Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 4.

 by Melissa

Part 4. My first day working as a school maid

As the first rays of dawn crept through the narrow window of my room in the maid's quarters, I was jolted awake by a sharp knock on the door. "Melissa Jones!" a stern voice called out, its urgency breaking the stillness of the early morning. Rising groggily from my makeshift bed, I realized I had slept in the uncomfortable maid's uniform I had been given by the receptionist. I hurried to the door, my mind still fuzzy from sleep. Standing before me was a tall and imposing woman with a stern expression. She was dressed in a traditional maid's uniform of black dress and white apron. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she had a clipboard in her hand. 

"Girl, I am Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, and you're late for your morning cleaning duties," she barked, her voice echoing in the small room. "Get down to the common area immediately." 

My heart sank. I had hoped that the confusion of the previous day would be resolved overnight, but it was clear that my predicament was far from over. I tried to explain my situation. "Ma'am," I began, my voice trembling slightly, "I am not a school maid. My name is indeed Melissa Jones, but I am a student who arrived yesterday." 

Mrs. Henderson raised an eyebrow, her expression sceptical. "A student?" she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Dressed like that?", she said looking at my maid's uniform. "Besides," the head maid added, "that's impossible. According to our records, you are the delinquent school maid who is currently serving community service." 

I tried to protest, starting to explain the theft of my the train ticket, the missed car and the circumstances of my registration in the biometrics system, but Mrs. Henderson remained unconvinced. As I insisted, she marched over to the fingerprinting device and placed my hand on the scanner. The device beeped, confirming my identity as the delinquent school maid. The head maid's lips curled into a smug smile, her disbelief now replaced by a sense of triumph. "See?" she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "Biometrics don't lie. Your fingerprints match the records. You're Melissa Jones, the delinquent school maid, and that's all there is to it." 

"But I'm not her!" I exclaimed. "I'm Melissa Jones, the student." 

As I desperately tried to explain my situation to the head maid, my voice trembling with fear and uncertainty, Mrs. Henderson's expression remained unyielding. "Don't try to fool me with your lies, girl," she snarled, her voice dripping with contempt. "You are nothing more than a delinquent maid, and you will follow my orders without question. Now hike up your dress, so I can check your underwear." 

The head maid's sudden request sent a wave of shock and indignation through me. I stood frozen in disbelief, my heart pounding in my chest. The request was not only humiliating but also deeply violating, a blatant disregard for my privacy and dignity. I refused to comply, my voice trembling as I defended my right to personal autonomy. "Ma'am," I protested. "You can't possibly ask me to do that!" 

Mrs. Henderson's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a condescending sneer. "I can do anything I want to you," she hissed, her voice dripping with malice. "You are just a delinquent maid, and I'm your superior, empowered to inspect your clothes to make sure you're wearing the prescribed undergarments. So do as I say and lift your dress." 

I stood there, frozen in disbelief. I could not believe that a woman of her position would stoop to such an indignity. I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me, my cheeks burning with shame. "No!" I shouted, my voice trembling with defiance. "I will not lift my dress for you!" 

Mrs. Henderson's eyes flashed with anger. In a swift motion, she raised her hand and slapped me across the face. The stinging blow jolted me, leaving my cheek throbbing with pain. I was stunned into silence, my indignation replaced by a mixture of fear and shock. I had never been struck before, and the experience left me feeling vulnerable and helpless. 

Mrs. Henderson stood there, her face contorted in rage, her eyes burning with fury. "You will do as I say," she snarled, "or you will regret it!" 

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I forced myself to hold them back. I knew that Mrs. Henderson was not going to let me get away with defying her, and I was terrified of what she might do next. With a heavy heart, I reluctantly complied with her order. I lifted my dress, exposing myself to her gaze, my humiliation complete. Mrs. Henderson's eyes raked over me, her expression one of satisfaction. I felt dirty and degraded, my self-worth shattered. I had been stripped of my dignity, reduced to being nothing more than a servant at the whim of a cruel and domineering woman. 

"Now follow me to the communal kitchen, girl," Mrs. Henderson barked. "The other maids are already waiting." 

Mrs. Henderson grabbed my arm and roughly dragged me along to the kitchen, where the other school maids were already gathered, their voices blending in a cacophony of chatter and clanging utensils. As we entered the kitchen, the head maid tightened her grip around my arm, making me flinch in pain, her stern gaze sweeping across the room. The other maids, a group of hardened women with worn-out uniforms and weary eyes, turned their attention towards us. They exchanged curious glances, their eyes darting towards me. I was standing awkwardly off to the side, feeling self-conscious and out of place in my maid's uniform, I, the privileged student, now forced to wear the garb of a humble servant. The stiff, rough fabric felt foreign against my skin, a stark contrast to the comfortable clothes I was used to wearing. 

Mrs. Henderson addressed the group, her voice carrying a hint of authority and disapproval. "Ladies," she began, "I have an important announcement to make. This girl is Melissa Jones, our new temporary helper." She gestured towards me, her expression hardening as she continued, "Melissa is a delinquent girl, a liar and a thief. She is not to be trusted and must be kept under close supervision." 

A hush fell over the group as the maids exchanged curious glances, their eyes lingering on my figure. I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me, my heart pounding in my chest. The head maid's words were harsh and accusatory, casting me in a negative light before I had even had the opportunity to prove myself. 

"She will be working alongside you," the head maid continued, her voice dripping with disdain, "so I expect you to keep a close eye on her. If she misbehaves or disobeys any orders, you are to report it to me immediately. She will be severely punished for any wrongdoing." 

The maids nodded in unison, their faces etched with disapproval and suspicion. I felt like a pariah, an outsider who had been labelled as untrustworthy and deserving of punishment. 

"Now, let's get to work," Mrs. Henderson concluded, her tone turning brisk. "Melissa, you will start your day by scrubbing the bathrooms. See to it that they are spotless. And the rest of you, get to cleaning the classrooms and dining hall. Make sure the school is spotless by the time the students arrive." 

The maids dispersed, returning to their assigned tasks. I stood there for a moment, feeling overwhelmed and humiliated. With a sigh of resignation, I followed Mrs. Henderson to the communal bathrooms, the smell of disinfectant filling my nostrils. The head maid's eyes met mine, her gaze piercing and unforgiving. "Now get scrubbing, girl," she barked, her voice cutting through the silence like a sharp whip. "And don't waste my time with any more of your nonsense about being a student. Instead, get to work and don't slack off." 

I hesitated, my stomach rumbling in protest. In the chaos and confusion of my arrival, I had skipped dinner the previous evening. Now, the prospect of starting the day without even a morsel of food seemed unbearable. "Ma'am," I ventured, my voice barely a whisper, "I'm terribly sorry, but I haven't had any breakfast yet. Could I please have something to eat before I start cleaning?" 

Mrs. Henderson's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a condescending smirk. "No," she declared, her voice laced with disdain. "No food until you've completed your chores. It's a simple rule: no work, no food." 

My heart sank. The prospect of scrubbing filthy bathroom floors on an empty stomach was daunting, but the threat of going without food was even more disheartening. I felt a growing sense of desperation, trapped in this bizarre situation with no way to escape. With a heavy sigh, I accepted Mrs. Henderson's harsh decree. I grabbed the cleaning cart, the weight of the mops and buckets a symbol of my newfound servitude. As I started to work, my mind wrestled with the absurdity of my situation. A privileged student, now reduced to the status of a lowly maid, subjected to the whims of a stern authority figure. I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me. The image of myself, scrubbing bathroom floors while other students enjoyed their breakfast, was a stark reminder of the reversal of roles. I had entered Elmwood Academy with dreams of academic excellence and social standing, but fate had taken an unexpected turn, leaving me with a very different perspective on life. 

The lack of nourishment made the daunting task of cleaning the bathrooms even more challenging. My muscles ached, my eyes burned from the fumes of cleaning chemicals, and my stomach growled relentlessly. Still, I persevered, driven by a sense of determination to prove my worth. I scrubbed the floors with vigour, my hands raw and blistered from the harsh detergents. I worked tirelessly, hoping that my efforts would earn me some food. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Henderson returned, her gaze sweeping over my work. With a curt nod, she approved of my efforts and handed me a small, plastic bag containing a handful of crackers and a carton of milk. As I devoured the meagre snack, I felt a sense of satisfaction. Despite the harsh conditions, I had managed to complete my task. The snack, though small, represented my hard-earned reward, a symbol of my ability to overcome adversity. 

After drinking the milk, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I would not allow my identity to be held hostage by a faulty system. I would find a way to prove my true identity and reclaim my place as a student at Elmwood Academy. Emboldened, I decided to seek out the receptionist who had registered me in the system, hoping to resolve the mix-up with my identity. However, my hopes were dashed when she informed me that she was unable to intervene in the matter. The school's security protocols were too strict, and there was no way for her to override the fingerprint identification system. 

"I'm sorry, Miss Jones," the receptionist said, her voice laced with sympathy, "but the only person able to update your registration in the biometrics system is the dean, and she's away on a conference until next week." 

Despair washed over me as I stood before the receptionist, her words echoing through my mind. The dean, the only person with the authority to correct my misidentification, was away for a week. Trapped in this bizarre predicament, I was left to endure the indignities of my false identity for an entire week. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed me. I had been a diligent student, striving for academic excellence, but now I was reduced to scrubbing floors. The contrast between my aspirations and my reality was stark and unforgiving. I felt like a prisoner in my own life, a victim of circumstances beyond my control. 

Just as I was about to turn away in despair, the stern figure of Mrs. Henderson emerged from the depths of the school building. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted me, her lips curling into a disapproving frown. "What are you doing here?" she barked, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "You should be completing your assigned tasks, not loitering around the reception area." 

I explained that I had been trying to speak to the receptionist about my situation, but Mrs. Henderson dismissed my pleas with a wave of her hand. "I've heard enough of your excuses," she declared. "Now get back to work and scrub the hallways and stairwells until they are spotless." 

Armed with the cleaning cart and a mop soaked in harsh chemicals, I embarked on my task of scrubbing the hallways and stairwells of Elmwood Academy. The cavernous corridors echoed with the rhythmic swish of the mop, its bristles scraping against the grimy tiles, leaving behind streaks of a sickly green liquid. The air hung heavy with the pungent odour of disinfectant, a stark contrast to the fresh, floral scent that usually perfumed the school. The once pristine white walls were now streaked with dirt and grime, the remnants of countless students' hands and feet. The carpeted floors, once plush and inviting, now bore the imprint of countless footsteps, each one adding to the layer of grime that had accumulated over time. With each stroke of the mop, I felt a sense of detachment from the world I once knew. The privileged student I had been seemed like a distant memory, replaced by this lowly maid, forced to toil in the shadows of the school's grandeur. The echoes of the school bell, signalling the start of the school day, pierced the silence, a stark reminder of the world I was now excluded from. As students streamed through the hallways, their laughter and chatter a cacophony of sounds that I could only observe from afar, I felt a surge of longing and regret. The mop continued its relentless dance across the floor, its rhythmic squeak a soundtrack to my humiliation. I scrubbed and polished, my body aching with the exertion, my mind consumed by the unfairness of my situation. 

The morning wore on as I methodically scrubbed and mopped my way through the school's various floors, each task a reminder of my new reality as a lowly school maid. The harsh chemicals stung my eyes and the constant kneeling aggravated my knees, but I persevered, driven by the promise of another snack if I completed my chores diligently. As I moved from hallway to hallway, I observed the school from a different perspective. The pristine classrooms, normally symbols of academic excellence, now seemed to mock my menial labour. The students, their faces aglow with youthful exuberance, seemed oblivious to the invisible hands that toiled behind the scenes to maintain the school's immaculate appearance. I felt a pang of resentment towards my situation. Here I was, a bright and capable student, reduced to scrubbing floors and emptying trash cans. The irony was not lost on me – I had entered Elmwood Academy with dreams of intellectual pursuits and social standing, but now I found myself confined to the lowest rung of the school's hierarchy.

After a morning of gruelling work scrubbing bathrooms and floors, I had hoped for a hearty lunch to replenish my energy. However, the head maid, Mrs. Henderson, only provided me with a meagre snack – a stale piece of bread and a cup of lukewarm water. My stomach growled in protest, but I was too afraid to argue with the head maid. As I ate the dry bread, trying to ignore its staleness, I couldn't help but feel a sense of injustice. I was a student, not a maid, yet I was being treated as inferior. The thought of other students enjoying their lunch in the cafeteria while I was being forced to subsist on a meagre snack made me feel even more dejected. I had always prided myself on my privileged upbringing, but now I was forced to confront the harsh realities of life outside my sheltered world. 

Once I'd finished my frugal meal, I found myself starting my second half-day shift working as a school maid, hands dipped in soapy water from a bucket, knees aching from hours of scrubbing floors. The hallways and stairwells of Elmwood Academy stretched before me, a seemingly endless expanse of polished marble and gleaming wood, each surface demanding my attention and effort. I worked methodically, my movements honed by the morning's experience. The squeak of the mop against the floor, the rhythmic sloshing of the bucket, the dull ache in my muscles – these were the sounds and sensations that now defined my existence. As the day wore on, the sun cast long shadows through the hallways, casting patches of light and darkness that mirrored the turmoil within me. I was a study in contrasts – a privileged student trapped in the role of a lowly maid, a world apart from the one I had once known. 

As the day drew to a close, my muscles ached and my back throbbed from the relentless scrubbing of floors. The cleaning cart now seemed like a heavy burden, its weight reflecting the physical and emotional toll of the day. I longed for the comfort of my bed, the warmth of a hot shower, and the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal. Instead, I faced the prospect of another night in the cramped and uncomfortable maid's quarters, my stomach grumbling with hunger. 

Mrs. Henderson finally emerged from her office, her stern gaze swept over the newly polished hallways, a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. She handed me a small bag of chips, a meagre reward for a day of gruelling labour. I was so hungry that I accepted the chips gratefully, the salty crunch a welcome respite from the monotony of my work. As I devoured the meagre meal, I reflected on the events of the day, the irony of my situation still striking me. I found myself standing before the window of the maid's quarters, my reflection staring back at me in the fading light. The image that greeted me was a jarring contrast to the self-assured student I had been just a day ago. The once polished and neatly styled hair was now a tangled mess, a testament to hours spent scrubbing floors and cleaning bathrooms. My designer's clothes had been replaced by a worn-out dress and a starched maid's apron, tangible symbol of my lowly status. I stared at the reflection, the harsh lines of the uniform and the dirt-smudged apron emphasizing the change in my circumstances. The once confident student was gone, replaced by a girl who looked like a servant. A wave of sadness washed over me as I realized the extent of my transformation. I had been thrust into a world far removed from the one I had known, a world where my privileged status held no sway. 

The day's endless chores had left me utterly exhausted. My muscles ached from scrubbing floors, my back throbbed from bending over, and my eyes burned from hours of squinting in poorly lit corners. As I finally collapsed onto my cramped bed in the maid's quarters, I felt a wave of gratitude for the sanctuary of rest. As I drifted off to sleep, my mind replayed the events of the day, the humiliation of being mistaken for a delinquent maid, the harshness of Mrs. Henderson, and the repetitive drudgery of cleaning. Yet, amidst the exhaustion and frustration, a flicker of resilience sparked within me. I knew that this was not who I was destined to be. I would find a way to reclaim my identity, to rise above my current circumstances and embrace the privileged future that awaited me. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.