Unknown Omega

Chapter 2 - Her- Unknown

I can sum my life into one word: chores. One ends, another begins. Washing, scrubbing, sweeping, cooking—all kinds of menial tasks. That's what I do, all day long. Every. Day.

Ever since someone abandoned me at the Chieftain's doorstep, he's filled my days with misery and work. I dread waking in the morning but cannot stop my return to this wretched place. I hate my role in this world, but there's nowhere else for me to go. The Chieftain's punishments are far more preferable than roaming the streets unprotected. I've seen what the world is like and have no wish to wander alone.

The Chieftain is exact in his expectations of his servants, and despite my efforts to please him, I've received more corrections than I can recall. The punishment depends on the infraction, and I've always gained more attention from him than the other servants of the house. Now that the kitchen maid has disappeared, he allows me even less respite.

I used to sleep at the maid's feet, but since she disappeared a few months ago, I've been 'promoted'. The bed is mine, for what little good it does me. I hardly have time to use it since her tasks have been added to mine.

This morning is much the same as every morning.

My eyes open, knowing its time to wake. I no longer need an alarm; it only took one harsh correction to ensure I always serve breakfast on time. Now my internal clock awakens me at the proper time, self-preservation winning out over exhaustion.

The room is dark, with the stars causing a faint glow through the murky window—not enough to cause shadows, but enough to make the misshapen windowpane visible amidst the blackness of the room. I curb my urge to light a lamp. My eyes struggle in the dark, even if I know the room well. Every nook and cranny in this space is etched into my mind—I've scrubbed every inch of this dilapidated kitchen for years—and I know where to step so I don't trip on the uneven floor, but I hate thinking someone could be nearby and I wouldn't know.

I drag my sore body from the lumpy, threadbare mattress. No pillow. No blanket. Not even a sheet. But it is as clean as I can manage. It's a work in progress. Every chance I get, I sweep and scrub it. I cannot stand to sleep in filth—even if it means less sleep, I will labor over my bed. Before the maid disappeared, my corner of floor was the cleanest in the whole house. Along with that, my torn and stained dress is cleaner than most people's clothing, besides the Chieftain and those of his status. I wash it and my body every night, unwilling to transfer the mess of my day onto my sleeping pad.

I stand and stretch with caution, my bruised and overworked body complaining with every gesture. The backs of my legs sting from yesterday's punishment—the switch left marks. Every muscle in my body protests my movements, so I use gentle pressure to massage the worst ones, beginning with my arms. As I grimace through the routine, I think of this depressing room I've grown up in.

A large, ugly island fills the center of the room. The chipped surface has a large crack down the middle, but every centimeter sparkles with a shine that only manic scrubbing can attain.

On the other side of the island, a polished water pump juts out of the old, peeling floor. Water is a rare commodity, so my wardens are very strict with the upkeep of the spigot.

The opposite wall sports rickety cabinets, the original hardware missing. Holes gape in their place since the materials were repurposed years before I arrived. Wrapping around to cover most of the left wall, these cabinets hold cooking gear, cleaning supplies, and a few odds and ends. To my left is a slim opening, my cot so close that the door cannot open all the way. The door leads to a servant's courtyard, where laundry and tasks too dangerous for indoors occur. Every night, after the last meal, the Chieftain comes and locks this door. He unlocks it when my outdoor chores are to begin. I used to wish he'd leave it unlocked so I could see the stars, but now I'm glad for the barrier between me and those awake at night.

To my right is a large adobe fireplace, its facade crumbling. Beyond that, completing the four walls of the room, uneven shelves contain the household's pantry. Either the Chieftain or his wife, the Chieftess, check the precious contents four times a day. Because of their attention and rigid organization of the food, not even a crumb goes missing.

My joints creak as I lean down and work my fingertips into my sore thighs. Everything hurts. I rub my legs for a few seconds, then straighten up.

With a pinched expression, I raise my hands to my hair and drag my fingers through my unruly mass of loose curls. I've never owned a hairbrush and have only used one once. When I was younger and had lice, the kitchen maid tried to comb them out. My hair turned into a frizzy, chaotic fuzz. Never again. I pull my hair to the back of my head and secure it with a bit of scrap material.

I step forward a few paces and use my sense of touch to find the match, strike it on the edge of the counter, and light the oil lamp. The flame flickers as I replace the chipped shield.

For now, my hands are clean. Light, shallow scars line the back of them, most from hard work, but a few from punishments. According to the Chieftain, pain is a strong motivator, but he needs me capable of working, so he rarely targets such fragile areas.

My fingers look too slim, my wrists look too thin, and my hands look too delicate to perform the tasks I complete every day. How have I not broken every bone in these fragile looking hands?

My arms aren't much better. I have lean, toned muscles, but no weight to me. They feed me enough, knowing that I can't prepare their food if I don't get the bare minimum.

But the thin white scars along my arms attest to my suppressed life.

I shake off my musings and turn from my inspection. Too much to do and continuing that depressing line of thought will make the day too hard to handle.

With no more introspection, I head to the water pump. Breakfast chores await.