Broken Feet

Pain. Slow and agonizing pain. Relentless in its pulsating rhythm. The sharp needles that start at the heels and wind their way up through my legs and thighs until they seem to hit the innermost reaches of my heart itself. Yet I stand here still, waiting for this most handsome and gracious Prince to hand me up so that I might sit behind him on his grand steed. His intention is to make me his bride.

Oh, but I do not belong here! I want to scream this to the tops of the clouds themselves; hoping beyond hope to liberate myself in some bid for a sense of freedom from this unending nightmare. I can’t though. I am afraid. I fear that she will hear. It fills my heart with dread, the thought of what more she would do to me, to my sisters, if I were to give away the lie that she has sown.

I make the mistake of moving my foot ever so slightly. The agony almost too much to bear and he sees this in my face. He asks if I am alright and I find myself compounding one lie with another. Yes, I tell him. I am fine. I merely stepped upon a pebble.

He knows something is amiss. He has known this since his servants and he first set foot within my mother’s house. I am not the girl he remembers dancing with. The one he fell in love with. Although, I am the girl whose feet fit the tiny glass slipper that he has held so close to his heart since that fateful night. As a result, I am the one to be taken back to the castle.

For but a brief moment I can almost hear crying on the wind. Perhaps it is the tears of my dear sister who, even as I await the carriage that will take the Prince and I away, is locked within the dungeon of a basement we all have come to know and loathe. She is the one – my sister through marriage, not through birth – that the Prince danced with that night. It is she that he truly wants, loves and needs.

I can feel the blood ooze from the open wound in my foot, were once a heel in whole was to be found. Now that heel is maimed and scarred forever. A chunk of it taken without permission by a woman who claims to love me and wants only what is best for me.

A woman who, in the dead of night, gave birth to me without any aid from another after being in labor for three days and nights she claims. Although I know that my birth sister came much more easily and with the help of a midwife of questionable ethics.

My mother was far from being the noble-born lady everyone took her for. Born so far into poverty that not even merchants would take a second glance toward her. How she loathed her status in the world. Wishing and groping for something far beyond that with which she was first disposed.

Her bitterness only grew as men wended their way in and out of my mother’s life as well as her bed. Most of them covered in sweat and filth. I do not recall that any of the ones I remember were my birth father. He was long gone before I was even born. Although, I can still remember the breath of one who made the mistake of wanting to try me on for size after mother had finished with him. The knife slicing through him like butter as blood pooled at the feet of this formidable woman. How many times she stabbed him exactly I cannot remember, but how she did seem to get some sort of viscous pleasure from it.

It had been this louse that put the seed into my mother that would become my dearest and most darling sister. When mother first found that she was with child yet again (having suffered more than a few “miscarriages” between my sister and I) she was infuriated. She sought help from the one person she had come to count on. A sometimes midwife and herbalist who arranged these more subtle miscarriages and who had the habit of curing more than one discouraged wife of her overly irritating husband.

Unfortunately for mother, this time her request for relief of this unwanted burden was denied. Mother had been down that road too many times and now there was more at risk then the life of a mere unborn child. Should my mother choose to poison yet another such inconvenience, she might inadvertently poison herself as well. So with the help of this midwife, my mother produced, for the second time, a beautiful and healthy baby girl.

However, the midwife was not done yet. She descended on my mother like a hawk on a field mouse. Playing to my mother’s madness till you could hear their shrill laughter on the wind. The very thought of which still sends chills running through my body. It was this hideous woman who first put the idea of pure and total power into my mother’s head.

Late into the night would they plot and plan, often leaving me to tend to my infant sister whom my mother could not even be bothered to name. As I held this tiny child in my arms it came to me. Hope. I shall call her Hope. Thus my birth sister became more like a daughter to me and I more like a mother to her. With that our own bond was secured.

We were two sisters, confidants to each other’s deepest, darkest secrets. Both reviled and revered by a birth mother whose ever-deteriorating mind brought her time and again to the brink of total breakdown.

It was during this time, early in my dear sister’s youth, that our mother began to disappear for weeks at a time, sometimes even months. The midwife, our wretched godmother could not even be brought to watch after us during these times, choosing instead to disappear with our mother. We were left to fend for ourselves. In the filth and slime that covered our little hovel inside and outside.

When they returned from these excursions, it was with dresses, jewels, face paints and numerous other trinkets along with scores of gold and silver. She insisted that it was for us, her daughters. But, we knew the truth. A forbidden lust had been planted in her that needed to constantly be quenched. We had heard the tales on the streets. First came the stories of peasants disappearing from the streets only to be found robbed and mutilated, next merchants on the road in distant towns. Lastly were the stories where even ladies and lords being lured away and accosted to the point of horrendous death.

She always returned happy at first. As if some monster inside her had finally been released and allowed to run free. To our great dismay though, the monster always returned; that beast in her eyes that arose whenever we had the misfortune to anger her. Late at night we would cry into our pillows wishing and praying for some kind of reprieve, the bruises, cuts and burns hurting as much as ever.

It didn’t last long however. Within two years she had acquired a wardrobe, dowry and finally the presence of a noble woman herself. When this happened she forgot about us. She became entranced in the part; in convincing people that she was actually that which she passed herself off as being.

To do this, she first needed a new and better house. Again the midwife, for even now I cannot bear to bring myself to think of her as any kind of family to us, showed our mother her worth by arranging for a house in the inner city. It was old and in disuse but I, along with my young sister, was put to task to clean and fix every inch of it. This we did silently and diligently while they wined and dined and bought our mother a reputation that was far above her meager beginnings of the prostitute she once was.

Once again weeks descend into months and months into years. Finally by the time I reached my twelfth birthday, eight long years after the madness first set in, our mother achieved her goal of a well-to-do husband. He was a Lord with a grand house and great deal of money to go along, though for my mother the title was the most and only important thing.

He was kind and ever so caring and gentle. I was immediately set upon to feel sorry that he should have ended up with my mother as a wife. And what of his young daughter? She was a rose in a garden of thorns. A mere two years my junior, we quickly became the best of friends. We were confidants of the highest order and keepers of each others deepest darkest secrets and desires. Along with our younger sister, we would hide and play together. The three of us were always together. What we lacked in blood, we made up for with love. For the first time that I ever remember, we became the children we were always meant to be. With a father who loved and cared for us even if our own mother didn’t.

But then, as with all things, change was already on the wind. After only a year our new father grew ill and passed on into the night. Was it no surprise that it had happened shortly after a visit from mother’s ever faithful, ever vigilant nursemaid? No. I had seen this supposed illness before and knew that in truth it was no such thing.

The poisoned seed of evil that had been planted in my mother had been used to destroy this poor man whom had thought he was going to bed with a woman who loved him, when in fact he did no more than bed a murderess.

How best to describe the next set of years that came upon us? They are terrible, horrendous, a nightmare in its entirety. No soft words of comfort ever spoken. No tenderness of touch. Although my dearest Hope and I were used to this, our new-found sister was not. What horrible thoughts crept into her mind as she learned of the drudgery, abuse and neglect that were to become her mantel as they had become ours? Worse yet was the fact that, this time, the neglect was to be short-lived indeed.

It was her, that monstrous woman who finally noticed my dear sister and I, that would bring our world crashing to its knees. After many parties, great, fantastic balls, and another few years of men fighting for mother’s affections and a few nights spent in her company, the suitors began to wane. Mother had lost her glitter. Soon there would be no more men to bribe their way into her lustful bed, and with no more men to court her, there were no new riches for her to lavish in.

At this point the midwife’s plan took a dreadful turn. My stepsister and I had come of marriageable age. Even Hope, although too young yet to actually marry, was more than old enough for some men to find attractive. Mother was ready to start pawning us off on various men of ill-repute when the midwife stepped in and stopped her. No, it was not to save us, but to give mother one last chance at having everything her heart desired. A kingdom to rule over, through us.

It seems that the Prince of the land, a handsome specimen indeed, was looking for a wife, but for all the Princesses that there were in the world, he could not find one that suited his taste. So he had sent out his declaration that he shall host a Royal Ball at month’s end, to which all eligible maidens were bidden to attend.

They grasped onto this almost immediately. With that, the manipulations started. The first was to thrust my sisters and I into the Prince at every turn, whether it was on the streets or in the market. We found ourselves primped and permed and prepped until it hurt. Painful corsets that we had never before been forced to wear were now never to be taken off except in the dead of night. The parties that my mother used to frequent alone were now used to “introduce” her beautiful daughters to society.

And it worked too, all of it. The nobility started to notice, as did the Prince. More importantly though, rather than notice all of us, he noticed my dear stepsister. When he would talk to us, it was her that his eyes would linger on. He would ever so gently touch her hand, at which she would blush. And we knew, Hope and I, that they were quick to fall in love.

It was only natural. Even with all the abuses suffered at the hands of the mistress of madness, she still retained an air of innocence. A belief that she held deep down, that things would turn out well in the end, and that the world, no matter how askew it was, would right itself.

I, myself, had given up such fancies long ago. Perhaps that is what attracted the Prince to her. She had an ever-present optimism in the face of everything wrong with the world.

Then mother noticed. She noticed it was the brat not born of her womb that held the Prince enthralled. She could not stand that, so she immediately set her back to work at the manor house and did everything she could to keep her away from the Prince so that he might forget her and focus on my other sister and myself.

But she had forgotten. Or did she ever really know in the first place that my sisters and I were all very close? We had bonded to save ourselves and each other from this mad woman and the demons that were rooted in her very soul. So for the first time ever, Hope and I started upon our own manipulations.

We wove a tapestry of lies and deceit for our mother and gave hope to our sister. We found ways to force mother and midwife from the house without their ever knowing it was us. We went back to helping our sister with the chores so our plans would not be interrupted. We made her up and took her out. We taught her how to dance and move and talk. She learned how to bow to royalty and pretend to ignore servants. We taught her how to catch more than just the eye of the Prince.

The ball was a mere week away. So we set to working on a dress for her to wear. We used the finest of the silks that mother had procured over the years and promptly forgotten about. We used the jewelry she had long ago lost interest in. We made the most beautiful gown ever seen. One that would make queens weep and kings sit up and take notice. One that would make sure that the Prince never again looked at another woman.

Time passed quickly and we were still in need of shoes. Our sister’s feet, though they are as pretty as she, are unusual to say the least. Their size escapes the bonds of normalcy and are thus very hard to fit. None of us had money for the shoemaker either. So we set to work making the shoes from things we can get our hands on. An old pair of slippers dressed up in fur and glass beads. To make them look new and beautiful, as well as to strengthen the waning leather. We finished just in time. Everything was perfect.

Before we could blink the night was upon us. Hope and I prepared ourselves for the ball, while mother overlooked. Our sister was to remain behind and dress herself later. Then sneak from the house to a carriage that we had secretly sent to pick her up. If all went well, we would never need fear our mother again.

We left, our fingers crossed in the strongest of wishes, and our sister scrubbing the kitchen floor. Mother was dressed as though men still looked longingly at her, even though none had for years.

Distain is what greeted us there that night. Bright and blaring distain, coupled with bits and pieces of long-forgotten lust and desire, hatred and rage. These were all the emotions that greeted our mother as we entered into the ballroom at the palace.

My sister and I, however, were faced with other emotions. Regret, sorrow and pity filled the eyes of those that looked upon us. We were pawns, nothing more, in this, our mother’s ever-widening power struggle. We were chattel. Chattel for the taking and the giving, and everyone here seemed to know it.

Oh, they all believed that she was a Lady born and breed. Else the husbands would never have so readily let her into their bed chambers and the wives would not so easily have let her get away with it. That did not mean that they were blind to her manipulations, merely that they did not wish to incur her wrath.

They knew she was mad. She scared them. Her rage and hunger for only the best were trademarks of a possessed mind and soul. What demons crawled around inside, they did not know, though my sisters and I knew all to well.