Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 8.

by Melissa 

Part 8. Acknowledging the wrongs I've done to Maria and begging for her forgiveness. 

With a mix of anticipation and apprehension, I returned to the reception area on the next day hoping for some news from Maria, my family's former maid. The receptionist, her face etched with concern, greeted me with a sombre expression. "I have some news about your letter, Miss Jones" she began, her voice laced with sympathy. "Maria received it and called me shortly after." 

My heart pounded with anticipation as I listened to the receptionist's update. However, my hopes were quickly dashed as she relayed Maria's reaction. "Maria doesn't believe you," the receptionist explained, her voice filled with disappointment. "She refuses to believe your story about being mistaken for a delinquent school maid and thinks you're pulling a cruel prank on her, seeking to exploit her trust and loyalty." 

"But I explained everything in the letter," I protested, my voice laced with desperation. "I told her about the mix-up and how I'm forced to impersonate the delinquent school maid." 

"I know, Miss Jones," the receptionist sympathized, her eyes filled with compassion. "I even tried to explain the situation to her, but she is unfamiliar with me and didn't take my word for it." 

My stomach churned with disappointment. Maria's distrust was a bitter pill to swallow, especially considering the close bond we once shared. The idea that she could doubt my character was a harsh blow, a stinging reminder of the rift that had formed between us during the events that led to her dismissal by my parents. 

"Maria also said that you must have a sick sense of humour," the receptionist continued, her tone laced with frustration. "She's still angry with you for what happened to her when she lost her job, and she doesn't trust you." 

Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 7.

by Melissa

Part 7. A phone call from the judge.

As the phone rang in the staff room, Mrs. Henderson's heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and dread. The head maid knew who was calling – Judge Thompson, the stern and unforgiving woman who had sentenced Melissa Jones, the delinquent school maid, to community service at Elmwood Academy.

"Mrs. Henderson," Judge Thompson's voice boomed through the receiver, her sharp tone cutting through the silence, "I'm calling to seek an update on the progress of Melissa Jones, the delinquent girl I entrusted to your care at Elmwood Academy. I trust you've had ample time to evaluate her behaviour since her arrival."

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat, her mind racing to recall the details of Melissa's behaviour. "Yes, Your Honour, absolutely" she began, her voice cautious, "Melissa has been assigned to various cleaning tasks and has consistently fulfilled them diligently."

"Really?" Judge Thompson's tone sharpened. "It's not like her to do that. What about her adherence to the rules and regulations of the academy?"

"She has generally followed the guidelines," Mrs. Henderson admitted, "but there is one particular aspect of her behaviour that concerns me."

"Enlighten me," Judge Thompson commanded.

Story: The Job Interview. Part 5.

by Inanimate77 

It had been a week since Amy had started working for Susan, and while the new maid had settled into a bit of a routine, she really hadn't gotten used to her role. After what had been a terrible first day, Amy had managed to redeem herself. However, the process of pleasing her new employer had nearly killed her. 

Since school was out of session, Amy had agreed to take on more hours. This meant that she was effectively working seven days a week. Susan had assured her that once Amy got the house in order, the workload would go down. Although the never-ending list of tasks had left her completely exhausted, there was a sense of peace and satisfaction that came with the monotony of the work. 

Each morning, the routine was exactly the same for Amy. She would awaken at precisely 5:30 AM, feeling a sense of exhaustion already creeping through her body. After a brief shower to wash away the remnants of sleep, she would sit down to a simple breakfast, fueling herself for the long day ahead. The next hour was spent meticulously ironing her uniform, taking great pride in ensuring every crease and fold was perfectly pressed. It had become almost therapeutic for her, this act of creating order out of chaos. 

As she got more accustomed to using the iron, Amy found ways to make the process more efficient. What used to take her hours now only took one. She hoped that eventually, she could shave off an extra 30 minutes and get some much-needed rest in the mornings.

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.

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.

 

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." 

Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 3.

by Melissa 

Part 3. My arrival at the school 

As the rain poured down relentlessly, drenching me to the bone, I stood before the imposing gates of Elmwood Academy, my heart pounding in my chest. The journey had been a series of unfortunate events, from the theft of my first-class ticket to the loss of my luggage and the missed car. Now, I found myself shivering and soaked in front of the intercom, on a Sunday evening, hoping that someone would hear my plea for help. I pressed the button, my finger trembling slightly. "Hello?" I called out, my voice laced with desperation. "Is anyone there?" The silence that followed was deafening, a harsh contrast to the relentless drumming of the rain on the pavement. 

A surge of panic threatened to overwhelm me as I pressed the button again, my voice trembling as I uttered my name and asked for assistance. Still, no answer came. I was soaked to the bone, my clothes clinging to my shivering form as the wind whipped through my hair. The rain seemed to mock my predicament, a relentless reminder of my isolation and vulnerability. Just when I was about to give up hope, a woman's voice crackled through the intercom, startling me out of my despair. "Hello?" the woman asked, slightly muffled "This is the receptionist." 

"Thank goodness," I exclaimed, relief washing over me. "I'm Melissa Jones, the new student. I was supposed to be picked up by a car from the school, but I missed it. Could you please let me inside?" 

"Melissa Jones you say," the receptionist replied. "Just wait for a minute, I will check the database."