IT HURTS
Madison's POV
The slap rang out in the air like a gunshot, the stinging pain spreading across my cheek as I jerked back. The tray of tea slipped from my trembling hands, crashing to the marble floor. Porcelain shattered, and scaling liquid splashed against my bare feet, searing my flesh.
There was a weighted silence, just long enough for me to brace myself for what would follow next.
"You arrogant idiot!" Jenny's voice—no, not my mother, just Jenny—sliced through the air like a knife. "Look what you've done! You can't do anything right! I should have gotten rid of you the moment you started showing your foolishness!"
I swallowed hard, my head still lowered. Never make eye contact. Never talk back. Never cry. I had learned the rules well.
"Forgive me, Mother. Forgive me, Father. I'll clean it up," I mumbled, falling to my knees to pick up the broken pieces.
"Who is your mother?"
Savannah's voice was sweetly ill, with an edge of amusement.
I had no time to answer before she ground her foot onto my hand, pressing my fingers into the sharp porcelain.
A jagged shard cut through my palm, and a burning bolt of pain ran up my arm. I gasped, but bit down hard on my lip to keep myself from crying out. Shouting would only make things worse.
Savannah laughed. "Pathetic."
She pressed her heel down harder, twisting it, daring me to do something. The glass sliced in deeper, warm blood rising under my fingers.
"You're always making trouble," she continued, her voice dripping with insincere sympathy. "I don't know why we even keep you around. A stray dog would be more use than you."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight back. But I didn't.
I couldn't.
Not after all these years of being beaten down, of knowing that my pain didn't count to them.
I hated remembering how it all started.
There was a time when this house was a dream.
I was seven years old when Jenny and Stephen Greenadopted me. They told me that they had chosen to adopt because they couldnt have their own baby so they wanted to have a home for a child instead of going through the trouble of bringing one up from a toddler.
I can still remember standing in front of the doors to the orphanage, barely able to contain my excitement. I had hoped for a family. I had prayed for a family. And when they brought me home, it felt as if all my dreams had come true.
They hugged me, kissed me, told me I was their special little girl.
Until Jenny got pregnant.
The day Savannah was born was the day that everything changed.
It started with small things.
They no longer addressed me as their daughter. They forgot to wish me goodnight. They were too occupied spoiling her, their real daughter.
And then there were the punishments. The chores. The slaps.
I was nothing.
And Savannah? She thrived in my suffering.
"Get out of here. You disgust me, slave." Jenny's voice was detached, cold, as if she was talking about something less than human.
My so-called father, Stephen, didn't say anything. He never said anything. He just sat at the table, sipping his coffee, reading the newspaper, pretending I wasn't there.
My hand throbbed as I held my palm against my dress, blood leaking through the sheer fabric. But I didn't dare go to get help. I cleaned up the mess, biting back pain, and then hurried out of the room before they could find another excuse to punish me.
I stumbled downstairs to the far end of the house —my bedroom.
It wasn't my room forever. I used to have a nice bedroom with light pink walls and stuffed animals. But when Savannah turned six, she decided she wanted both rooms, so I got moved in here.
A tiny, suffocating room with a leaking ceiling and a mattress on the floor. No windows, no heater for the winter. Just four walls to keep me in.
I shut the door behind me, my back against it as I breathed in short, sharp gasps.
I searched through my trembling hands for something to wrap around my wound, but I only had my torn, old clothes. I didn't have anything that hadn't been broken. Anything that was mine.
My eyes landed on a bottle of liquor hidden in the back of my closet. I had found it in this room when I newly moved in several years ago, thank God I didn't throw it away when I found it
I poured the drink onto my palm.
The burn was instant, searing, but I bit down on my lip until my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. I would not cry. I would not break.
But God, it hurt.
Not just my hand. Everything.
I was not just bleeding from my palm. I was bleeding from the inside out.
I was not wanted.
I was not loved.
I was just a broken puzzle piece, forced into a picture where I would never fit.
I was startled by a sudden knock at the door.
"Madison!" Savannah's voice was mocking. "Mother says you need to sweep the garden and scrub the stairs. And don't take all day about it—I want the floors clean before my friends arrive."
My throat bulged with a lump, but I swallowed it down.
"Yes, Savannah," I whispered, though I knew she was already walking away, laughing to herself.
I took the broom and the bucket and made myself go back downstairs.
This was my life. This was all it would ever be.
The grand staircase was the most elegant part of the Greenestate—white marble steps, a gleaming mahogany railing, and intricate gold detailing along the edges. A chandelier hung above, its crystals casting dazzling reflections across the polished surface.
It was beautiful.
And I was on my knees, scrubbing it.
My fingers ached as I dragged the brush over the cool marble, pushing away dirt that wasn’t even visible. The water in my bucket had turned a murky grey, and my already wounded palm stung with every movement.
My body screamed for rest, but I didn’t stop. Stopping meant punishment.
The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed through the grand hall. Slow. Measured. Confident.
I instinctively lowered my head, keeping my eyes on the floor. Never make eye contact. Never draw attention.
But something in the familiar, steady gait made me glance up.
Samuel.