Meera

"Oh, God—" I swiped the mop across the glass-like floor, making it shine with my hard work as a maid. The work my husband assigned to me.

It has been three weeks since I became the only maid in this house. I do everything—from cleaning to cooking, from laundry to dishes. I spend my entire day working.

And at night, I wait for my husband so we can have dinner together, but just like every other day, he never comes. I eat alone.

Today won't be any different. A small smile broke onto my lips as I remembered the one thing I do in my solace.

I quickly completed my work, took a shower, and wore a cotton sky-blue maxi dress—the only thing that fits me now. I combed my hair into a low bun.

I put the heavy anklets around my ankles and turned on the music. Closing my eyes, I swung my hands and feet in rhythm, syncing with the melody.

This is what brings me peace—dancing. I moved my body, feeling the music in my veins, the beat thrumming through my heart, sending a rush of blood to my face.

I was about to jump when I heard a shattering sound. A painful whimper escaped my lips.

"Aghh—" I fell to the floor, tears streaming down my face as I saw blood oozing from my feet.

"Never dance again in this house."

I looked up, scared, and saw my husband standing at the doorway, his eyes burning with fury.

His jaw clenched as he strode inside. I scooted back, but he didn't stop. He crouched in front of me.

His baby blue eyes—darker than the night sky—pierced into mine as he brought his face closer. His hot, ragged breath fanned my face.

He grabbed my hair and twisted it in his hold.

"Aahhh, please—it hurts!" I begged, but he twisted harder, sending burning pain through my scalp.

"You like being a maid? You like whoring around? What else do you like? Stripping, too?" His grip tightened, making me wince.

His words hurt me—deeply.

"I-I'm sorry, please—aaah!" I pleaded, and he released my hair with a jerk. His mouth twisted in a nasty snarl.

"You disgust me, Meera James. You disgust me," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt.

A sob tore through my throat as I let his words sink in.

"I disgust him."

My heart clenched painfully. But it's okay. He has every right to hurt me, and I accept it wholeheartedly.

I cleaned my wound and bandaged it. Then, I kissed my anklets.

"What's the point of loving you if he doesn't love you?"

I placed them in my drawer and locked it.

From now on, I will never dance. If he doesn’t like it, then who am I to?

"Meera, serve us fresh juices, and it better be good."

I nodded as my mother-in-law ordered me to make juice for her and her friends.

I started cutting fresh strawberries, oranges, and blueberries, just as she had requested.

They all came unannounced today—not that I would complain. It’s her son’s home. She can come whenever she wants.

I poured the juice into glasses, placed them on a tray, and carried them out to serve the ladies.

"Do you know, Aisha, my daughter-in-law loves to work so much that she even gave leave to all the maids and does everything herself?" My mother-in-law smirked, glancing at her friends.

I bit my lip.

Why is she saying this? I wondered. Is she trying to humiliate me?

I shook away the unwanted thoughts.

No, she may not like me, but she wouldn’t humiliate me in front of others.

"Excuse me," I murmured, turning to leave when a loud crashing sound echoed through the room.

I turned back and saw a shattered glass on the floor, juice spilled everywhere.

I looked at my mother-in-law.

"Don't worry, Anita. Meera will clean it, won’t you, Meera?" she said in a sickeningly sweet voice.

Oh, how could I forget? She is just like her son.

Without uttering a word, I nodded and brought the mop from the closet.

After clearing the broken glass, I mopped the floor. Just as I was about to leave, her voice stopped me.

"Meera, clean Anita's shoes too."

I froze in shock. Did she just say that?

Looking at her face, I knew she was serious.

My vision blurred with tears as I crouched down, gripping the mop. I reached toward the yellow pumps, my hands shaking.

"Oh no, Meera, not with that dirty cloth! These are branded and expensive," another woman chimed in. "You can use the hem of your dress."

I blinked back the tears threatening to spill.

I couldn’t cry in front of them. If I did, they would find another misery of mine to enjoy.

I couldn’t let them see how vulnerable and embarrassed I felt.

I bit my lip hard, drawing blood.

Slowly, I grabbed the hem of my dress, my hands trembling. I reached for the pointed yellow pumps.

Just as I was about to clean them, a loud voice boomed through the hall, echoing against the walls.

"STOP!"

***

Love Pia.