Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 6.

by Melissa

Part 6. Writing to Maria. 

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the darkness, I reluctantly dragged myself out of my uncomfortable cot in the maid's quarters, my body protesting against the strenuous labour I had endured over the past few days. My limbs felt heavy and stiff, my muscles sore from endless hours of washing dishes, scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets. As I stood up, I felt a wave of despair.

Hoping for a miracle, I stumbled towards the nearest fingerprint scanner, my head pounding and my stomach churning. I placed my hand on the fingerprint scanner, but the answer was similar to the one of the previous day: "Fingerprints recognized and identity as school maid Melissa Jones verified and authenticated. Please report to the head maid for instructions." I was still trapped in the identity of my namesake, the delinquent school maid, and thus forced to live like a lowly servant to the elite of Elmwood Academy. I longed to reclaim my true identity, to escape the confines of this mistaken identity and return to the life I had envisioned for myself. But the evidence of my fingerprint match seemed irrefutable, leaving me with no clear path forward.

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog that clouded my mind, and forced myself to move. After a quick shower, I got dressed in the drab maid's uniform that now seemed to symbolize my fall from grace. The scratchy underwear and the starched maid's outfit felt stiff and abrasive against my skin, a stark contrast to the soft, flowing garments I was normally accustomed to. After adjusting my maid's cap and straightening my apron, I stood there motionless in my tatty uniform.

With a sigh, I glanced at the mirror. The harsh realities of my new life as a school maid had taken their toll on my physical appearance. My skin, once radiant with youth and vitality, was now pale and drawn, bearing the marks of exhaustion and constant strain. My once neatly styled hair was a tangled mess, resembling a bird's nest after a storm. And the dark circles under my eyes served as a constant reminder of the relentless demands of my work. I looked like a ghost of my former self, a casualty of the harsh realities of my new life. The uniform symbolizing my servitude felt like a second skin, a constant reminder of my diminished status. The starched fabric chafed against my skin, the faded colours a stark contrast to the vibrant hues I had once favoured. I also longed for the days when I could adorn myself with makeup, the colours and textures transforming my appearance and boosting my confidence. But those days seemed like a distant memory, a relic of a life I could no longer claim. My makeup, confiscated at my arrival, was a symbol of my lost identity, a reminder of the world I had been forced to leave behind. It was a small loss, perhaps, but it felt like a profound violation, a stripping away of my individuality. Without makeup, I felt exposed and vulnerable, my flaws laid bare for all to see. The reflection in the mirror was a harsh indictment of my altered circumstances, a constant reminder of my fall from grace.

With a jolt of determination, I shook off the remnants of my trance-like state and sprang into action. The realization of my predicament, my forced identity as a delinquent school maid, was a harsh reminder of the circumstances I found myself in. I had to act swiftly to rectify the situation, to prove my true identity as a student and escape the confines of this demeaning role. There was no time to waste. The longer I remained in this charade, the more difficult it would be to unravel.

 

Gathering my wits, I formulated a new plan. In the absence of the Dean, who was away until the following week, I was under the authority of the head maid, Mrs Henderson. And it was also Mrs Henderson who had formally forbidden the receptionist to give me back my phone. If only I could persuade the head maid to change her instructions and give me access to my phone, I would be able contact Maria, my family's former maid, so she could vouch for me. I knew it was a long shot, but it was my best chance of proving my true identity and escape my predicament.

But, first, I needed to do something about my hungry stomach. It was time for breakfast. With a newfound sense of purpose, I set off on my mission, leaving behind the confines of the maid's quarters and venturing into the bustling school corridors. Finally, I reached the communal kitchen and went inside, my stomach rumbling with hunger. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, filling the room with an enticing warmth. The sight of the other maids bustling around, preparing breakfast for the rest of the staff, filled me with a sense of anticipation. With a determined step, I approached Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, and volunteered my assistance. Mrs. Henderson, a stern woman with a no-nonsense demeanour, seemed surprised by my eagerness but eventually relented, assigning me simple tasks like setting the table and pouring drinks. I worked alongside the other maids, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they sliced bread, scrambled eggs, and whipped up omelets. My own movements were clumsy and unfamiliar at first, but gained gradually confidence.

Finally, my turn came to receive my breakfast. Mrs. Henderson placed a plate of toast, hard-boiled eggs, and a glass of orange juice before me. It was a simple meal, but it tasted like a feast compared to the meagre rations I had been served the previous days. With a grateful heart, I savoured each bite, the flavours of the breakfast warming my body and fuelling my spirit.

After finishing my plate, I approached Mrs. Henderson respectfully, my voice laced with a mix of apprehension and hope. "Ma'am," I began, "may I please have a word with you, in private?"

Mrs. Henderson, her face set in a stern expression, reluctantly agreed to my request. We ventured to a quiet corner of the kitchen. With a deep breath, I initiated the conversation, my voice laced with a hint of pleading. "Ma'am," I began, my eyes locking onto her stern gaze, "there is something I really need to discuss with you. I know that you didn't believe me when I told you about the mix-up with my identity. But I beg you, please, to allow me to contact somebody back home who could vouch for my true identity."

Mrs. Henderson's eyes narrowed, her expression sceptical. "Girl," she said, her voice dripping with condescension, "I've already told you that your fingerprints match those of the delinquent girl sentenced to community service as school maid. That's all the proof I need."

I tried to reason with Mrs. Henderson, explaining that the fingerprint scan could be erroneous due to the mix-up with my identity. I insisted that I just needed a phone call to reach someone who could confirm my true identity and clear up the misunderstanding.

Yet, Mrs. Henderson remained unconvinced. Her expression remained resolute, her voice unwavering as she dismissed my pleas. "The evidence is clear," she stated, her tone laced with authority, "you can't be the student you claim to be. Besides, even if I wanted, I couldn't give you access to your phone. By Court order, you are not allowed any contact with the outside world. Your phone is and will remain confiscated for the duration of your community service, and any attempts to communicate with the outside by any means will be met with severe consequences."

Despite her scepticism, I felt compelled to appeal to her sense of reason. "Ma'am," I continued, my voice laced with desperation, "I understand your reluctance to believe me. I probably wouldn't if I were in your place. But please, consider the possibility that I am telling the truth. The mix-up with my identity might seem unlikely, but it's not impossible." I paused, taking a deep breath to gather my composure. "I know I'm asking a lot," I admitted, "but would you please consider contacting someone who could vouch for my identity? It's the only way to prove that I'm not who you think I am."

Mrs. Henderson listened attentively, her gaze piercing but not entirely unsympathetic. I could see the gears turning in her mind, weighing my words against the evidence of the school's records. "A person," she said, "and who would that be?".

"Maria," I replied, "my family's maid. She has served us for many years and knows me better than anybody."

"Huh? A maid? Why not your parents?", Mrs Henderson asked.

"My parents are currently unreachable, Ma'am," I explained, "but Maria..."

"How convenient," Mrs Henderson declared, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. "I bet this Maria of yours is just another delinquent girl who would say anything to get you off the hook. She's probably the same kind of pathological liar you are, according to your file. Besides, your story doesn't hold water. Even if you were the delinquent's twin sister, you wouldn't have the same fingerprints as her. Biometrics don't lie. Your fingerprints prove beyond doubt that you are the delinquent girl and no one else, and the dubious testimony of one of your former accomplices won't change a thing. As you spoke to me in private and without raising your voice, I won't punish you for your lies this time, but I don't want to hear any more about your fantasies of being a student. Understood, girl?"

"Yes Ma'am," I sighed, feeling defeated. My pleas had fallen on deaf ears, and I was left to face the harsh reality of my situation – I was trapped as the delinquent school maid, unable to prove my true identity or escape this bizarre Kafkaesque predicament.

As I was to walk away, she stopped me and forced me to lift my dress so she could check my underwear. I felt a deep sense of injustice and helplessness. I was a privileged student, yet I was constantly being treated like a criminal. The experience was humbling, but it also ignited a spark of determination within me. I vowed to find a way to clear my name and reclaim my rightful place as a student. I would not let this unfortunate turn of events define my future. If I couldn't get my hands on my phone or persuade the head maid to contact Maria, I would find another way. If I couldn't talk to Maria, I would write a letter to her. The first step was to find paper and a pen, and to explain my situation to her in writing. Then I would find a way to send her my message.

But, before I could start looking for paper, Mrs. Henderson called all the school maids together to give us our orders for the day. I was sent to the laundry room, where I was assigned the arduous task of hand-washing the uniforms of the privileged students. Their pristine white shirts, crisp blazers, and neatly pressed skirts represented the very essence of their privileged status, but, for me, having to hand-wash these garments, ensuring they were spotless and wrinkle-free, was a reminder of my lowly status here at Elmwood Academy.

The steamy confines of the laundry room enveloped me, the heavy scent of detergent and the dampness of wet clothes creating an atmosphere of oppressive heat and humidity. My hands, already raw and aching from the constant scrubbing, bore the brunt of the relentless task, their skin turning red and peeling as I battled against the stubborn dirt and grime embedded in the uniforms of the privileged students. Each uniform was a tangible reminder of the stark contrast between the lives of the students and my own. I thought about the luxurious dorms the privileged students inhabited, their spacious rooms filled with designer furniture and high-tech gadgets. I pictured the gourmet dining hall, where they revelled in the culinary creations of renowned chefs, their plates laden with exotic delicacies. And I envisioned the endless opportunities that stretched before them, their futures paved with golden paths of privilege and success. As I worked, my hands immersed in the hot, soapy water, I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy for their lives, their effortless access to comfort and luxury. I was supposed to be one of them, but instead here I was, turned into a lowly servant who toiled in the background, cleaning up their messes and enabling their carefree lifestyles. I continued to hand-wash and iron schoolgirl uniforms during the whole morning.

Later, after lunch, I set out to find the means to contact Maria, the maid who had worked for my family, so she could step up to prove that I was not the delinquent school maid I was mistaken for. On the pretence of restocking my cleaning cart and while Mrs. Henderson was busy with another school maid, I went to the staff room, where I hoped to find stationery supplies. Two other school maids were busy folding sheets. I discreetly slipped into a corner, searching for a pen and paper. My search was successful, and I found a worn-out notepad and a stubby pencil tucked away in a drawer. Seizing the opportunity, I quickly hid the pen and paper among the cleaning products on my cart.

I had hoped to find a quiet corner, away from the watchful eyes of the head maid, where I could gather my thoughts and compose a clear and concise letter to Maria, but Mrs. Henderson returned shortly, her eyes scanning me suspiciously. She seemed to be on high alert, determined to catch me in any infraction. I felt the weight of her scrutiny pressing down on me. I was constantly aware of her presence, her eyes following my every move. It was a suffocating feeling, a constant reminder of my powerless situation. As I continued my daily chores, the injustice of my situation weighed heavily on my mind. I was a privileged student, someone who had never had to worry about menial tasks. Yet, here I was, forced to scrub floors once again, my task for the afternoon.

While I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor of the hallways, I was thinking about what I could write to Maria. I would begin by explaining my situation and the mix-up that had led me to be mistaken for the delinquent school maid, describing the events leading up to my arrival at Elmwood Academy, highlighting the stolen tickets, my lost luggage, the missed car ride, and the biometrics system mismatch. I'd then instruct Maria to contact the school authorities to rectify the situation. I'd also tell her to keep quiet about my predicament so that no one finds out about it back home. Then I realized that Maria might not be willing to help me. After all, she had lost her job because of me and was no longer the employee of my family. So I should probably not take her loyalty for granted. I should therefore promise her a reward.

The physical exertion of scrubbing floors had left my arms aching and my muscles burning, and the relentless scrutiny of the head maid, Mrs. Henderson, had made the task even more daunting. As I was finally granted a short break, I practically sprinted towards an empty office, seeking a moment of solitude and respite from the relentless labour. Collapsing onto a chair, I let out a sigh of relief, the weight of my fatigue finally bearing down on me. My hands were raw and blistered from the harsh cleaning chemicals, and my clothes were soaked in sweat from the exertion. I felt like a crumpled piece of paper, tossed aside and discarded. For a couple of minutes, while Mrs. Henderson was sharing a coffee with another maid, I was free from her watchful eyes. I could finally scribble my letter to Maria, explaining my predicament and pleading for her help.

"Dear Maria,

As I pen this letter, my heart is heavy with despair and confusion. I find myself in a predicament that defies all logic and reason, trapped in a bizarre mix-up that has cast me into a role that is both humiliating and utterly absurd. I have been mistaken for a delinquent girl who shares my name and is sentenced by a Court to serve community service at my new school. And, as a result, I am currently being forced to assume the identity of a lowly school maid, a role that is far removed from my true self, a privileged student of Elmwood Academy. I am trapped in this situation, unable to prove my true identity, and forced to wear the maid's uniform, do the maid's work, and live in the maid's quarters. It is a humiliating and degrading experience, and I am desperate to find a way out.

Having been around me for a decade and witnessed my upbringing, my education, and my aspirations, you know that I am not the delinquent girl people here think I am. I ask you therefore, Maria, to come forward and vouch for my true identity, telling the school authorities who I really am. Your testimony, your knowledge of my background, is, in the absence of my parents, the only thing that can set me free from this unjust and demeaning situation.

I know that this may seem like an extraordinary request, Maria, especially after you were let go from my family's employment, but I am desperate. I am tired of being treated as an outcast, a mere servant. I long to reclaim my identity as a student, to pursue my academic pursuits and fulfil my dreams and your intervention could mean the difference between my continued humiliation and my rightful place as a student at Elmwood Academy.

In return for your help, I promise to reward you generously. But please, don't tell anyone I know back home about my current plight.

Regards,

Melissa Jones

Postscript. My phone has been confiscated and I am not allowed to receive letters, but you can contact me, if needed, through Elmwood Academy's receptionist. She is aware of my situation and the only person to believe me."

I ended the letter, folded it neatly and tucked it under my apron, my heart filled with a glimmer of hope. It was a lifeline to my old life as a privileged girl. My next challenge was to find a way to deliver it to Maria. I couldn't risk handing it to Mrs. Henderson, who would likely confiscate it. The receptionist's office was my best bet. She was the only person at Elmwood Academy who seemed to believe me, so I decided to ask her to send the letter on my behalf. I had to convince her to help me, even though it was against the rules to let me send personal correspondence.

Later, as Mrs. Henderson was engrossed in a heated discussion with a disgruntled teacher, I seized the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. My heart pounded with a mix of anxiety and determination as I made my way towards the reception area, the folded letter securely hidden under my apron. The receptionist, a kind-looking woman with warm eyes, greeted me with a friendly smile.

"Miss Jones," she said, her voice laced with caution, "is there something I can help you with?"

I took a deep breath and explained my situation, my voice trembling with apprehension. I pleaded with the receptionist to send my letter to Maria, assuring her that it was a matter of great importance. The receptionist listened patiently, her expression a mix of sympathy and concern. She knew I was not allowed to contact the outside world, but she also understood the desperation in my voice. After a moment of silent deliberation and after checking that nobody was looking in our direction, she nodded and agreed to help me.

A wave of gratitude washed over me. I handed the letter to the receptionist, my fingers brushing against hers in a silent gesture of thanks. She took the letter with a reassuring smile, placed it carefully inside an envelope, addressed it to Maria's home address, stamped it and slipped into the outgoing mail bin. Relief washed over me. My letter was on its way to Maria, carrying all my hopes and dreams.

With a grateful nod, I turned to leave, my heart filled with a newfound sense of hope. I knew that I was still in for a difficult journey, but the hope of Maria's support and the kindness of the receptionist had given me the strength to keep going. I returned to my duties, my spirit lifted by the knowledge that my letter was soon to reach Maria. I went on to work diligently, scrubbing floors during the rest of the afternoon, my mind focused on the possibility of soon reclaiming my true identity.