TIMOTHY.

I watch Felicity as she squeezes her small frame into her house through the window. I should really ask her why she would rather crawl through a small window than walk through the front door.

I can't help but smile. I feared it'll take me weeks to have a conversation with her but this happened in just one day! I did most of the talking because she did not care to, but she listened and that's enough. The way she listens to me makes me feel heard in a way I've never felt before. And the way she looks at me makes me feel like I'm the only person who matters in this great big world.

I can't help but laugh again as I imagine Cinderella as some sort of celebrity. She's adorable-- Felicity. It's a pretty name, but I can't help but think that it's at odds with her personality. A Felicity should be happy by definition, Cinderella suits her better.

*

FELICITY

*

I cannot wipe the smile off my face—I probably take semblance to a lunatic right now. I am not sure why I feel so comfortable around this stranger, or why I trust him so much. I have only known him for two days, but I feel like I have known him always.

I hide my drawing under my mattress. Thank God Madam has never been one to inspect my room. It is probably because there is no place to hide anything and nothing to hide anyway. Or, there wasn't.

I walk to the table where diner food is, and I quickly scarf them down so I do not get hit. 

I shut my eyes for a bit. Although talking to Timothy was amazing, it was also exhausting, and all I want to do right now is sleep—maybe I shall even dream about him.

After what feels like moments, I hear the clatter of keys as Madam unlocks the basement door. She stomps down the fragile wooden stairs, and I get up. I hope she is in a good mood today. "Welcome back Madam," I say. I wince slightly—the pain in my back is still intense—but I cannot help the true smile that plays on my lips. She goes over to the table to pick up my tray while I stand by my mattress, still smiling. I cannot wipe the smile off my face. She turns around to face me and then she frowns.

"Why are you smiling?" She asks indignantly, and I quickly wipe the smile off my face.

She moves towards me angrily, and, before I realize what is happening, she raises her right hand and smacks me across my face with the back of her hand. The ring on her finger grazes my skin and leaves a small tear on my cheek. I was not expecting it, and the impact was so hard that I fall face first to the ground. I hold my throbbing cheek.

"That is how you properly wipe a smile off someone's face," she says and then she leaves.

I feel a tear in my eye, but I grit my teeth. I cannot let her destroy my joy.

Why am I not enough for Madam? A few books I have read have described parents as people who love and protect their children, people who can give up their lives and joy just to see their children happy. Why is she different? Why can't she love me?

I wish Timothy were here right now. He seems so calm and safe. I wish he were here.

*

I wake up the next morning to find myself on the floor crawled up in a ball. I gently place my cold palm on my bruised cheek. Will Timothy see it? What will he think? Every time he sees me I look worse than the last time. He asks a lot of questions and I am afraid that he is too smart to keep believing my excuses.

I slowly make my way to the window for some fresh air. Is it possible for my back to hurt more than yesterday? I wonder. Yes, I decide. When I reach the window, I catch a glimpse of someone: Timothy! What is he doing here so early? We agreed to meet, but I assumed he will come over the same time as yesterday.

Madam has two jobs, so she is hardly home, but I know for sure that she has yet to leave. My meals are not on my table yet, so she is probably in the kitchen, cooking. I'm sure she has seen him around before—he says he comes here to draw almost every day. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing.

That cannot be good.