She silently cries, little girl tears soaking into the drapes.
Knock. He's coming.
Knock. He's coming.
He always finds her. Every single time.
Knock. Those black leather shoes he loves seeing her polish.
Knock. With those hard iron toes.
She remembers a time before him, before the shoes. But she can't recall who she used to be. She knows she has, or had, a mother at some point. She senses there's more to life than scrubbing bloody floors, shining ebony shoes, lighting wax candles, quelling bleeding lips, and mending blackened eyes.
Knock.
How far could her little legs carry her anyway?
Knock.
Where could she possibly go?
Knock.
"Have you forgotten, dear?"
He mocks her. He tells her not to hide, but he enjoys the hunt each time. She rises, sniffling, stepping out from the motherly curtain's heavy purple folds. He stands across the room, in the doorway. She watches the floorboards as she walks towards him. He grips the back of her neck too tightly. Together, they wind deeper and deeper into the manor. No, she hasn't forgotten him. No, she hasn't forgotten the punishment. No, she hasn't forgotten her duties. No, she hasn't forgotten she's nothing without him. No, she hasn't forgotten to be grateful. No, she hasn't forgotten his shoes, their black leather, and how they feel stepping on her feet. No, she hasn't forgotten the iron toes, and the bruises they leave on her little girl skin. She will shine them and place them at his bedside. She is grateful. She is nothing without him.