Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 5.

by Melissa

Part 5. Trying to get a phone.

As the first rays of sunlight crept through the windows, I stirred from my uncomfortable cot in the maid's quarters. The events of the two previous days still felt like a hazy dream, a bizarre mix-up that had landed me, Melissa Jones, in the unexpected role of a lowly school maid. I rose from my bed, my body aching from the strenuous work of the previous day. Hoping that somehow things had been resolved while I slept, I went other to the door and placed my hand on the fingerprint scanner. The device beeped and a message flashed on the screen: "Fingerprints recognized and identity as school maid Melissa Jones verified and authenticated. Please report to the communal kitchen immediately." 

The harsh reality of my predicament settled in again, and I felt a surge of frustration and helplessness. The evidence was clear – my fingerprints still matched the profile of the delinquent school maid, sealing my current fate as a servant in this prestigious institution. The irony of the situation was not lost on me. Here I was, a student from a wealthy background, now reduced to the role of a menial worker, supposed to clean up after the privileged students of the academy. The contrast between the respect to which I was normally entitled and my new status was striking and humiliating.

As I gazed at the starched dress and white apron hanging on the hook, a wave of despair washed over me. This uniform, a symbol of my demotion from a privileged student to a lowly maid, was a constant reminder of my absurd predicament. With a sigh, I slipped into the uncomfortable underwear, the rough fabric grating against my skin. The starched dress felt like a second skin when I put it on, its stiffness reminding me of the rigid rules and regulations that governed my new life. I buttoned the front of the dress, the row of tiny buttons a testament to the meticulous attention to detail required of a maid. 

The dress hung on me like a shroud, its plainness a stark contrast to the vibrant colours I had once embraced. The white apron, with its school emblem, felt like a badge of shame, a humiliating sign of my displacement from the world of privilege and luxury. As I stared at my reflection in the mirror, I saw a stranger staring back at me. The once confident and poised student was replaced by a meek and subservient maid. My reflection was a harsh testament to my new humbling circumstances. 

Yet, amidst the turmoil of my emotions, I also felt a spark of determination. Despite the challenges I faced, I refused to give up hope. I had a burning desire to reclaim my rightful place at Elmwood Academy. I would prove that I was the real Melissa Jones, the sophisticated and intelligent student from a wealthy family, not the delinquent school maid that everyone seemed to think I was.

 

A plan began to take shape in my mind. I would approach the receptionist again and convince her to give me back my phone. I would then contact someone who could testify to my true identity. I knew my parents were unreachable for several months, but somebody else could vouch for me. I first thought of my former schoolmates, but I didn't want to become a laughing stock among my friends back home. Honestly, I didn't want anybody I knew, not even my parents, to learn about my humiliating situation. But I had to find somebody who knew me well, but also who would accept to keep my current ordeal a secret afterwards. 

That's when I thought about our faithful maid, Maria. Despite her humble background, she had worked for our family for several years, and knew me better than anyone else. She had seen me grow from a child into the intelligent and ambitious young woman I had become. She would recognize me, no matter what disguise I was wearing. And even if her testimony was not enough - she was just a maid after all -, she could, if needed, get access to our home and find documents that would corroborate my true identity. There was only one small obstacle: Maria had recently been fired and had lost her job because of me. But certainly, she wouldn't hold such a grudge against me that she would let me down. And I would assure her that she would be amply rewarded for her assistance. It might also, I realized, enable me to make amends for what had happened to her. The more I thought about it, the more I believed that Maria was the solution. 

But, then, I remembered that I was supposed to report to the communal kitchen. I was starving and it was still too early for the receptionnist to be at work, so, hoping to get some breakfast, I decided to keep acting as a school maid for now. Therefore, I straightened my apron, adjusted the cap on my head, making sure it sat properly, and made my way to the kitchen where the staff was taking breakfast. 

The kitchen buzzed with activity as the maids prepared breakfast for the school staff and students. The air was thick with the smell of freshly brewed tea and the scent of toast wafting from the toaster. Amidst the hustle and bustle, I stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, feeling out of place in my maid's uniform. The other maids glanced at me with curious expressions, their whispers reaching my ears like muffled accusations. As I made my way to the staff table, I couldn't help but notice the hushed whispers and judgemental glances of the school maids. Their eyes seemed to pierce through my maid's uniform, searching to catch me out. I sensed their hostility, distrust and apprehension. 

The head maid, Mrs. Henderson, a stern-faced woman with a commanding presence, stood at the center of the room, her face etched with disapproval as she surveyed my demeanor. She beckoned me over, her voice laced with authority. "Girl," she said, her gaze sweeping over my starched maid's uniform, "you'll help us prepare breakfast today." I nodded, preferring not to anger Mrs. Henderson. She assigned me tasks with a firm hand, guiding me through the process of preparing omelets, frying bacon, and arranging pastries. 

Then, as soon as I had finished, Mrs. Henderson handed me a meager breakfast – stale bread, a cup of weak tea, and a small portion of fruit. It was a far cry from the gourmet meals I would have been entitled to as a privileged student, but I was grateful for anything to fill my empty stomach. I took a seat at the table, feeling the weight of the other maids' gazes upon me. I felt a surge of humiliation as they watched me, their eyes filled with contempt and suspicion. I tried to ignore their stares, but it was difficult. I felt their eyes burning into me, judging me and questioning my presence. I wanted to shrink into my seat, to disappear from their sight. 

Hoping to break the ice and ease the tension that filled the room, I tried to explain my situation to the maid sitting next to me. But my attempt was met with a cold silence. The maid turned away from me, her expression hardening. 

"You there!" Mrs. Henderson's piercing voice echoed all of a sudden through the staff room, interrupting me. I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest, as Mrs. Henderson marched towards me, her stern expression radiating disapproval. Without warning, she suddenly slapped me hard in the face. A jolt of shock coursed through me as her hand connected with my cheek, the harsh sting echoing through my senses. I stood frozen, my mind reeling from the unexpected assault. 

"You are here to work, girl, not to socialize," Mrs. Henderson said, her voice low and menacing. "And I won't tolerate any more talk about being a student, or you'll find yourself in a lot of trouble. You're here as a school maid, not a student, and you'd better remember that. If you ever pretend being a student again, you will be severely punished." 

Her words hung heavy in the air, and I felt a knot of fear tightening in my stomach. I knew she meant what she said. "Yes, Ma'am," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. 

"Good," she said, her tone softening slightly. "Now, finish your breakfast quickly and then get to your chores. No dawdling." 

I nodded meekly and sat down at the table again, my appetite completely gone. I knew I had to be careful from now on. I couldn't afford to upset Mrs. Henderson again. I had to keep my head down and obey, and, later, I'd prove to her that I wasn't a maid and reclaim my true identity as a privileged student. But until then, I was trapped in this role, and I had to learn to live with being treated like a lowly servant devoid of any rights. With a heavy heart, I began to eat my meager breakfast again. I felt isolated and alone and wondered how long I would be able to endure this humiliation. 

After breakfast, I was assigned the task of washing dishes by hand, a job that was not only physically demanding but also socially humiliating. As a privileged girl, I had been accustomed to being waited on, not to performing menial tasks like dishwashing. The sweltering heat of the kitchen enveloped me as I stood before the towering sink, my arms submerged in the scalding water. The lingering aroma of grease and food scraps filled my nostrils, a pungent reminder of the countless meals served to the privileged students of Elmwood Academy. As I began the monotonous task of washing dishes by hand, my muscles screamed in protest. The repetitive motion of scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking was exhausting, and my arms and shoulders ached with every passing minute. 

The other school maids, their faces etched with amusement, gathered around, their voices dripping with mockery. Their snide remarks cut deep as they pointed out my clumsiness, my lack of coordination, my inability to keep up with the pace, and, more generally, my inexperience with such a mundane task. Their words were like shards of glass piercing my already fragile self-esteem. I felt a surge of humiliation, my cheeks burning with shame as they belittled my efforts. I was a privileged student, a member of the elite who didn't belong in this world of hard labor and menial tasks, yet here I was, reduced to be a lowly maid, subjected to their scorn and ridicule. 

I clenched my fists, determined to prove the other maids wrong. I would not let their taunts and belittlement deter me. I would work harder, faster, and with more determination than any of them. I plunged my hands back into the scalding water, the pain momentarily forgotten in the fire of my determination. I scrubbed and rinsed with renewed vigor, ignoring the jeers and laughter of the other maids. I worked tirelessly, my movements becoming more fluid, my grip on the sponge tightening with each passing plate. The taunts of the other maids faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic swish of water and the gentle clatter of porcelain against porcelain. 

After a few hours, the sink was spotless, and the kitchen was gleaming. A sense of satisfaction washed over me. The once grimy sink now sparkled under the harsh fluorescent lights, a testament to my hard work. With a newfound energy and hoping to be able to approach the receptionist and to ask her for my phone, I volunteered to clean the reception area. Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, nodded approvingly, her stern expression softening slightly. 

As I set to work, my mind wandered back to my phone, which had been confiscated by the receptionist upon my arrival. I needed it to contact Maria, my family's former maid, who would be able to vouch for my true identity, but I didn't dare to ask the receptionist about the phone with Mrs. Henderson around. So, while waiting for the right moment, I carefully dusted the furniture, straightened up the magazines, and polished the reception desk, leaving the area as pristine as I could manage. 

Just as I was checking my work, I noticed that Mrs. Henderson was busy with a group of students. Seeing an opportunity, I discreetly approached the receptionist, hoping to inquire about my phone. "Excuse me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "I was wondering if you could give me back my phone. I really need to contact somebody who could vouch for my identity." 

The receptionist, a kind-hearted woman with a warm smile and the only person around who seemed to believe me, looked at me, her expression compassionate. "I'm sorry, Miss Jones, but I am bound by the strict instructions I have received from Mrs. Henderson. She has explicitly prohibited the return of any personal belongings to you as long as you are registered as the deliquent school maid. Any deviation from these orders could jeopardize my position and potentially lead to disciplinary action." The receptionist shared my frustration at the unjust situation, but remained firm in her stance. Her words, though disappointing, were laced with understanding and empathy. 

"The best thing you can do, Miss Jones," the receptionist told me, "is to convince the dean to update your registration in the biometrics system, but that won't be possible before her return next week." 

A wave of disappointment washed over me. I had really hoped to use my phone to contact my family's former maid, Maria, and have my rightful identity quickly confirmed. But I couldn't blame the receptionist for her reluctance. She was in a difficult position, caught between her empathy for me and her duty to follow the rules. Despite the setback, I felt a surge of gratitude for the receptionist's understanding and support. Her kindness, amidst the rigid structure of Elmwood Academy, offered a glimmer of humanity in this otherwise challenging situation. With a sigh, I thanked the receptionist and returned to my duties. I resolved to focus on my work and to continue cleaning, while simultaneously seeking another way to get my hands on a phone. The receptionist's empathy had rekindled my hope, reminding me that even in the midst of adversity, there were still individuals who cared and understood. Unfortunately for me, the constant presence of Mrs. Henderson made it impossible to try borrowing a phone from anyone after that. Her watchful eye followed my every move, making sure I was always working and never idle. 

Later, after having my hard work rewarded by a frugal lunch, I was sent to clean the upper floor washrooms. As I had been busy scrubbing the toilet bowls for some time, Mrs. Henderson suddenly approached me with a stern expression. She informed me that she needed to check that I was wearing the undergarments prescribed by the Court. I was mortified. The thought of having my underwear inspected once again was both humiliating and violating. I begged Mrs. Henderson to reconsider, explaining that it was unnecessary and disrespectful. However, Mrs. Henderson was adamant. She insisted that the inspection was a necessary part of her job, and that I had no choice but to comply. I felt a surge of anger and frustration, but I knew that I was powerless to resist her authority. With a heavy heart, I submitted to the inspection by lifting my dress. I stood awkwardly as Mrs. Henderson examined my underwear, her eyes darting across the fabric. I felt exposed and vulnerable, my dignity stripped away. 

When she was satisfied, Mrs. Henderson nodded curtly and handed me my cleaning cloth back. "Don't let me see you slacking off," she warned, her voice laced with disapproval. "I'll be checking on you regularly." I nodded meekly, feeling like a child being reprimanded by a stern parent. I turned my attention back to the washroom, scrubbing the toilet bowls and sinks with renewed vigor. 

The humiliation of the underwear check lingered in my mind, a constant reminder of my powerless position, subject to the whims of a cruel and heartless authority figure. As I worked, I couldn't help but compare my current situation to the one I had left behind. I had once been a privileged girl, free to pursue my interests and dreams. Now, I was a mere servant, forced to endure indignities that no one should ever have to face. The contrast was stark, a sharp reminder of the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of privilege. I had taken my comfortable life for granted, never imagining that I could be stripped of everything I held dear in an instant. 

As I was diligently scrubbing the washroom floor, a group of privileged students entered the restroom. They seemed oblivious to my presence, their chatter and laughter filling the air. The students' disregard for my presence was a stark reminder of my lowly status as a school maid. 

Later, when Mrs. Henderson was nowhere in sight, another student with a haughty air of entitlement suddenly approached me. "Hurry up, maid," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "I need to use this washroom stall." 

I apologized for the inconvenience and quickly finished my scrubbing, my cheeks burning with humiliation. The girl was holding an expensive-looking phone. As Mrs. Henderson was not there, I approached the girl. "The stall is free, Miss," I said, my voice trembling slightly, "but I was wondering if you could possibly lend me your phone for a few minutes. Please Miss, it's really important." 

The girl scoffed at my request. "Why would I lend my phone to a lowly servant like you?" she sneered. "Get lost!" 

Her words stung like a slap in the face. Being treated with such contempt was almost unbearable, but I refused to let her words get the better of me. So I maintained my composure and went on to clean the next stall. 

When I'd finished my work in the washrooms, the head maid, Mrs. Henderson, directed me to my next assignment – cleaning the stairways. This was a task I had never performed before, but I had no choice but to obey. Exhausted from my previous chores, I ascended the stairs with my mop and bucket in hand, my muscles aching and my mind weary. The grand staircase, a testament to the school's architectural splendour, seemed to mock my lowly status as a maid, a servant to the privileged students and esteemed faculty who adorned its steps. 

I began my work at the top, methodically cleaning each step, erasing the traces of the day's activities and restoring the staircase to its pristine state. As I worked, I noticed the intricate carvings on the banisters, the delicate moldings that adorned the walls, and the stained glass windows that cast colourful patterns on the floor. Each detail was a testament to the craftsmanship and artistry that had gone into the building's construction. The staircase was a symbol of the school's grandeur, a place where students had walked for generations, their footsteps echoing in the silent halls. 

I was still diligently cleaning the staircase when Mrs. Henderson was suddenly called somewhere else and had to excuse herself momentarily. I immediately thought that her absence presented an opportunity to seek help. So I approached the other maid, a woman named Sabrina, who was assigned to supervise me during Mrs. Henderson's brief departure. My voice trembling with desperation, I pleaded with Sabrina to lend me her phone. I explained my situation, the theft of my tickets, the loss of my luggage, the missed car, the circumstances of my arrival at the school, my vain attempts to convince Mrs. Henderson of my true identity, and my need to contact someone to clear up the misunderstanding. 

Sabrina's eyes widened in surprise, her lips curling into a mocking smirk. When I finished my story, she let out a sardonic laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement. "You think I'm going to risk my job for you?" she scoffed, her voice laced with disdain. "What makes you so special that I should break the rules for you? What's more, your story isn't even credible. You're not a student here; you're a delinquent maid, just like your fingerprint says." 

I felt a surge of frustration and humiliation. Sabrina's callous disregard for my situation only deepened my sense of isolation and despair. I was trapped in a situation where no one seemed willing to help. Despite Sabrina's reaction, I was about to beg her to reconsider when the head maid, Mrs. Henderson, suddenly reappeared, her stern gaze sweeping across the staircase. I quickly retreated to my cleaning, hoping to avoid her notice. 

As I made my way down the grand staircase and despite being under the head maid's constant and wary scrutiny, I felt a strange sense of invisibility. The students of Elmwood Academy, with their elegant schoolgirl uniforms, expensive accessories, and air of superiority, seemed to glide past me without a flicker of recognition. I was there, cleaning up their messes and making their lives easier, yet they barely acknowledged my presence. I was a mere shadow in their world, a servant deserving of their indifference. But, in spite of everything, I felt a sense of reverence as I cleaned, appreciating the history and significance of this grand structure. I continued my work, sweeping away the dust and dirt, wiping away the fingerprints and smudges. The staircase began to shine, reflecting the light with an almost ethereal glow. Despite my humiliation, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment, having restored this important part of the school to its former glory. 

When the day finally drew to a close, I found myself utterly exhausted, my body aching from the relentless demands of my non-stop labor as school maid. The long hours of washing dishes, scrubbing floors, dusting shelves, and emptying trashcans had taken their toll, leaving me feeling drained and depleted. I longed for the comfort of my bed, the warmth of my covers, and the oblivion of sleep. After downing the meager dinner Mrs. Henderson had provided, I trudged back to the maid's quarters, my legs heavy and my spirit weary. The day's events replayed in my mind, a relentless cycle of hard labor and harsh treatment. I collapsed onto the hard cot, my body sinking into its unforgiving embrace. As I closed my eyes, the day's relentless rhythm faded into a distant hum, replaced by the soothing silence of the night. In the depths of sleep, I found a temporary escape from my grim reality. I dreamt of a world where I was not a maid, a world where I was free to pursue my dreams and aspirations.