Chapter Twenty-Eight

Wicked to the Core

She tended to her wounds, because no one else would.

Ethel wrapped a dirty piece of fabric that she ripped from her own dirty gown around her blistered and bloody wrists and hands. The pain was excruciating, but no one would ever know that by simply staring at the girl’s face. Her expression conveyed no feeling. It was a mechanical action for her.

Her sore, swollen and raw knees were already washed, the only bruises she couldn’t tend to were the ones on her back, but she simply ignored them.

She was hungry, tired and thirsty, but no one would ever know by looking at the strength her expression held. She was used to it.

Every night, before falling into merciful sleep, Ethel asked herself if she deserved such cruel fate. She believed she did, she was a terrible person, capable of much worse than the horrible people she was forced to live with.

Ethel looked around the room, trying to distract her mind from the stinging pain in her hands, ignoring the blood that kept soaking up her weak replacements for proper bindings.

They slept in a small room in the basement. It was dusty, dirty, cold and grey, with only one small and thin excuse of a window that could never allow enough light inside. It was always dark and damp in there. Spiders and insects crammed their walls and the corners of their stone floor, which was an improvement from the rats it once had. It was a prison. But they were used to it.

Their beds were old, cold and uncomfortable. She sat on hers, eyeing the other girl who shared not only her room, but also her cruel life. Amelia was on her knees on the hard floor which, considering they were as battered and raw as Ethel’s, was a feat in itself. Her elbows rested on her hard mattress, her hands held each other gracefully and her eyes were closed. She was praying again.

Ethel couldn’t help but look at Amelia with disgust. She was pathetic. She would be tempted to pity the young girl, with her ragged, old and stained gown that was too long for her, her bruised and hurt skin, her curly and forcibly short hair that was always knotted and shaggy, her shyness and extreme thinness and her sad, pain filled eyes. She would be tempted to pity her because she had never seen her smile. But she wouldn’t. She would never pity Amelia – in a way, she was her reflection. She would never bear such a thing.

Pathetic. Defeated. Weak.

She hadn’t heard Amelia’s voice for months. Ever since her younger sister, Vivian, had finally succumbed to disease and embraced the peace and freedom of the eternal slumber, Amelia had lost her voice, her strength and her hope. She was submissive; she had given up and weakly accepted their horrible fates.

Ethel hated her for it.

She heard the screams summoning her from upstairs. It was time to cook them dinner. She sighed, mentally preparing herself for a new round of abuse, and walked outside of the room. Amelia didn’t even look at her, she kept her eyes closed and prayed.

Useless.

After an hour of cooking, dinner was finally ready. It was done exactly how he liked it. It had taken her a few beatings to get it right, but now she finally did. She had set the table for them and they were already waiting.

The pot was big and heavy, it was almost half her size. Usually, it wouldn’t faze her, but her hands were particularly destroyed and she knew it would be harder than usual to carry it from the kitchen to the dining room. Nevertheless, it was time wasted to dwell on it, she knew that asking any of them for help was invitation to abuse.

She grabbed the pot by its wings, for it was too hot to hold it anywhere else. She walked slowly, her legs and arms trembling with the effort. She could feel her hands bursting, she knew they were bleeding again under the wrapped cloths. The pain was agony.

When she finally crossed the door for the dining room, she knew it was going to happen even before it did. She knew she couldn’t take it any longer. Her leg finally gave in, the exhaustion and the weakness finally beating her. Ethel fell and, with her, the pot with their dinner.

She saw it almost in slow motion. Ethel didn’t even care for her own fall, her already bloody knees and hands softening it and consequently sending waves of raw pain through her, but she wasn’t focused on that. She was focused on their dinner – splattered and ruined all over the floor.

She knew what was coming.

Ethel looked at them already trembling in fearful anticipation. She heard her scream and she heard him shout, but could barely make out what they were saying. Her eyes were fixed on the mess she involuntarily created and she knew she had signed a bloody evening.

He got up from the table and walked to her with heavy, angry steps. Ethel covered her head with her hands, bracing herself for what would inevitably come. She didn’t plead, she didn’t try to explain, she didn’t say she was sorry and she didn’t cry. All of those things were useless – they had proven themselves so, many times before. She just braced herself for the pain she knew was to come.

He kicked her in the stomach and she rolled over. The woman watched in content silence, as she always did. He grabbed her hair and dragged her through the floor to take her to where all the meal was splattered. He threw her head against it, as one would do to educate a dog.

She could hear him yell, but she wasn’t registering anything. Everything was a blur, all the sounds, all the images. Her mind and body were completely focused on shutting down the pain and surviving one more time.

He punched her head, he kicked every inch of her body and she was aware it still wasn’t enough for him. It would never be enough. When he took a few steps away from her, she could finally breathe and her trembling hand wiped away the blood that was leaving her mouth. She coughed and was fairly certain that, if she had had food in her stomach, she would’ve thrown up.

She felt dizzy from all the blows to her head, her whole body ached, every cell and every nerve in her screamed in agony. She only wanted it to be over, but she knew her life was rarely that forgiving. Ethel knew the only reason why he had stopped for these scarce seconds was so that he could take off his belt. Once he had it in his hand, he wore it like a punishing whip. She felt every cut, every scar forming, every inch of her tender skin burn from its merciless touch. The pain was unbearable, she couldn’t even find the voice to scream. After a while, she finally let go – her eyes shut and her body begged for the mercy that she would never find there.

Before her mind found the bliss of unconsciousness, she saw Amelia standing at the dining room’s entrance, in her ridiculously long gown, no doubt attracted there by all the noise. She eyed Ethel’s predicament with dead eyes and she never moved, she never blinked, she never reacted, she didn’t express an inkling of compassion.

Amelia didn’t pity her.

When Ethel finally regained consciousness it was already late into the night. The dining room was drowned in darkness and she could hear him snoring. She was alone.

She didn’t find the courage or the strength to move. They had left her there, lying in a puddle of her own blood and tears, disgustingly mixed with the remains of the failed dinner. She shivered and it hurt. Every single movement did. She was cold and it hurt to even breathe. Her whole body ached and even her mind felt sore.

She wanted to die. Inwardly, she cursed the damned man for not having the guts to just kill her. She just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up, never feel anything again.

Ethel closed her eyes and tried not to remember. But she couldn’t help it. Unwanted visions always circled her mind – a time when life made sense, when pain was minimal, not normal and certainly not expected, a time when she wasn’t alone and warm arms embraced her.

She remembered the sound of laughter, but only very vaguely. She remembered the feeling of love, but very weakly. She remembered her name, but with difficulty.

She just wanted someone, anyone, to kill her and end her misery.

No.

A voice screamed in her head. Don’t give up. Don’t surrender. Don’t be weak. Don’t be defeated.

But what was the point in surviving one more time? What was the point of living for another day of that?

Live for something else. Live for more. Don’t give in like they did.

Ethel’s eyes shot open. She was stronger than them, stronger than Amelia. She would not be defeated, she would not be broken into submission. She would fight! She was Ethel von Mallesch and she would fight.

If no one else was coming to save her, she would save herself.

They had to pay.

She felt rage building up inside of her, the kind of ugly and dark hatred that she knew had always been there but had never allowed to surface. She hated them, she despised them. They would pay for all the deprivation, pain and humiliation. No one kills a von Mallesch without paying for it. She paid her dues, it was only fair they did the same.

She had done it before. She could do it again.

And this time, it would feel good.

Ethel felt her lips curl into her first genuine smile in a very long time. Slowly, but with determination, she got up from her bloody spot. All of her body yelled in protest, but she didn’t listen to it. Her anger, her hatred, her new ambition – they fueled her, they gave her a drive that was impervious to pain.

When she was back on her sore feet, her smile had only widened.

It would all end tonight.

She had fantasized about poisoning them a lot of times before and she had always shoved the thought aside, for she lacked the proper ingredients to do it. It was out of the question that night for, even if she had access to them, it would take her the time she didn’t want to give them. She knew he had guns, which he used to hunt and for self-defense when burglars arrived at their lonely fields, but they were locked away in another room and she could never find out where he kept the keys.

It didn’t matter.

Sore, with blood tainting her face, hair and hands, she walked towards the kitchen. The sharp knife that she used every day to cook for them lay forgotten and seemingly innocent on the counter. She grabbed it and held it in her hand as if it was an old friend.

Still not satisfied, Ethel walked downstairs, as if in a kind of trance. Her eyes were dead, her face held no expression, but she walked with determination. She turned the key that was used to lock her and Amelia in the basement at night. Without making much noise, she went down the stairs, like a vengeful ghost. She found what she was looking for – the shovel she used every day to tend to their fields. She grabbed it and made for the stairs again.

Ethel stopped at the sound of a door opening. She turned around to see Amelia, looking at her with curious eyes. None of the girls said a word. Ethel turned her back to her and walked upstairs. Amelia didn’t move from her spot.

When Ethel opened the door to their room and watched them peacefully sleep in their bed, she couldn’t help but feel another wave of hatred and disgust surge through her. How could they sleep? Why were they allowed to rest and to dream? They didn’t deserve it.

She locked the door from the inside and slowly walked to their bed, observing their sheets ascend and descend in the rhythm of life. It would soon stop.

She concentrated on him first. He was the one she had to catch by surprise. She eyed the man she had once thought would save her and felt repulse and no mercy.

Ethel’s grip on the long knife’s handle grew stronger and she let the shovel fall at her side. She lifted her arm and let it fall down in a firm and heavy motion aimed at his chest. She felt the blade cut through fabric and pierce skin in a second, quickly tearing through flesh, tissue and nerve, hitting bone in its way. He opened his eyes and stared, wide eyed in shock. She doubted he even felt any pain.

Before he could react or even fully understand what was happening, Ethel used her strength to pull the knife from its fleshy compartment. As soon as she did, she could hear him take in a gasp of air, his eyes widened more with sudden pain and shock, his arms trembling frantically, a pool of thick and dark red blood quickly escaping from the inflicted wound. Ethel’s expression didn’t change, nor did her intentions. She lifted her arm again and buried the sharp blade into his chest again. This time he screamed, in pain and agony and she enjoyed the fear in his eyes and the melody of his terror.

The woman who slept next to him woke up and starred in horror at her bloody husband and at the vision of darkness and red that was Ethel. Ethel smiled at her. The woman sat up straight and screamed at the sight of the knife still confined in his chest. She was paralyzed in shock; her hands flew to her hair and stood there, shaking manically.

He looked at the knife in his chest and then at Ethel and a sudden surge of anger and energy seemed to shoot through him. He wrapped his hands around her neck and Ethel stepped back. They both fell to the floor. He grabbed her neck with all the strength he could muster, looking at her with intense hatred. Ethel struggled and kicked, but she wasn’t strong enough. The woman’s screams were nothing but an echo in her mind.

No!

It couldn’t end like this, not when she was so close. She had to fight, she had to survive, she had to make them pay. He would not be the one who’d defeat her.

As Ethel felt her throat closing and air was increasingly harder to draw in, her arm stretched and her hand searched for her last hope. The blood from his wound fell on her, his face was getting whiter and he looked extremely ill, but he seemed completely intent on killing her, like he always was.

But not tonight.

When her hand grasped the metal handle of her shovel, she knew she had won. She grasped it and hit his head with it. After the first blow, he seemed only stunned, but after the second he fell into unconsciousness. His body fell on top of hers and she pushed him aside with repulse. It took her a few minutes to regain her breath, she painfully turned to her side and coughed and drew in heavy and desired breaths.

The woman had stopped screaming and was now clumsily running out of the bed, heading towards the door and trying to open it with haste. In her panic, she failed to notice it was locked, the key resting on top of her dresser.

Ethel looked at his body and saw he was still breathing. She knew he would die eventually, but she didn’t want to give him any chance or any time. He didn’t deserve it.

Slowly, she managed to get up, her battered body making every simple movement seem like physical torture. On her knees, she grabbed his pillow and let it fall into his face. She pressed hard on it, muffling his breath. He didn’t even fight it, for he was already defeated. After his chest descended for the last time, Ethel let go of him, not even glancing at the corpse a second time.

Her attention went to the woman, who had finally figured the key’s location and opened the door, running outside screaming for help. Ethel got up, grabbed the shovel and couldn’t help but smile at the irony – now she would know how it felt, to beg for help and be completely ignored.

She walked towards the woman who was heading outside and caught her in the dining room. Her blood still painted the floor, mixed in a sick potion with what was left of the forgotten meal. She hit the woman in the back of her head and she fell instantly to the floor, already out of consciousness. Ethel looked at her and felt nothing but rage. She hit her again and again, until her own blood wasn’t the only tainting the wooden floor, until she was sure the woman whom should’ve been a mother to her, the woman who should’ve loved her and protected her from everything, would breathe no more.

Ethel breathed heavily, feeling suddenly excruciatingly tired. She eyed the mangled, torn body of the neglectful and cruel woman and felt nothing but relief and a twisted sense of justice.

She should’ve done this sooner.

Her black hair fell in front of her eyes, her pale skin glistened with sweat, blood was splattered all over her white gown - she looked like a terrifying ghost. But she smiled wildly at her own reflection in the silent house’s windows.

She was free.

There was someone else sharing that same horrific portrait with her. She turned around to find Amelia standing at the dining room’s entrance. Her eyes were widened in terror as she took in Ethel’s appearance.

When Amelia’s eyes found the woman’s broken corpse on the floor, her hands flew to her hair and she pulled on it. She gasped, she trembled and she screamed in horror, the kind of dry scream that only someone standing in the same room as her would hear. Yet, she did not move from her spot.

Ethel dropped the shovel to the floor, the weapon was now useless. She walked past Amelia and, once again, no words were exchanged between the young girls. Amelia’s eyes didn’t leave the bloody corpse and she breathed heavily, letting out terror-stricken moans, as if the woman’s pain had been her own.

Pathetic. Weak.

Ethel walked slowly and in silence towards the bathroom. She took off her ragged gown and took her time taking a warm bath. She walked naked to their room, where the heavy and sickening scent of lifeless blood filled her nostrils. She ignored it as she ignored his dead body. She opened their dresser and found a few pretty gowns that would fit her skinny and relatively small frame – the pretty gowns the dead woman once refused to share. She dressed a navy blue one and went to the woman’s mirror, sitting in front of it and taking her time combing her wet hair. When she was finished, she smiled at her reflection – she felt pretty, for the first time in years.

Afterwards, Ethel walked to the kitchen, where she took her time preparing something delicious to eat. She ate until she couldn’t take another bite. It had been too long since a meal had satisfied her – both in flavor and in portion.

Amelia was nowhere to be found. Ethel shrugged at the thought.

After the meal, she went to their room again and found an old bag. She was quick to fill it with a couple more gowns and other clothing items. She returned to the kitchen and put some fruit, cheese and bread in the bag as well. She stopped in the dining room and, after a few seconds of thought, returned to their bedroom. Ethel searched through the whole room and managed to find their hidden money. She took it along with the woman’s jewelry. She didn’t bother going to her own room in the basement, because she knew better than anyone that there was nothing worth taking there.

Ethel made for the door who would lead her to the outside. As she stepped out of the house, she noticed the sun was already rising.

A new beginning.

She walked down the porch steps and noticed Amelia sitting there. The young girl took her head from her arms and stared into Ethel’s eyes. They shared a silent moment, none of them said a word, none of them made a movement and both of them just stared at each other with dead eyes.

Ethel broke the moment by turning around and walking away, leaving Amelia sitting by herself at the entrance of their prison. She never looked back.

As soon as she was out of their fields, Ethel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt the sun’s first rays warming her pale and battered skin and embraced the soft caress the morning breeze gifted her with. She smiled, her first joyful, genuine, innocent smile in years.

She was free. She could taste it. She was reborn.

Ethel walked with a newfound step, with an utter sense of strength and renewal. She didn’t know where to go, but it didn’t concern her. She would never stop walking, never stop searching.

She walked in search of a new life.

***

His body lay on the floor, whole and untouched. He was facing the ground and, for that, she was grateful. It would kill her to see the dead face of the man she loved.

The doctor the Guard had called was already leaving and one of the detectives talked to her, though she was not listening. Ethel was cuddled in her couch, a glass of wine in her hand as she stared at the corpse of her husband. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, nor away from the broken glass that rested next to him.

“The doctor is pretty sure it was a heart attack,” the detective kindly told her.

She only nodded as a response, her eyes never wavering from Charles, the love of her life.

“I would advise you some rest, Miss Stephens. We will take the body and you can worry about the burial procedures in the morning.”

She nodded again and he turned to leave. Before he did though, he turned to her again and eyed her with concern.

“Miss Stephens… that bruise on your face…”

She finally looked at him. “I was mugged. Some low-life punched me.”

He nodded and she wasn’t sure if he was convinced. But she didn’t care.

“You should come to see me about that.”

“I will.” She wouldn’t.

Ethel finally lifted herself up from her seat and slowly walked away from the horrible scenery in her living room. The Guard was still there, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to be alone. Again.

She looked at her reflection in her bathroom. She was a widow. Charles was dead and though her heart was breaking in a thousand small pieces, she couldn’t help but feel relief.

She was free again. Reborn once more.

Ethel saw the transparent bottle lying on top of her vanity. It was empty, but she still hid it. She counted herself kind – it had been a quick, merciful death, the kind she would only spare the ones she loved.

She looked at her reflection again and gently caressed her bruised face. He had almost broken her. Almost.

She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. She was cursed. She had been for a long time.

But she was still there. Still standing. He hadn’t defeated her. She didn’t let him.

Ethel’s reflection changed. It was now the reflection of a strong woman, defiant, confident, invincible. She was Ethel von Mallesch and she was the ultimate survivor.

Her own smile fed her conscience.

Charles Stephens deserved it.

If you kill a von Mallesch, you will pay the dearest price. She knew that better than anyone.

Ethel slowly let her gown fall from her body, every movement slow and careful, so as to avoid any major pain. She looked at her bruised and battered skin. It would not happen again.

She sat on a small bench and tenderly washed all her scars away.

She tended to her wounds, because no one else would.