Living Like a Mouse? How About a Lion?

Drenched in Payback

You'd think after the events of today, I'd get to enjoy a little peace and quiet, right? A moment to breathe, collect myself, maybe even sleep? Yeah, that's what I thought too.

Oh, how naive I was.

It starts in the middle of the night. I'm not sure what time it is exactly, but it's late enough that the entire mansion is cloaked in that eerie stillness, the kind that makes every creak and rustle sound like a ghost lurking in the corner. I'm deep in the middle of some dream about finally escaping this madhouse—probably running through a meadow or something equally as ridiculous—when suddenly, the door to my room creaks open.

At first, I think it's the wind. Or maybe I'm still dreaming. But then I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Several of them.

I crack one eye open just in time to see the shadowy figures of my lovely maids creeping toward me. Well, well, well. If it isn't the servants of the year, here to bless me with their midnight presence.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes and pretending to be more groggy than I am.

Me: "Unless one of you is here to serve me breakfast in bed, I suggest you leave."

No answer. Just more shuffling, followed by a strange sloshing sound.

Wait. Sloshing?

Before I can fully process what's happening, a sudden, freezing rush of water cascades over me, drenching me from head to toe.

Me: "AAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

I scream loud enough to wake the dead. Or at least anyone within a ten-mile radius.

It's dirty water—cold dirty water, with bits of who-knows-what floating in it. My hair, which was perfectly dry just a second ago, is now plastered to my face, and I'm pretty sure I smell like a sewage drain. Lovely.

For a moment, I just sit there, stunned. My brain is trying to catch up with what my body already knows: I've just been ambushed. By maids.

Oh, this means war.

The maids? Oh, they're laughing. Laughing. The audacity! I can't believe they're actually doing this, like they're some group of pranksters and I'm their favorite victim. And the worst part? I'm too shocked to do anything for a good five seconds.

But then, the fire kicks in.

Me: "YOU DID NOT JUST—"

I scramble out of bed, my feet slipping on the wet floor as I reach for the nearest object—a pillow. Not the most threatening weapon, but trust me, I'll make it work. I launch the pillow at the nearest maid with as much force as I can muster, but she dodges, still cackling like a witch in a bad fairytale.

Me: "Oh, you think this is funny?! You think THIS is FUNNY?!"

I'm on my feet now, glaring at them with all the fury of someone who's just been baptized in dirty water at three in the morning. My nightgown is sticking to me like a second skin, and I'm fairly certain I look like a half-drowned cat, but I don't care. These maids are going to pay.

The oldest one—the ringleader—just smirks, her arms crossed like she's proud of herself.

Me: "You're going to regret this."

Her smirk widens. "Oh, I don't think so."

Before I can lunge at her—because, trust me, I'm ready to tackle her to the ground—she nods to one of the others.

And just like that, they grab the door and slam it shut, locking it from the outside. I hear the click of the lock sliding into place, and my blood runs cold.

Me: "No... no, no, NO!"

I race to the door and yank on the handle. Nothing.

Me: "You've got to be kidding me."

I pound on the door with my fists, half hoping someone will hear me and half knowing no one will come to my rescue. This is a house full of people who'd probably pay to see me humiliated.

Me: "OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

Nothing. Silence, except for the fading sound of their laughter as they walk away, leaving me locked in a soaking wet prison. I kick the door for good measure, but it doesn't budge. Great. Just great.

I stomp back to the center of the room, dripping water with every step, and glare at my soaked bed. There's no way I'm sleeping in that. And the window? It's way too high up to do me any good.

Me: "Of course. Of course this happens."

I let out an exasperated sigh, running my hands through my soaked hair, which feels like it's tangled with something suspiciously slimy.

Me: "Seriously? Dirty water? Couldn't they have just thrown regular water? Ugh, the least they could've done was be a bit more hygienic."

I sit down on the cold, wet floor because, let's face it, that's pretty much the only dry-ish place left. My gown clings to me like a wet towel, and I'm shivering now, the cold seeping into my bones.

Me: "Oh, this is just fantastic. What a night. First, I take a stand, and now I'm the main character in a bad slapstick comedy."

I can't help it—I start laughing. It's the kind of laugh that sounds half-crazed, half-desperate. Because what else can I do? I'm drenched, locked in my room, and humiliated beyond belief. This is the universe's way of telling me that I'm not allowed to have a single moment of peace.

Me: "So, this is my life now. Getting doused in cold water at ungodly hours and locked in like some kind of medieval prisoner. Lovely. Just lovely."

I glance around the room, searching for anything—anything—that could help me break out. But of course, this isn't one of those adventure stories where there's a conveniently placed trapdoor or a secret passage. No, I'm stuck here until morning.

I throw my hands up in frustration and yell at the ceiling.

Me: "Fine! You win, universe! You win! But don't think for one second that I'm giving up. Because if they think this is the end, if they think this is going to make me roll over and play dead, they've got another thing coming."

I stand up, wiping my face with the sleeve of my soaking gown, and start pacing the room, plotting. Because that's what I do now—I plot revenge.

Me: "Tomorrow, I'll make them regret it. All of them. If they thought a little cold water was going to break me, they clearly don't know who they're dealing with."

I glance at the door one last time and smirk.

Me: "They locked me in tonight. But tomorrow? Tomorrow, I'm unlocking everything."