Page 116 of Wings of Destruction

“How do I prove myself?”

My voice echoes back to me and the hopelessness of each syllable grows louder on the return. The sound overpowers the last of my flimsy hope and the deceptive layer of confidence I’ve wrapped around me in self-preservation.

A soft snicker echoes from the doorway. I turn to see Daisy leaning against the frame, arms crossed, with two other maids flanking her. Her satisfied smirk tells me everything I need to know.

“Having trouble, Morgan?” she calls sweetly. “Such a shame the students were so… messy today.”

The other maids giggle, and Daisy’s eyes glitter with malice before she disappears down the hall.

My jaw clenches as their laughter fades down the corridor. Fine. They want to make this harder? I’ll show them exactly what I’m made of. Let them watch me turn their sabotage into success.

I get to work on the closest table, clearing the dishes into a bin for the kitchen workers to haul away. They are silent presences behind me, doing their job without looking up for small talk.

How can people stand it? How can they keep doing this, day after day, with nothing but silence as company? There is no laughter and no life in this place outside of the students making the most of their time here.

It’s no use wondering about what I’d have done. The acceptance letter belongs to someone else in a different lifetime.

It definitely doesn’t belong to me. I wouldn’t have fit in here, anyway, no matter how smart I always thought I was.

Now I’m a mixture of pain and resignation. I’m made up of the aches in my body and the permanent throb in my hips. I’m the calluses hardening my palm and the ticking clock damning me more with every passing day.

Finally, the tables are clear, and the uneasy tread of footsteps marks the silence. Several maids with their heads down load their arms with the filthy linens.

I glance over and greet them. “Hey. Hi.”

Both look literally anywhere but at me.

“Would you like any help carrying those to the laundry room?” I ask delicately.

I have to get the right tone or else I’ll come off as disingenuous.

My heart skips a beat waiting for acknowledgment. The darker haired woman in her mid-forties opens her mouth to answer and her friend elbows her in the side.

Both shake their heads like mimics of the other. “Just get the broom.”

The demand is made in no uncertain terms. Another skipped beat, another slight wave of dizziness from the uneasy rhythm, and I watch the two disappear.

Dismissed, just like that. I think about kicking the dirty bucket for an outlet but that’s only going to make more work for myself. I shove it gently into the corner and take up the broom, forcing my fingers to mold around the handle.

It’s a break from cleaning off the tabletops but not by much. I push the dress sleeves up to the crook of my elbows.

And the longer the day goes, the more I realize—it’s hopeless. This type of work, each menial task, bleeds into the next. There’s no way to prove myself or to stand out. Not like this. There’s no way to show how useful I can be when none of these activities play to my strengths.

I drag the top bristles of the broom through the mess of crumbs and forgotten bits of potatoes. The motion does nothing but spread the mess. I’m certainly not making any headway with the debris.

I pause, running my fingers along the bristles. Cut. Of course they’re cut—not obviously, just enough to make them useless for actually sweeping. The ends are uneven, shortened, destroyed.

Another gift from Daisy and her little followers. Just like the leaking bucket. Just like every other “accident” that’s made my work impossible.

My grip tightens on the handle. Fine. She wants to play games? Let’s see how creative I can get with a sabotaged broom.

One of the kitchen workers setting out fresh candle tapers pauses to look at me, and I realize I’m gritting my teeth at the ruined broom.

I force what I hope passes for a smile, but it only seems to scare him more. He scurries off, and I’m left alone with Daisy’s latest handiwork.

So this is her game. Make the tools fail, make the tasks impossible, then sit back and watch me struggle. Well, I refused to give her the satisfaction earlier, and I’m not about to start now.

I may not be able to prove what she’s doing, but I can still find a way to get this job done. Somehow.