Shimmer

as the soft rolls of baby fat melted away, allowing her to slim down for a time, before she began to blossom into a pretty young girl whose thirteenth year found her with a closet full of sparkly dresses and drawers stuffed with colorful ribbons and bows. Longing for her father to take notice of her, to appreciate the way she looked in them. But he had neither the time nor the interest, viewing his daughter as a nuisance that was best left to the servants to deal with.

And so they did.

So fearful of her father’s legacy of anger, they indulged her every whim in hopes she’d never bad-mouth them. Giving her sweets and treats and presents of every kind: a vast array of delicacies she only vaguely desired; a vast array of delicacies they’d long been denied.

It was the recipe for making a monster.

And there was no end in sight.

If there was resentment in their eyes, Rebecca remained unaware of it. She barely paid them any real notice. To her, they had no other purpose than to fulfill her demands—she was sure that was the sole reason for their existence. Her indulgent life had turned her into the kind of brat I’d only seen on reality TV but never once in the reality of real life.

She was a brat of mammoth proportions.

A spoiled-rotten, clueless, friendless girl, who was so firmly entrenched in her fantasy world—one where everything revolved solely around her—she had no idea how awful she’d become.

No idea that the people who served her had not actually asked to be employed by her father.

No idea of the sadistic game of “bowling” he played with those he’d deemed unworthy of a job they didn’t even want in the first place.

And yet, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

Couldn’t help but pity her.

Even though there was no getting around the fact that she was just as beastly as that dog of hers, there was also no denying that she just didn’t get it.

Like the prince would say—she was resisting the truth.

And the next thing I knew, she was on the move.

Running so fast I could actually hear the huff of her panting breath in my ears, could actually feel the moment of confusion when she lost her footing and sprawled across the dirt. Her body hitting so hard, I was jolted even deeper inside her.

So deep, I’d become her.

I lifted my face from the ground, snorting out a pile of dirt I’d inhaled while clearing a bunch of small rocks from my mouth.

Spitting and gagging as I struggled to stand, wiping my sleeve hard against my face, then spitting and gagging some more as I paused long enough to look around.

Aware of a voice in my head, urging, “Move!”

And though I tried to obey, I was so unused to being her, so unused to having limbs so much longer than mine (not to mention the stiff, pouffy dress and tight shoes that were practically binding my feet), it was pretty rough going at first.

But when the voice repeated, adding, “Hurry! There’s no time to waste! They’re coming!”

I stumbled forward, feet fumbling, heart beating frantically, turning toward the house just in time to see a man racing away from the barn, a man I immediately knew was my father, with a confusing array of emotions held in his gaze.

“Git!” he yelled, pointing at the house, allowing no time for pleasantries. “Git upstairs and hide in that closet in your mama’s old sitting room, and don’t come out till I git you myself. Do you hear me?”

I tried to read his gaze, wondering what it was he was hiding from me, but then he said it again, louder this time, and I couldn’t help but obey.

“Do not come out for anyone but me. No matter what! Now, git!” he practically screamed.

I was off. His words trailing behind me as I raced through the front door and up the creaky wooden stairs. The thought of saying good-bye not even entering my mind, since it all seemed surreal, like a game of some kind.

Bad things happened to other people, not me.

I was rich, privileged, the only child of a big, important, plantation owner, which made me special in a way that far surpassed all the others. Aside from my mother’s untimely death, anything negative, dreary, or bad had always whizzed past me on its way toward somebody else.

I made for my mama’s old sitting room, just like my papa had ordered. And though I was sure no one knew, the truth is, I’d often visited that room.

I liked to sit in the soft, cushy upholstered chair she used for reading, before switching to the less comfortable straight-backed one she used for correspondence and list making. And more often than not, I’d play either one of two games: one in which I pretended she was still here, reading and chatting with me, and another in which I’d somehow become her, find a way to stand in her place.

But today there was no time for games.

Soon enough my papa would climb the stairs and come find me. And when he did, well, I was eager for him to see just how perfect I was.

Just how willingly I’d obeyed his every word.

Then maybe he’d finally take notice of me, since he never seemed to notice before.

I made for the closet, crawled into the small, dark, rarely used space, wrapped my fingers around the edge of the door and pulled it shut as well as I could. Crouching all the way against the back wall, just about all settled in, when I remembered my dog.

I scooched forward, propped the door open, peeked my head out, and called, “Shucky! Here boy!” before chasing that with a low, even whistle I prayed my father wouldn’t hear.

Relieved by the sound of Shucky’s paws scurrying across the wood floors, I caught him as he slipped inside the closet and jumped right onto my lap. Yipping softly, he excitedly lapped at my cheeks, as I shut the door again and moved us back into place.

I clutched him to my chest and tried not to giggle at the way his icy-cold nose prodded against my shoulder and neck. Struggling to ignore the cloying scent of mold and mustiness and various things that hadn’t been used in a very long time, while I worked to decipher the look I’d seen in my father’s eyes.

Was it love that I’d seen?

And would I even recognize it if it was?

It’d been so long since anyone looked upon me that way, I had no way to recognize the signs.

And that’s how I spent my last moments.

Fending off old closet smells, fending off my dog’s stale, panting breath, while trying to determine just exactly what my father’s gaze had meant.

My legs beginning to ache from being so awkwardly bent, my back and buttocks growing sore from leaning for so long against the hardwood floor.

Wondering if I should maybe take a quick peek, see what might be taking him so long to find me, when my dog suddenly stiffened, perked up his ears, and narrowed his eyes as he let out a low, menacing growl.

But while he may have been the first to sense it, it wasn’t long till there was no mistaking it.

The sound of a stampede—hundreds of bodies running with purpose.

The sound of violence—things crashing and breaking as a series of screams rang out, one in particular, one that I recognized as my father’s, that rose above all the rest.

The sound of my front door being pulled from its hinges.

The sound of my house being stormed, invaded, ransacked, and looted.

The sound of the horrible, lingering silence of a papa that never came looking for me.

And yet, I continued to wait like he asked.

Waited long past the time the crackling began and the closet floors began to heat.