The Uninvited Guest

Coral

I woke up the following morning, exhausted. Despite feeling tired, I had minimal sleep.

Everything I learned kept my mind churning through the night. At least I had an idea, but it wouldn’t be easy. Determination steeled my resolve. I would not be a victim!

I put on my happy face as I sauntered into the kitchen, feigning excitement about my upcoming birthday. Mrs. D, still in her housecoat, told me to get on with breakfast, not noticing the dark rings under my eyes.

I started the porridge while she rattled off the list of chores I was to do today. “I want you to change my linen and spring clean my bedroom, including the bathroom. Make sure you scrub the tiles in the shower. After that, vacuum downstairs, and then you can start lunch. Marianne can do the laundry and clean upstairs; I should be back by then.”

Once all the girls finished breakfast, I quickly cleaned up. Marianne walked in with a pile of laundry. “I hate doing laundry,” she told me quietly, ensuring she wasn’t overheard.

I saw the load she tossed on the adjoining laundry floor and knew what she meant. Mr. D’s shirts had to be hand-washed and starched.

We attended school until our sixteenth birthday, but the Home kept us until we turned eighteen. Once we turned sixteen, we cooked, cleaned, washed, and even gardened. Traditionally, a big lunch was prepared on your eighteenth birthday.

A State representative was invited, and a three-course meal was served, including an ice cream cake with eighteen candles for dessert—in stark contrast to our daily fare. During lunch, Mrs. Dixon would hand over your Birth Certificate, which was entrusted to her until then, and the State gave you five hundred dollars.

Your stay at the Home would extend up to one week. During that time, you were required to find a job and accommodation. The money you received was supposed to go towards rent and maybe some work clothes.

Without my birth certificate, I wouldn’t be able to get a job, which I intended to do once I was far away from here.

Just then, Mrs. D walked in, dressed in her finest. She looked overdressed, and her chosen style did nothing for her figure—or lack thereof.

“Oh, Mrs. D,” Marianne gasped, “you look wonderful!”

She was such a suck-up, constantly complimenting Mrs. D on arbitrary things.

I couldn’t help but feel a pang of mistrust towards Marianne. Since arriving at the Home, I had become guarded, keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself. The only person I really opened up to was Derry, my confidant in this horrid place.

“I know, but thank you for noticing,” Mrs. D responded, her eyes flicking to me as though she expected me to echo Marianne’s compliment. I wouldn’t, and I never will. That’s probably why she doesn’t like me.

I wasn’t the type to say things I didn’t mean; it made me an outsider. “Right girls, I’m off, and I expect everything to be done when I get back,” she said, picking up her large bag. “Or there will be hell to pay,” she added spitefully, making eye contact with me.

“Yes, Mrs. D,” I said quietly. There was no sense in riling her up when so much was at stake. Maybe I should have complimented her, but that in itself might have aroused suspicion.

I grabbed a bucket, mop, and everything I needed and walked to their bedroom. The room was spacious but garishly decorated; Mrs. D liked all things gold and silver; even the comforter was gold.

I heard the front door slam and started changing the linen. I had to make sure Marianne was hands-deep in water before I retrieved my birth certificate.

Not two seconds later, Marianne walked into the room. “You know,” she said self-righteously, “you could make your life easier if you were a little nicer.”

“That’s not who I am,” I responded. “Don’t you have a week’s worth of shirts to wash?” I grinned internally while stripping the bed.

“Ugh, let’s swap chores,” she suggested.

“Not on your life. I had my time doing laundry.”

“Yeah, but you will be gone in two days, so you may as well do them for old times’ sake,” she insisted.

“No, thank you. I suggest you get going.” Stupid bitch, even if I didn’t need my birth certificate, there was no way I would swap chores. I also knew how slapdash Marianne cleaned, and I would have to answer for the tiles not sparkling in the shower stall.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

I grinned at her annoyance.

When enough time had elapsed, I took the dirty linen to the laundry. To my satisfaction, Marianne was only on her second shirt. Now was my chance.

I sprinted to the study. Mrs. D’s rolltop desk stood against the wall, and Mr. D’s desk faced the door. During one of my remote-viewing forays, I saw they kept the birth certificates in the rolltop, but the key for it was in Mr. D’s desk.

My heart pounding in my ears, I yanked open the drawer of Mr. D’s desk only to find it locked. Crap. Looking around the desk, I grabbed the letter opener and tried to force it open.

It wouldn’t budge, and damaging the wood was not an option. Mr. D would definitely notice.

I needed something to pick the lock. Opening the other drawer, I found all sorts of stationery. Gripping two paperclips, I bent them straight. Here goes nothing.

Pushing one paperclip in, I inserted the other and started wiggling and turning it. It took far too long, and I was about to give up when the lock snapped open. Grabbing the key, I slammed the drawer closed.

I turned to get back to Mrs. D’s desk when I heard the front door.

Oh no, Mrs. D was back early.

Sneaking silently to the door, I looked through the keyhole. She hung up her coat and walked down the hallway. The birth certificate would have to wait.

Opening the door, I peered out to make sure she was gone before closing it silently behind me. I sprinted to the Dixons’ bedroom, almost knocking Mrs. D over.

“What are you doing? You haven’t even started in the bathroom,” Mrs. D asked sternly.

“I’m sorry. I just had to run to the toilet. I’ll clean the bathroom now,” I responded, hoping she couldn’t hear my pounding heart.

“See that you do.”

I moved to the bathroom and started cleaning, the key burning a hole in my pocket.

The next part of my plan required laxatives, and I knew Mrs. D had them. I needed at least three. I found them in the cabinet under the basin and pocketed them. For my plan to work, I needed Mrs. D to send me shopping instead of Marianne.

If Marianne was sick—an extreme case of the squirts—my plan might work.

I counted down the hours until evening, doing chores and brainstorming ways to get my birth certificate. By late evening, the temperatures dropped and it started snowing.

When Mrs. D came to the dorm to hand out the vitamins, I grabbed mine, threw them into my mouth, and pretended to swallow.

I turned back to her and whispered conspiratorially. “Would it be okay if I made a cup of tea for Marianne? I have something to apologize for.” Mrs. D jerked her head back, her eyes round with interest.

“What?”

“I know how she battles with the laundry, and I should have helped her when she asked,” I whispered. A smirk developed on her face, and she gave me a nod. Mrs. D was gullible, and I attributed that to her thirst for information, not the factual kind.

I brewed tea quickly, dropping the laxatives in the cup. I then disposed of the vitamins and the teabag. I added three lumps of sugar, technically off-limits to us, but hoped it would mask the taste.

Unfortunately, I encountered Mr. D in the hallway. “What’s that, Coral? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for bed?”

I should be feeling sleepy, so I yawned and shook my head and apologized.

“Sorry, Mr. D, I didn’t mean to yawn in your face. I asked Mrs. D if I could make a cup of tea to apologize to Marianne.”

“Oh, well, best you hurry up to bed.” His eyes roamed over my washed-out nighty, which was probably half see-through.

I schooled my face so he couldn’t see the disgust I felt. He smacked my backside as I walked past. I took the stairs two at a time, meeting Mrs. D on her way down. “Thank you,” I smiled.

Marianne was already in bed, and my anxiety rose. What if she fell asleep before she drank the tea?

“Marianne?” I said softly. “I’m sorry I was mean to you today. I should have helped with the laundry. I made a special cup of tea for you as an apology.”

She looked up at me and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. I mouthed, “With sugar.” A grin slid over her face as she sipped the tea.

“Delicious,” she moaned appreciatively. “I forgive you. Just remember, a few days before you leave, I’ll have to do everything around here until Emily turns sixteen, which is almost a month away!”

Ah, so that was what she was worried about—having to do all the work. She finished her tea quickly and put the cup on the bedside table.

“Goodnight,” I said, feeling a pang of guilt.

An hour later, I pushed my mind out and followed the voices. The Dixons were getting ready for bed. Silk pajamas stretched over their bulk—not a pretty sight! Both of them looked as though they were about to give birth. I was kind of glad Mr. D’s bloated gut prevented his dick from making contact when he hugged us, although he did try, pushing his hips forward in an obscene manner.

“I saw Coral with a cup of tea this evening,” Mr. D questioned.

“Yes, I allowed her to make one for Marianne. Coral was nasty to her today. I swear that girl is a closed book, and I’ll be glad when she’s gone. Everyone always goes on and on about her eyes. I find them creepy.”

Mr. D chuckled. “Well, those creepy eyes have earned us half a million.”

I pulled my mind back. Half a million! So that was why I was worth more? I was used to people commenting on them, but no one had ever used the word creepy!

Now that the Dixons were comfortable in bed, it was time to get my birth certificate. Slipping out of bed, I carefully navigated the stairs, stopping each time they creaked. Once I reached the hallway, I tiptoed to the study. With shaking hands, I switched on the lamp and unlocked the rolltop.

The birth certificates were in a box with an alphabetical divider, which made it easy. I snatched mine and quickly locked the roll top when I heard the floorboards creaking in the hallway. Oh God, they must have heard me.

I searched frantically for a hiding place. Turning the lamp off, I almost knocked it over. The doorknob turned, and in two hurried steps, I cowered behind the door, covering my mouth to conceal my breathing.