A short story I wrote years ago, and located today in the depths of my computer.

You know who I am.

Everybody does.

The story.

So simple.

They tell it to the children, the governesses.

It is not a story for children.

I have always been a private person.

I hate the idea of people knowing my business.

I fold the sheets, eyes downcast.

Don’t talk to anyone.

Don’t let anyone know how much they can affect you.

With their simple giggles, greedy smiles.

I do not talk much.

They’ve stopped asking questions.

They know better now.

I see her sometimes, she doesn’t catch my eye.

And he.

Always by her side.

He eyes her hungrily.

She’s such a little thing.

Feather-weak.

Her grubby little face that I remember.

You could always tell what she was thinking.

Right away.

Guileless.

Delicate.

All part of her charm.

Why people warmed to her.

Not him.

With him it was the masks.

Men like a mystery.

In that ridiculous gown, she looked like a doll or an infant.

Tiny.

Lost.

So easily crushable.

She always wears a mask now.

Her smile.

It isn’t real.

And I should know.

I’ve watched her often enough.

I waddle now.

Cut off a slice of heel to keep him from her.

Small sacrifice it would have been.

Had it worked.

It didn’t work.

Which shouldn’t really surprise me.

It was me.

The failure.

After all.

I stare at her in the hallways.

I have been instructed to keep my eyes to the floor.

In her presence.

I make her uncomfortable.

Remind her of the past.

I wasn’t always ugly.

I wasn’t beautiful.

But there was a time I felt it didn’t matter.

I was happy.

Looking at her as she went about her work.

Slipping her sly pastries from our table.

So thin she was.

My mother hated her.

She knew.

She hated me as well.

Only she loved me.

Married off.

On the surface it seems like a good plan.

On the surface.

I took to spending ages in the kitchen.

And we would talk.

And I would brush the ashes from her hair.

And plait it.

She wanted to go so badly.

To the ball.

I wasn’t too enthused.

Her voice was so excited.

I couldn’t not try.

Her mother’s chest.

I left the key inside.

The lock I mean.

So many dresses.

Silks and satins, reds and blues and violets.

Vivid.

Lovely.

Hers by right.

At least.

It was a mistake.

When I saw her there.

She looked so nervous.

And happy.

Looked like she belonged.

The sight of her.

I held my breath all evening.

Mother suspected, I think.

She has a sharp eye.

Two, in fact.

You need them to raise girls.

She caught me in the corner.

Traced her finger down my cheek.

Like a tear.

What did I think I was doing.

A great lump.

In fuschia taffeta.

And tulle.

Red-faced.

And sweating.

My great cow-like eyes.

Not that I had a chance.

With him.

But Margaret.

She was pretty.

Pointed little features.

She was mean.

Always pinching.

She would kick her.

If she was too slow.

With the water, in the morning.

She used to call her names.

And hold her nose when she came in the room.

There was no bad smell.

I hated Margaret.

I do not think she knew.

About my feelings.

She wasn’t very bright.

At all.

Watching her on the dance floor, in those shoes.

Her ankles strained.

My arms could have held her up.

So easily.

I knew.

I was losing.

Something I’d never had.

But.

One evening, in my bed-room.

She was heating up my sheets.

With a bed warmer.

An ugly metal thing.

She put it down.

I was brushing my hair.

One hundred strokes.

It made no difference.

Dull.

It was.

Like all of me.

She leant towards me.

Softly.

And softly blew an eyelash from my cheek.

I caught her eye and.

Something passed between us.

Her finger brushed the soft inside of my elbow.

The little curve.

So daintily.

Before she left.

That night.

Margaret never suspected.

We were sisters.

But we were not close.

I should not have left the key inside the chest.

Unlocked.

The dress, the slippers.

Such pretty things.

Of course they pale.

Beside what she wears now they pale.

Her bodices come sometimes.

Torn.

Impatience, I suppose.

I sew them in the evenings.

Sometimes.

Already cleaned they do not smell of her.

Nonetheless, I hold them to my face.

Margaret is gone.

She married.

An old merchant.

No one else would have her.

Now she’s lame.

The missing toe.

She hobbles.

Mother’s dead.

And I am here alone.

Scrubbing blood and powder stains from linens.

Mending clothes.

And keeping to myself.

When he left with her.

That day.

Mother was so angry.

Margaret too.

They screamed at me, at God and at each other.

At the walls.

I slipped away.

Eventually.

That night alone, I crept into the kitchen.

To sleep.

Alone.

My face pressed to the ash and wet with tears.