Page 1 of Unwilling Mate

1

ABIGAIL

Some days,it doesn’t even seem worth the effort to get out of bed in the morning. My birthday feels like it should be one of those days, but it’s my eighteenth birthday, and it shouldn’t feel this way, right?

I roll from my lumpy hay-stuffed mattress and wince as my feet touch the ice-cold floor.At least it’s clean, I note to myself, trying to grasp at anything that will tell me this day won’t be any worse than yesterday. It’s afternoon, late for me to be rising, but no one has yelled or dragged me up, and I fear being shoved out the door any faster than necessary.

My meager belongings sit neatly displayed around the room. It’s only a matter of time before my stepmother kicks me out. She’s been harping on me for years about leaving on my eighteenth birthday. No doubt she already has a burly man to throw me down the path the second I step foot outside my tiny attic bedroom.

I use the small basin of water I keep on the rickety dresser, propped up with books on one side to keep it as level as possible.Not that I have many items of clothing to stuff inside it, but it holds the basin at chest height for me to wash with. If I try to use the family bathrooms, then I have to clean them immediately or face my stepmother’s wrath. It’s easier to take care of my quick needs here and clean up later. Especially today.

It only takes a few minutes to wash and tie up my golden hair in a piece of cloth I ripped from an old towel. It keeps the mass of it away from my face while I work, which is really all I need.

When I finally get the courage to exit my room, there’s no one standing in the hall waiting to escort me out the door. There’s no one period, and no one screaming my name to cook breakfast, clean the kitchen, or scrub the toilets. Blissful silence. I draw in a deep breath and savor it for a moment. Then I head toward the kitchen, where, no doubt, my bliss will be shattered into a million sharp pieces and used to maim me repeatedly.

I find my two stepsisters, Angela and Cindy, sitting at the dining room table whispering to each other. My stepmother is absent, which should be setting off alarm bells in my head. I move my mouth wide so she can see me exaggerate the words in shapes with my lips, but of course, no sound comes out.Where’s your mom?

Cindy gasps exaggeratedly. “That’s none of your business. Besides, it’s your birthday. Don’t worry about her or any of us today.”

Okay, now every alarm and buzzer in my body is blaring, warning me something is going on.What does that mean?

She shrugs and shares a look with Angela. “This is a very special birthday for you. We want it to be special for you.”

I don’t believe that for a second. They’ve never cared about my birthday before. They never cared about me. The only people who ever care are both… I swallow down a wave of bile and cross to the counter to grab an apple. I don’t like to think about my parents.

“Oh, take two, dear. You’ll need to start putting on a little weight if you want to catch a man. They don’t like twig figures,” Cindy says. Her eyes sparkle as if we are sharing a private joke, but something irks me, telling me the joke is at my expense no matter what her words say.

I grab another apple, leveling her with a look, and walk out the back door to the balcony overlooking the deep woods around the house. It’s so peaceful out here. I can spend the entire day outside and never get tired of feeling the breeze or smelling the loamy dampness of the earth.

It also helps that my stepsisters and stepmother all equally hate being outdoors, which means I get left alone for many hours when I make it outside. It’s a haven for me and beats the dusty, cramped walls of my bedroom any day.

I head down the worn stairs to the path and cut through a trail to a copse of trees in a ring that makes me think of a wolf if you were looking at it a certain way. I throw myself down at the base of a tree and polish off the second apple, happy I listened to Cindy, even out of spite. I don’t often get to eat more than the scraps, so I happily accept when I’m offered more than my usual tiny portion.

The next thing I remember is the sun setting, and I scramble up from the dirt, swatting away the flies that had used me for a bed while I’d been out. I rush back toward the house, certain that ifI don’t start dinner soon, my stepmother will hunt me down and punish me for not having it ready on time.

When I rush into the kitchen and head to the hook to grab my apron, it’s gone. Oh no, they are kicking me out already.

I turn to look for it but find my sisters sitting at the table, my mother serving a ladle of stew into a bowl in front of the empty seat. “I was wondering where you went off to.”

It takes everything I have not to fidget and brush dirt off my skirt or fix the hair which had come loose from its tie.

“Well, sit down. It won’t stay warm all night.”

I lower myself into the chair, eyeing them all. What’s going on? I try to mouth the words, but Angela places a pad of paper and a pen in my hands. “Use this, so we don’t spend all night trying to guess what you are saying.”

Another red flag waves in my mind. They don't like me writing stuff down. They like making a point of not letting me have an opinion or a voice. I scribble across the page before they change their minds.What’s going on?

Cindy squints to read it and then nudges the bowl toward me. There are bowls in front of everyone, but it’s as if they were all waiting. “Mom made stew for you. To celebrate your birthday. Go on, try it.”

Angela gets up and brings a bottle of wine to the table. “I know you’re only eighteen, but one little drink on your birthday won’t hurt anyone.”

I snag the glass and take a sip. It’s sweet like cherry and slightly bitter in the aftertaste, but I smile and pretend I like it.

“Eat, Abigail. Eat or I’m going to think you don’t like your birthday surprise.”

I gulp hard and hunch over the bowl to shove some of the thick stew into my mouth. It’s too salty and makes my eyes water, but I keep eating and give her a little smile to show I like it.

For some reason, she’s not kicking me out, and I’m not going to tempt fate by being ungrateful when she went to so much trouble to cook for me. In fact, I can’t remember the last time she cooked a meal or cleaned up after one. I’m usually the one who does all the chores since I’m the one who doesn’t have an income to support the family.

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