maiden

Das Naschkaetzchen (1862), Wilhelm Amberg

Madame Pamela had a strict dress code for her maids. I had to tie my hair up into a bun that turned clockwise. Any loose strands aren’t appreciated as, according to her, it made me look ‘ragged as polyester’. She had me wear a black dress with puffed sleeves and a hem that hung below my knees. A black ballet flat with a complementary stockings were a must. You see, she was a fashion designer — a loose catch-all for creatives with enough capital nowadays — who demanded her surroundings to be as gauche as she is. I liked tearing holes in my stockings and pulling out loose strands just to see her lose it. I would tell her my stockings ripped as I squatted on all fours to clean her imported tiles and she would commend my attention to detail. In truth, I would pour bleach on the floor, plop a beaten up cloth on it, and trail the house with it under her ballet flats. With a disposable income like hers, new stockings kept on coming and there’s nothing I like burning more than money.

There was a girl before me who was drastically older. She was fired after an outing with Madame Pamela to one of her shows. Allegedly, she mixed up guest names and subsequently, their drinks that could individually keep my lights on. I personally think she was fired just because she was old — and that wasn’t Madame Pamela’s drift. And if you were curious, I was twenty five and decent with jet black hair and perky naturals. During days at work which primarily involves me dozing off in her open-planned kitchen, her butch ‘childhood friend’ and her current whatever-pseudo-job-title, Miles, would subtly gawk at me from the couch. Going by he/him, he smells of Schwarzkopf hair gel, Dior’s Sauvage, and estrogen. He was practically Pamela’s walking underarm stick — he smelled like one at least. During one of Pamela’s numerous dinner soirees, she made last minute alterations to my attire.

“Wear this at all times,” she tucked a black veil deep fried with lace under my headband. Her maroon acrylic nails pricked my scalp. The veil was only sheer enough to make out hazy outlines of her patchy foundation and overfilled lips puckering in my face. Dressing me up as a geriatric lamp is for formalities, according to her, as investors are flying in from fashion capitals. I think she just didn’t like being the uglier one in a room filled with men. My beauty has been more of a curse than a blessing. I know I have it, but what good is it when you’re a bill away from starvation?

I couldn’t help, but imagine: If I leaned over fast enough, my head would hit hers. I imagined her brain recoiling to the back of her skull, soft blubber smashing into a bony wall. How maybe it would jolt her brain into a state where it could formulate any sense of awareness. How it would maybe snuff out the bitter and gauche rotting her brain. How it would kill her. Maybe I could just wait for her fillers to migrate — dislodging from somewhere and plugging a pipe somewhere in her brain. I don’t think she would be able to emote at all if any of it happened. Her face was paralyzed by all the botox in the world. “You hear me? All times,” she emphasized. I chuckled.

After Pamela’s banker ex left her, she was determined not to let it faze her. She was not a woman frazzled by having a carpet tugged out from underneath, she was a woman who commanded herself to land on her feet. Hence, a week later, she landed on a Brazilian model who showed up at her audition. You could tell he’s not from here with the spicy bump in his steps. He started coming by more often. I would hear shrill laughs, squeaks, and grunts from her bedroom. She was loud, but he was louder.

“Pedro’s almost here. Can you hurry?,” she rushed. I stirred the bubbling green soup gingerly, keeping my pace the same. The pot resembled a toilet bowl where everything looked and smelled pre-digested. It was Pamela’s favorite. She walked over to inspect its progress.

“Why are there water stains on this sink?,” she points to a rose gold sink on the kitchen counter. “This is a brass sink. From the faucet to the bowl. Do you have any idea how much this costs?” I said nothing.

“Why did you use it?,” she started again.

“To wash…”

“This sink is not for use! It is decorative, it livens up the room!,” she declared. “Wash whatever in the bathroom. You hear me? Is what I’m saying getting through your skull?”

“Yes, madame,” I said. I tuned her out, imagining her as a mound of beige that floated through space, having grown swollen lips that spouted unintelligible sounds. I didn’t have to work too much as that was how I saw her anyways. “I want it spotless by tonight,” she said before trudging back to the dining room. I heard Pedro scuffle into the room as Pamela began her mating ritual of saying things more nasally and laughing a little more raucously.

I bent over the pot, seeing bubbles of air hiss and pop at the surface, blowing up brine and a smell I could only describe as 'sea-sickness’. I hung my lower jaw loose and let myself drool. Translucent mucoid strings hoisted itself down as drops slowly began forming at its tip, severing itself from me and into a sea of green. It wasn’t enough. I grabbed a pinch of salt and sprinkled it into my mouth. Once more spit was drawn out from hidden glands, I let my vitriol, my bile, my curse I wish to place on her all flow out of me. A frothy glob landed and dissipated.

Pedro complimented the dish — calling it exquisite. It’s the umami, he proclaims. His large set eyes held mine. Pamela raved about how it was her signature recipe, then ordered me back to my room.

I heard her scream from her bedroom. It was unusual. Not because she was known for being calm and collected, but because it was 7 am. Her neuroses typically starts later in the day. I stood outside her door in silence. She screamed once more, but shorter this time. I bet she was running out of breath. Then, a silence later, she yelled for me. I sighed before entering.

“Why didn’t you knock?,” she yelled at me. She had runny mascara and a black satin slip-on as she reclined on her six foot bed.

“You screamed for me?”

“You’re going to speak to me with that tone?,” she spat. I turned back towards the door. “No, wait,” she clamored, jumping from her mattress onto the floorboards. Then, wobbling towards me, she held dug her nails into my arm. I shrieked and swatted her off with a downward flail. What I didn’t expect was Madame Pamela falling to the floor, her hair mopping her face. She hugged my leg. “Please,” she pleaded. “What is wrong with me?”

I bit my tongue. You see, her father was a big name in the sugar industry and her mother was a genteel socialite. Another thing about her father: He sleeps around. And when he knocked up an exec, he decided to leave Pamela for a new family. She despised her mother for it. Funny, for how she turned out just like her mother. They both tested people, to see how far someone would go for them, to see if someone could be their doormat. That is why it is important to entertain her delusions rather than reflect any realities upon her. Except, I happened to be in a foul mood today.

“Is that rhetorical?,” I asked. Pamela silenced her whines, still latched on my legs. “You’re pathetic.”

“Really?,” she baited. I scoffed.

“I would rather die than be you,” I said. Now, she was completely silent. “You’re at your tail end. No one really loves you, but they’re tolerating you for money.”

“Miles?”

“Miles. Pedro. That snob of an intern.”

“You?”

“I stay because I care about you,” I almost laughed.

She paused, finally letting go of my leg. She gathered herself, still teary-eyed. She looked so embarrassing it was almost comical. “This is what I like about you. You’re honest to me,” she said before kissing me. She tasted like ham left out for too long — leathery and parched. “Can I trust you?”

I nodded, holding back puke. She walked back to her bed and pulled down layers of sheets and duvets I pretended to change a few days ago. Under it lays Pedro. Face down, butt-naked with a tramp stamp of an angel’s wing above his rear. His hands clasped around his throat. “Pedro died,” she said through snot. “What do I do?”

“What did you do?,” I looked at her and her eyes dodged away.

“We were having this super sexy foreplay. I put chocolates on me and he’s supposed to eat them,” she hesitated. I was utterly surprised she was capable of shame. “He ate one here,” she points to her cooters. “And he seemed fine, oh, he was very fine, but okay no, he started wheezing, then he got all red. He was pointing to the walk-in closet and stuff, then he just fell.”

‘‘When was this?”

“Just now.”

“You were having sex at 6 am?,” I heard myself say. They don’t call her hormonal for nothing. I couldn’t even be bothered dream at 6, yet alone wake up. She muttered something, but I didn’t care to listen. I paced into the walk-in closet. There, a duffel bag — that was definitely not Pamela’s — was strewn on the floor. Inside were Versace underwear, a chintzy handcuff, and two epipens. I walked out to Pamela kissing Pedro’s back.

“Listen, Pam. You killed him,” I said matter-of-factly, getting a little kick out of calling her how her mother would. “And I know what to do.”

“Call the police?,” she asked, cooing at the corpse. “Maybe I could pay someone.”

“No,” I said. She could since it was an accident, but I had better plans. “We’ll talk terms later.”

We buried Pedro vertically in her mother’s garden. By we, I meant the myriad of gardeners lowering down what they believed was a time capsule collection — a fashionable concept where dresses were to be dug up years later and commemorated for the artist’s lasting vision. Her mother grew roses above it. I made sure not to touch anything.

I walked over to Pamela’s fridge and fed myself well — cheeses I’ve never heard of, wine that tasted all the same to me. I drank it straight from the bottle. I steered clear of the box of macadamia truffles though. She sat over at the couch with Miles, looking without saying a word. I even burped.

That afternoon, I went back to my shoebox apartment, hidden on the 8th floor, tucked at the end of a dense complex. I haven’t been here in a while, but now I could come back whenever I wanted. The halls smelled sour and rotten, unlike the brisk sterile scent of wood lacquer at Pamela’s. My room was the source of sour. There were no electricity as I haven’t had enough to pay them. So, naturally, the packs of freezer dumplings and microwave meals began to rot. A trail of black and emerald fuzz grew out and along the walls and shelves, life reclaimed in the humid dark. I called my mother, telling her I’m wiring her enough to live comfortably at her nursing home from here on out. I’ll be seeing her soon.

There I was, on the floor, with the spectacle of life before me from the four walls of my fridge. It was rotten, but it was all I have, and now I’ve made something of it. Slowly, all was at a standstill. There, through the ashes of cash, I felt like I could breathe for the first time.