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A very long time ago, in a place called Majestic Falls, there lived a young maiden known as Ariella. Majestic Falls was far away from all other known lands. Ariella loved her little town. She lived with her father, Abraham, who was a hard, loyal worker at the local factory. He worked there as a candlemaker. He would leave the house every morning as the sun would create a new day, and return once it had set. Abraham expected his daughter to keep the house tidy, and have dinner on the table for him once he arrived home.
Ariella wished to one day have a family of her own to attend. She wanted nothing more than to fall in love someday and get married, raising her children with her one true love.
She had read books that described what love was, and whenever she would go to the town’s marketplace, she would see couples that showed her what love was, but it had never happened to her. Ariella was very beautiful. She was slender with voluptuous curves. She also possessed long, raven hair, so long that it surpassed her backside. Of course, many eligible bachelors in the kingdom had asked her father for her hand in marriage, but every time, Abraham would turn them away, telling them that no man was good enough for his daughter.
In truth, Abraham wanted to keep Ariella all to himself. It wasn’t at all true that he felt no one was good enough for her. He wanted to keep Ariella at home, continuing to maintain the house for him–much like a slave. Sure, he fed the girl and gave her a place to stay, but he forbade her to go anywhere besides the town’s marketplace and for only one hour a day, where she was to get the necessary groceries for dinner each evening. He prohibited her from having any friends and refused to let her leave the house at any other time.
Abraham’s temper usually ran thin. If Ariella were to say the wrong thing or even look at him a certain way, he would punish her by taking a wooden or metal spoon and smacking her back or her legs till they bled. Ariella was afraid of her father, and therefore, she only spoke when spoken to and never dared to look him in the face.
As a child, her father took care of her and sent her to school, but once she turned fourteen, he forced her to stay home and do chores. Even when she was a child, Abraham was cold toward her. He didn’t display affection like the other fathers she knew. He didn’t love her like a daughter. In fact, he didn’t love her at all. With her deep blue eyes and jet-black hair, all Ariella was to him was the spitting image of his late, loving wife, a reminder of the emptiness that now filled his life.
Magdalen had been Abraham’s one true love, ever since he had laid eyes on her. Once she passed away, no one had been able to take her place. He didn’t even allow anyone to get close to him. Every day he would just go to work and then back home again. He didn’t want a new wife. He missed his Maggie dearly, and he blamed Ariella every second of her life for the death of his beautiful wife. However, Ariella never understood why.
One particular morning, Ariella walked around the kitchen getting a plate from the cupboard and utensils from the wooden drawer. She placed the hard-boiled eggs into a bowl and brought them over to the table. Alongside the eggs, the still sizzling sausages sat in the middle of the table, waiting for Abraham to stab them with his fork.
She knew her father would be downstairs any minute, and she was glad that she had breakfast ready for him to eat so that he could quickly be on his way to work. She took her apron off and went for the broom and dustpan in the closet. She got both out and started cleaning near the sink and around the stove, sweeping carefully in order not to make dust. Her father would become terribly angry if there was dust on his food.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps made their way down the winding stairs. From her peripherals, she saw Abraham’s large image come into view; his white shirt neatly tucked into his black trousers.
“Is breakfast ready, girl?” he demanded.
Ariella froze.
“Yes, Father,” she answered, trying not to let her fear show.
“Good,” he said as he made his way to his seat at the head of the table. He took the first bite, nodded his head in satisfaction and barked, “Where’s my coffee?”
Ariella quickly leaned the broom against the wall and made her way back toward the stove. She knew her father expected his coffee to be piping hot, and therefore, she always left it right next to the stove so that it would maintain its warm temperature. If it were even the least bit cold, she would certainly be paying for it.
Ariella grabbed the coffee pot with one hand and picked up a mug from inside the cupboard with the other. She swiftly walked over to her father and began pouring him a steamy cup. The smell of coffee wafted throughout their small, log cottage.
As she finished pouring, Abraham glanced at his daughter and sneered. She knew her father didn’t have any love in his heart for her and, for as long as she could remember, she’d wondered why her father loathed her. She didn’t know why he blamed her for her mother’s death as she never dared to question him.
Abraham wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin she had placed to his right and automatically threw it to the ground. He knew Ariella would pick it up. It was a little game he liked to play. That’s why she was there after all.
Ariella ran to pick the napkin up from the floor, but as she did, she bumped into the table, and the cup of coffee spilled all over it and into Abraham’s lap. The piping hot coffee burned his leg, and he let out a loud yelp. Napkin instantly forgotten, Ariella’s face turned white, and she began shaking with fear.
“Stupid girl!” Abraham screamed, pushing himself off the chair. Ariella knelt down knowing her punishment would soon be on its way, and to fight it would only make it worse. Abraham went to the drawer where he kept the spoons he used to beat her and pulled out a rusty metal one, his favorite.
She tried in vain to clean up the spilled coffee that had splashed onto the floor, but the damage had been done. Her father would soon be striking her.
He towered over her as Ariella began to sob. Without thinking twice, he struck her over and over again, until the wounds from an earlier beating reopened and blood flowed once more. They would never fully heal at this rate.
Once he was satisfied that she had been punished enough for her mistake, he threw the spoon on the floor and went on his way toward the door. Although his pants had become soaked from the coffee, he didn't bother changing them; they'd just get soiled with wax while he was at work.
As he reached the door, he ordered, “Make me some roast mutton for dinner. Grab what you need at the market and make sure it’s ready by the time I get home. Spend only one hour there, and not a second more. You don’t want a repeat of what just happened here.”
Ariella kept her head low. She knew he would wait for a response before leaving, and she feared that if she didn’t answer, he would beat her again. So, through muffled tears she softly responded, “yes, Father.”
Abraham slammed the door behind him, leaving Ariella to clean up the mess while trying to care for her wounds. Her back ached, and she knew it would sting for a long time. She pushed herself up off the floor and headed into the bathroom to get a glimpse of the punishment she had received. As she looked at her reflection, she barely recognized herself anymore.
It hadn’t always been like this. Even as a child, she had always kept up the house and taken care of the meals. He had never beaten her before the age of twelve. He would give her looks that could kill or yell at her to the point that he made her wish she didn’t have to live with him – in fact, sometimes she even wished he would just kill her. But he had never raised a hand against her until she began changing into a young woman. It seemed like that was when his hatred toward her grew more intense.
“Why does he hate me so?” she questioned, looking at herself in the mirror sadly. “I try so hard to be a good daughter. I do everything that is asked of me. I keep the house clean, I make his food, I clean his clothes. What am I doing wrong? I don’t understand it. If I hadn’t spilled the coffee, he still would have struck me for something else. He always finds a reason even if there is none.”
She knew she resembled her mother. Even though she didn’t remember her, she had seen a photograph, and it was hard not to admit that she looked so much like her. Abraham only had one picture of his late wife in the entire cottage. He had it framed and always kept it on the bedside table to the left of where he slept at night.
Ariella knew how much Abraham loved his wife. He never spoke of her, nor would she dare bring her up, but it was evident because he had never remarried. She had only asked her father about her mother once before when she was seven years old, and the look in his eyes told her to never speak of her again. Even at that young age, Ariella understood that the memory of her mother was enough to send Abraham into a frenzy. She did not want to be any part of that.
Ariella continued to sob as she cleaned up her father’s plate from breakfast. She tidied up and then went upstairs to get dressed, carefully covering her wounds. She quickly brushed her long hair, pinning it back into a low bun and ventured out into town.