the ones she wishes were hers.

I gather the wet clothes and mop again, more out of habit than purpose. The mess is halfway cleaned when I hear something voices.

Not yelling. Not insults.

Just... talking.Curious, I move closer to the stairs. I know Greta doesn't usually speak to my father in a calm tone unless she wants something-or unless it's something serious. Their voices are low, murmuring. But I caught enough.

...She doesn't need to know yet, " Greta says. "We'll tell her the night before. It's better that way".

Tell me what?

My heart thuds quietly against my chest.

My father's voice is faint but firm. "She's not a child, Greta. We should have told her weeks ago. The arrangements have been finalized. Everything is set."

I freeze.

Arrangements?

"What matters is that we get her out of here, " Greta says. "She'll be someone else's problem then. The family is wealthy, powerful. She won't have to clean another floor in her life."

There's a short silence before she adds, "It's not like she has a future here anyway."

My breath catches.

Wealthy... powerful... arrangements?

Suddenly, the dirty water, the bruises, the silence-it all makes sense.

They're trying to get rid of me.

And not just by yelling or hitting.

They're marrying me off.