Ophelia Criswell was the name given to me upon birth. A regular name, with no appeal or uniqueness; however, during my upbringing, I was always considered the special one, the murderer of the kind-hearted Duchess; the child who held the demon’s curse within.

   A shady street fortune teller foretold my mother’s death. That’s how the rumors began.

   “You will die by your own blood within eight full moons.” He declared, in a warm Blistering¹There are five seasons throughout the year. Blistering equals Summer. night, a week before my mother knew she was one month pregnant. And, as if it were a twisted trick of fate, the man’s words became as real as the changing of the seasons.

   After my birth, life within the Criswell’s mansion was similar to an affair, it existed even though everyone tried their utmost to deny it. My blood-proclaimed father completely ignored my presence and, just like the sheep following the shepherd, so did the servants. My older sister loved to pick fights with me since she knew that, regardless of who was truly in the wrong, blame would fall on me.

   Growing up isolated, my personality was of a quiet child, always keeping my nose in the unreadable library books and in the breathtaking flowery green garden inside the large mansion grounds. My friends were nothing more than fragments of my imagination and so were my desires to learn, to love, and to live an ordinary life.

   Knowing that the Duke²In this world, social hierarchy went as followed: Royalty; Dukes; Marquesses; Earls (equivalent to Counts); Viscounts;  Barons. despised my presence, I tried to remain calm, polite and hidden, avoiding drawing attention to myself, but, even then, it wasn’t enough.

   “You didn’t finish your dinner, Ophelia!? That’s unforgivable!” A maid in her late thirties reprimanded me as she noticed the untouched green boiled eggs at the side of the plate. Her voice was loud and resolute, as if she was the rightful ruler of this mansion. “Apologize this instant!”

   “I-I’m sorry!” I stuttered, tears rolling down my eyes.

   Back then, I was always begging for forgiveness, apologizing to those who yearned for control over another; often for things I did and for many things I didn’t.

   No servant in the house respected my standing because of the Duke’s behavior. He never put it into words, but it was clear he didn’t consider me his kin. The maids yelled at me and forced me to do their tasks while others just observed, clearly mocking my status. They skimmed my small allowance, forcing my meals to be some leftovers from the kitchen. If I was lucky, half of the food was still eatable and not rotten.

   But the butlers were the most problematic, as they were not men but rats that worked directly under that man’s wing. They were like hawks, observing their frail little prey struggle right before digging their sharp claws into its deepest and darkest secrets.

   Even knowing about it all, the Duke never attempted to fix the situation and so I kept on living in the shadows, forgotten within the solitude of silence and neglect.

   Every time my older sister took lessons from Marchioness Delight, my small frame would sneak into the hall, hiding between furniture’s, simply sitting behind the door, paying close attention to what was being taught. Part of me thought that, if my worth could be proven to that man, he would finally acknowledge me, and everything would fall back to the place where it belonged.

   Of course, these were nothing but mere hopes of the purity within a child, a small and frail human who couldn’t voice words like “love” or shape the form behind “affection”.

   “Father...” I attempted to speak confidently. “I heard you called for me?”

   “You are getting married to Duke Wharton’s eldest son.”

   Those were the first and last words he ever gave me. During 16 long years, I’d been nothing but a shadow, roaming his mind from time to time, but now, looking back, it was hard not to wonder if I ever had a place within his thick yet distant walls at all.

    “Yes, Father.” With no hesitation, I replied and was quickly escorted out of his dusty study room by a tall, slender butler.

   If hearts could physically break, mine had become shattered that day, with a large self-inflicted wound that would remain for many years to come.

   Not a week later, I moved to the Wharton’s mansion, and everything was different. The maids actually cared for me as they attended to my needs and respected my role as the next lady of the house. For a moment, foolish, hopeful reasoning assumed this was what happiness felt like, but that glimpse of joy soon came to an end. It wasn’t long until that man’s corpses knocked at my door and my ignorance faded.

   Terrel Wharton, the first son of Duke Wharton and my fiancé, was a sick man filled with perversion and a particular obsession with beauty. A faint glimpse was all it took for his lust to stick to me for almost a decade.

   One night, he got drunk and sneaked into my room, abusing me, all night long. Afraid that I had become pregnant, the wedding moved from Frosting³There are five seasons throughout the year. Frosting equals Winter. to Seedling⁴Seedling equals Spring. and we got married. News of my pregnancy rose, but they lasted for nothing more than a sinful of days since, after a week, another skeleton was added to his baggage; a gift from that man’s dreadful touch.

   Terrel Wharton was a complete monstrosity. During the day, he treated me as if I was the most precious merchandise a businessman offered, yet, at night, he would beat me up while pleasuring himself - since that became one of his favorite fetishes. After our first night, the same night where he stole my dignity, my body became an eyesore, a blemish, filled with scars, burns, and bruises, however, sarcastic as it may seem, my beautifully perfect face, the one thing that he truly loved, was always spared.

   A year after the wedding, Duke Edgar Wharton suddenly died and Terrel succeeded in his stead. Coincidentally, his younger brothers, whom I never met, ended up disappearing. No one knew what happened; however, rumors wandered through the house, blaming the only person with a heart cold enough to commit such an atrocious act, the beast that crawled into my bed every night.

   In the middle of pure agony and desperation, a shred of hope remained. Letters had been sent to that man, explaining everything that was happening behind closed doors. I thought he would be just like a precious and majestic knight, galloping in his white stallion to save the trapped princess in the highest tower of the darkest castle.

   But he never came.