The Maid's Guide to the Mafia

1

Before you read.... This book features a reserved and somewhat mentally unstable heroine.
This is crucial to the plot and if she would not behave in such a way the book would simply not make any sense.
If you are uncomfortable or cannot handle someone with regular panic attacks, severe anxiety and a speech impediment and are going to complain about it...

Get the fuck out.

Respectfully...

Otherwise... have fun reading. :)

———————-
The rain slowly caressed the cold floor of the outside world. Sitting by the crooked window seat, I got my own type of first-row tickets to its beauty. The drops came sprinting down the window as the new ones joined in on the race.

Rain.
At this point, the single natural phenomenon was the only constant in my life.
I realized very early in my life that it always rains after a tragedy.

Was it some sort of messed-up symbolism?
Hell if I know.

All I knew was that when my mother died, it rained.
When my sister suddenly ran away with some unknown homeless idiot, it rained once again.
Even when my father inevitably left, it had rained.
I guess that's what brings me here today.

Sarah's funeral.

I sighed as I looked around the funeral reception. The thrilled guests filled the relatively adequate room. There was a rectangular wooden table filled with all kinds of little decorations of origami animals I created while eating the remains of the uneaten food that we called lunch. I was lucky to even get a scrap of paper but thankfully my saddened look and sob story had done the trick.

There was a loud party song blasting through our ears as if we were in a club rather than a funeral. Me being practically a slave to the manor, I never had time to listen to any form of music but from the way this one was blasting through my eardrums, I was almost thankful.

The other maids were dancing around and laughing together as if they completely forgot they were here to mourn their dead friend.

I guess I couldn't blame them. If I were in their situation, I too would have used every ounce of the one night of freedom I was presented with.

When I found Sarah dead, it was nothing like I had expected it to be. I didn't make some ridiculous obscene gesture as I imagined I would have.
Instead, I just stared at her. Her lifeless body was scattered against the cold floor of the living quarters and more and more shocked faces were starting to circle around her.

The long awaited tear slipped down my cheek. I couldn't cry for days. It got to the point where I began to question if she even meant something to me. But then I would remember.

You'd think as someone who grew up holding hands with death it wouldn't matter as much anymore. That the numbness would eventually cover me fully in its feathers blanket, shielding me from the burden of the neverending whatifs collapsing in on me. But it didn't. It didn't get better. Instead, the bodies kept collecting and collecting until my back broke from carrying them.

To a certain point, I felt relieved. When Sarah was alive, I would always wonder about her and how even she, would eventually leave. With every laugh, I thought of her dying breath, with red eyes plunged out on the floor. I lay awake at night each time she missed curfew, wondering. Now, alone, I didn't have to wander. I knew.

The ceremony was quick and simple. The lords didn't care enough to let us bury her so they just simply burned her body and gathered us all in one of the halls that they didn't use. They would let 20 girls attend to make sure there were still enough maids to work for their bidding. The 20 girls would usually be her door mates. Hence, why all these girls who never even cared enough to look at Sarah came just to experience a tiny pause from their distressing reality that this funeral offered.