GUILTY PLEASURES

Sierra had long stopped counting the bruises. They were always there, hiding beneath her sleeves, marking her arms, her shoulders, the places where Ivy’s hands or her uncle’s belt had landed last. Each new mark was just another reminder: she had no one to protect her, no one who cared, and no one who would ever see her as anything but a servant in her own home.

Even now, the house smelled of damp wood and burned cooking oil. The walls were thick with the scent of her aunt’s perfume and Ivy’s floral soap. Everywhere she went, the smells reminded her that she was small, invisible, and replaceable.

This morning, like every morning, started with a scolding. Her uncle had caught her folding Ivy’s dresses too slowly. His voice was sharp and clipped, each word landing like a stone. “Move faster, girl. Do you want to be clumsy your whole life?”

Her hands had been shaking, fumbling with satin and lace, her fingers raw from previous tasks. She muttered a soft apology, but he had only snorted and returned to his breakfast with his newspaper, leaving her standing there, humiliated.

Her aunt’s eyes were just as cold, the pearls around her neck clicking as she leaned in to say, “If you ruin her dresses again, you’ll regret it. Ivy cannot look sloppy because of you.”

Ivy herself was already staring, her green eyes narrowed, her mouth twisting into a sneer. “You think you’re prettier than me, don’t you? Everyone always says you’re prettier than me. You make me look ugly,” she hissed under her breath, loud enough for Sierra to hear.

Sierra swallowed. Words failed her. She had been told her whole life that her beauty was a curse, that it was dangerous, that it would bring nothing but envy and punishment. And Ivy—her cousin, the same age, the same size—was living proof that jealousy could make a person cruel.

The chores never ended. Folding, cleaning, dusting, mopping. The house was large, with endless rooms, high ceilings, and polished floors that reflected every mistake she made. Every spilled drop of water, every wrinkle in the fabric, every misstep was noted, judged, punished.

“Why do you even bother?” Ivy spat one afternoon as Sierra polished the floors. “You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be like me. I hate that people say you’re prettier than me. They’ll always notice you before me, and I’ll never forgive that.”

Sierra didn’t answer. She had learned long ago that speaking back only made things worse. She lowered her gaze, pressed the cloth harder against the wood, trying to make herself small, invisible.

Her uncle walked by then, glancing down at her. “Keep your head down and your hands busy. Don’t make me come back here.” He didn’t wait for her response. His approval was never given; his presence alone was a command.

And so Sierra continued, silently calculating her life in minutes of survival. She had learned to anticipate Ivy’s wrath. She had learned to anticipate her uncle’s punishments. She had learned to anticipate the cold indifference of her aunt. Survival, she realized, was not about living—it was about enduring.

At mealtime, she was always the last to eat, if she ate at all. Plates of food were handed to her without a word, and she ate quickly, quietly, her hands shaking as she tried to avoid spills or crumbs. Every bite reminded her that she was smaller than everyone else, weaker, fragile, and unworthy.

The night brought no relief. Her bedroom was just another room in the house, empty except for a thin mattress, a threadbare blanket, and the lingering smells of mildew. She lay on the bed, listening to the sounds of her aunt arranging her own things, Ivy giggling down the hall, her uncle’s deep voice talking to unknown guests in the study.

She closed her eyes, hoping sleep would take her away. But it never did. The memories of the day pressed in: Ivy’s sneers, her uncle’s sharp words, the endless chores, the fear of punishment. Each time she drifted toward sleep, a small voice whispered in her mind: you are nothing, you are nothing, you are nothing.

Sierra knew that outside the house, in the streets or the market, children laughed, played, dreamed. She had seen it once, years ago, when she was allowed to accompany her aunt on an errand. Those children didn’t worry about pleasing anyone, about being beaten, about being invisible. But she couldn’t join them. She could never join them. She belonged here. And belonging here meant enduring.

Even small tasks were treacherous. One morning, she had been ironing Ivy’s favorite dress, taking care with each fold, each crease. She thought she had done well. But when Ivy walked in, eyes blazing, she screamed. “You ruined it! Look at the wrinkles! You can’t even do this right!” She had raised her hand, and the slap had burned her cheek, leaving a hot mark that still stung hours later.

And no one had intervened. Not her aunt. Not her uncle. Not the maids, who scurried past silently, their eyes averted. She had curled herself into a corner, trying to make herself invisible, trying to disappear into the smell of the room, the worn fabric of the dress, the bitter tang of fear that seemed to cling to her skin.

This was how her life had always been: humiliation and punishment, jealousy and cruelty, indifference and silence. And yet, somewhere deep inside, she still hoped. She didn’t know what she hoped for—maybe for kindness, maybe for someone to notice her, maybe just for a moment of peace—but she held onto that tiny spark because it was all she had.

Even now, in the quiet moments before dawn, when the house was still and the floors creaked under its own weight, she would think of freedom. Not real freedom, of course—just a sliver of escape in her mind, a place where she could breathe without fear, where she could exist without punishment. But the walls of the house always pressed in, thick and suffocating, reminding her that there was no escape. Not here. Not ever.

Her cousin’s hatred was relentless. Ivy would throw things, mock her constantly, remind her at every chance that she was inferior, that her beauty was a threat, and that it made her target. Ivy’s smiles at guests were always wide, perfect, while hers were fleeting, hesitant, invisible. And the adults did nothing. The adults always sided with Ivy or ignored the suffering entirely.

Once, Sierra had tried to speak up, had tried to ask for mercy, for even a small word of comfort. She had been met with silence and a sharp, “Do not speak unless spoken to,” from her uncle, and a glance of disapproval from her aunt. That was the lesson she learned: feelings were useless, words were dangerous, and hope was a luxury she could not afford.

And yet, she endured. Every day, every task, every punishment, every sneer. She endured because she had no choice. She endured because hiding in plain sight was the only way to survive. She endured because the walls of the house were her prison, and leaving was not permitted.

She curled up on her thin mattress again, the blanket pulled around her like armor. Tears slid silently down her cheeks. She thought of the little things she longed for: a kind word, a soft touch, a place where she wasn’t hated for simply existing. But those things did not exist here. They had never existed here.

And tomorrow, it would start again. Chores, scolding, Ivy’s sneers, her uncle’s sharp eyes, her aunt’s silence. Her life had become a loop of misery, a cycle she could not escape. But she would endure. She had to.

Because if she did not endure, what else did she have?

Nothing.

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