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She wants to hurt me. Not just emotionally.

So why not just give her a short cut? I’m familiar with this sight, unfortunately. Nestled within the hazy memories of my youth lies one, a memory that still plays before my eyes clear as day. My mom and I were in dire straits back then, her misfortune of a low paying part-time job coupled with a shitty boyfriend. And as one can easily guess from where I’m going with this, he was abusive. Deep purple and red marks lay just out of sight on my mom’s body, peeking out to say hi when she bent over to help collect my toys were her usual, sweet smile.

It was a lousy situation, one that is easy to condemn from the outside. Why didn’t she leave? Why didn’t she take me in the dead of the night and escape? But we were as good as stuck. This shitty boyfriend also happened to own a two-bedroom apartment in a sketchy part of town, a godsend for my mom. So sweet Dolores, my mother, put up with the bastard for six whole months, saying nothing when he slapped her hard enough to draw blood.

She was so young back then. Come to think of it, my mom was probably around my age, pre transmigration, when she was with Frankie. He stunk of ripe BO on a constant basis, a stained wifebeater barely covering her burgeoning gut. And Frankie was a big guy to boot. He easily hit around 6’4″ and had a temper after he drank. It was any woman’s worst case scenario, but since he never touched me, my poor mom just put up with it.

But you know how it goes. One day, things just come to a head. I’d been obediently taking an afternoon nap post a lunch of Kraft macaroni and cheese when the heinous odor that permeates throughout Frankie’s hellhole seemed more concentrated than usual. I opened my eyes to hairy, filthy hands, the nails cracked with mud and dirt. They had reached towards me, the appendage looking so big it seemed to cover my entire field of vision. An equally filthy smile shined behind his hand as adrenaline began to replace my sleepiness.

It doesn’t matter how young you are, when your body is aware you are in danger your instincts kick in. And mine told me to MOVE. I rolled out from under the old comforter right as Frankie’s hand came down on where I lay, his clumsiness knocking over my unlit Winnie the Pooh nightlight propped up on a buck doubling as a nightstand. There was no carpeting in that dump, my beloved Winnie the Pooh nightlight cracking in two on the floor with an audible sound.

Dolores had rushed in and with a fervent passion she had never unleashed, she started screaming at Dolores. I mean, she has definitely scolded me before for not making my bed and kid stuff like that, but that time, my mom had flipped a switch. Now that I’m older, I can understand why. What his intentions near my bed that day, one can sickeningly guess. Alternating between Spanish and English, as she does when she is upset, she got up in big Frankie’s face and told him off, right before he sent her packing to the floor.

.....

The shattered piece of nightlight caught her fall, tearing her palm and sending red all over the floor. But Frankie just got started. His fists were going up and down, up and down, the battering rams eventually resembling the red floor. Then he stood up, gasping like a pig because he was out of shape and started swinging his tree trunk leg.

As for me? I was a coward. I’d stayed crouched in the corner, watching a man beat the ever-loving shit out of my only family member as if I were a spectator at the movies. I made a sound once, when one hit made a sick, squelching sound like someone had squeezed a ketchup packet with all their might. He had looked back at me then, Frankie, with death in his eyes. There was no man left in them, only animal. A fat, smelly animal completely ruled by its instincts. The bloodthirst was so thick, I immediately shut up and fell back into my role as a trembling spectator.

Eventually, the police showed up. I didn’t know how to operate a phone back then, but I’d like to think a kind neighbor far braver than me decided to do the right thing from all the noise. For you see, the minute Frankie started swinging my mom silently took the beating and his attention away from me. The only sound was Frankie’s inhumane grunts and mutterings of curse words. Maybe he’s why I’m such a potty mouth.

Anyways, after leaving that ordeal in the dead of the night two weeks later since restraining orders are too damn expensive, Frankie’s gaze stuck with me for a long time. It haunted me in my dreams, hung on my back like a silent watcher when I was alone. You don’t forget that kind of bloodthirsty stare, the kind that is so devoid of humanity it could devour you and not even leave your bones behind.

And today, I see that in Empress Katya’s eyes. The veil of civility is thicker, but oh, it’s there, waiting to be let out and tear my little self to shreds. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see her coming at me, her skirts a flutter, her maids gaping as she dives at me with bared teeth and clawed manicured fingers.

But Katya wouldn’t be the villainous empress readers love to hate if she fell so quickly to her baser instincts, although the corner of her mouth curls slightly before falling back to her hard to read mask.

“Hurt... you?” she says, the words rolling out of her mouth in a pleasing manner.

The knife hangs in midair and every eye is on me. I suck in a shuddering breath, hating the feeling of being the center of attention. I look to Emma and stares back, her dark stare not giving me anything. But she hasn’t screamed. Yelled. Begged the empress for freedom. Promised information about me.

She’s really my friend, even in the face of death. My sister, my chosen family. Which means today, I can’t be the spectator I was with Dolores. My mother’s warm face appears in my head, her tan face framed by strands of dark brown hair that fell out of her ponytail. Even in the face of such a terrifying foe, a have a good feeling that my mom would be proud of me right now if she was here.

“Yes. It was me that did something wrong, so I should be punished,” I admit. I move to sit back down on the sofa beside her as if capital punishment was about to take place a moment before.

Katya regards me for a long moment. I stare back too, throwing caution to the wind. The same way she is trying to get a read on me, I similarly witness the inner struggle the empress is going through. I inwardly sneer to myself at how much she wants to hurt me. To think it is so tempting for her to hurt a little, five-year-old child, it makes me wonder where her virtuous and saintly reputation stems from.

I can see the moment my idea wins out. The green of her eyes seems to drown me, her eyes narrowing slightly as she sets her eyes on her prey. It’s all very subtle, but I can once again feel sweat fall down my head. I’ve been spanked before by my mom’s chankla like any other Hispanic kid, but I have an inkling it won’t be as easy this time.

“Linette.”

“Your Majesty?” Linette rushes over with a gleeful look.

“Clear the room. Bring my needles.”

Linette can’t help but look at me triumphantly before her domineering gaze falls upon the rest of the people in this room. She is the perfect lackey for a woman like Katya, the bad cop to her good cop. For harsh matters that could tarnish her image, this personal maid is a perfect scapegoat.

I helpless watch as Emma is dragged out, the door clicking shut with finality. Linette has also gone to fetch the needles, and I look down at the basket of threads with curiosity. I cross my fingers and hope that Katya will just teach me embroidery as punishment. I already stab myself so much with the needle it would be punishment enough.

Katya’s mask begins to crack more. Her slender brow twitches and her smile fades a tad. It’s refreshing, in a way. An enemy you can’t see, one that hides in the dark, that is much more frightening. The empress is so eager to harm me, she is willing to let off my maid for a chance at me. She must eliminate me, the sole obstacle to the false title of promised child she created for her daughter.

“You’ve done 5 wrongs. Shall I list them?” Katya asks. I nod hesitantly.

She seems to be a methodical woman. First, she asks Linette about the punishments for theft and now she is listing out my supposed wrongs. It shows that Empress Katya is a thorough woman, never doing things at half effort. That’s good for her duties and bad, well, for me.

Looking at me longer and longer seems to irritate her very much as well. Her mask cracks more and more, her Mona Lisa smile no longer present. “You, dear Winter,” she says in an insidious manner that still carries a thread of her usual kindness, “should have never been born. That is your first wrong.”

I wonder why she insists on addressing me as ‘dear Winter’ as she verbally shreds me.

“Second, you shouldn’t have come to the palace, my home.” I agree with her. Bianca’s shack surprisingly felt like more of a home than the imperial palace.

“Third, you shouldn’t have passed the test. You should have done everything in your power to fail.”

“Fourth, you should have never met with my daughter. You, dear Winter, are not worthy to be considered in the same family as Julia.”

Ouch. I never asked to be part of this crazy family, I want to yell. I wanted to grow up in the shack until I was old enough to run away and carve out a living for myself.

“And fifth,” her voice gets lower, an edge of viciousness further coating her words. ” You should have never, ever sought out my son.”

She spits out her last words, the disgust evident. Now I’m further incensed by her claims, especially since it is clear as day that brat, Julian, spoke to me first through his crony, Meliorn.

Julian, I want to yell at my stupid half-brother, your crazy mom is about to make me embroider ’till my hands fall off!

A knock sounds at the door, Linette has returned. She enters, her eyes sparkling with glee that makes me further uncomfortable. The box is made of dark brown wood, a shiny lacquer covering the pretty designs on top. It fits nicely into her two hands and appears quite innocuous, but judging from the little I’ve gathered about Linette’s personality, the contents within must bode ill for me.

Linette stands before the empress and opens the lid to reveal a cushioned interior with several silver needles the size of an adult male’s finger, and a tad larger than a strand of hair.

I cock my head to the side in confusion.

“What?” I murmur as I get a closer look at the needles. At first glance, I just thought Katya was an avid collector of embroidery needles, but it has become apparent to me that these are not ordinary sewing needles. There is no eye to thread and after getting stabbed one too many times, I can tell that these needles are also too thin and long. Could they be some sort of ancient acupuncture needles?

Katya turns to me, anticipation flitting through her eyes.

“Winter, give me your hand,” Katya orders, a faint breathy excitement in her voice. I move to meet my stepmother halfway and she reaches towards me with a needle pinched between her thumb and index finger.