Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 19.

by Melissa 

Part 19. Arrested. 

The morning after the incident with Mrs. Henderson, I woke up with a throbbing pain in my back. I winced as I sat up, the memory of the previous night's events flashing through my mind. I felt a sense of shame and confusion, but also a strange sense of excitement. 

I reluctantly peeled off the thin, scratchy blanket that barely covered me in the dank, cold room. The walls were a stark white, almost blinding in the harsh light that streamed in through the small, barred window. The room was sparsely furnished with a single, hard bed and a chest of drawers, which contained the only possessions I was allowed: the court-approved underwear and the traditional maid's uniform that was as much a symbol of my degradation as it was a tool for the backbreaking work I was forced to do. 

Gingerly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, the cold floor sending a shiver up my spine. The ache in my bottom was a constant reminder of my lowly status here at Elmwood Academy. The thought of the cold water was almost unbearable, but I knew hot water was a luxury I could not afford. As a maid, my comfort was never a priority. 

The chilly air nipped at my skin, making me shiver as I walked over to the washbasin, the cold porcelain a stark contrast to the warmth I craved. The icy water in the pitcher was a stark reminder of my place. As I raised it to my face, the frigid liquid hit my skin, making me gasp. I closed my eyes and let it run over my cheeks, hoping it would wash away the tears and the memories of the previous night's punishment. The water felt like a thousand tiny needles, but it was a sensation I had grown all too accustomed to. 

My reflection in the small, cracked mirror looked nothing like the Melissa Jones that once existed. My eyes were sunken, my cheeks flushed from the cold, and my hair was a mess of tangles. As I bent over the washbasin, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of arousal from the memory of the day before. The way Sabrina had forced me into that kiss, her hand gripping the back of my neck, the feel of her soft, demanding lips on mine. It was wrong, and I knew it, but the heat of it had stayed with me, haunting my dreams and leaving me feeling both disgusted and excited.

The cold water did little to extinguish the fire that burned within me. If anything, it seemed to fan the flames, making me even more aware of the tender, sore spots that Mrs. Henderson had so thoroughly disciplined. I could still feel the sting of her leather belt on my bare skin, and the way it had made me jolt and squirm under her firm grasp. The sensation was almost a caress, and yet it was a punishment that branded me as an unruly servant. 

With trembling hands, I reached for the small, scratchy towel that hung next to the washbasin. The rough fabric felt almost cruel against my skin as I used it to wipe the water from my face and neck. Each stroke sent a shiver down my spine, a strange blend of pain and pleasure that made me feel alive in a way I hadn't felt before. I tried to push the thoughts of Sabrina and the kiss away, but they clung to me. 

Then, with a heavy sigh, I reached for the drawer and pulled out the uncomfortable, stiff underwear that felt like a second layer of skin, designed to prevent any form of self-indulgence. Slipping it on, I felt a shiver of both disgust and arousal at the thought of the previous night's events. The fabric was unforgiving, reminding me of the boundaries that had been crossed, and the lines that had been drawn. Next, I picked up the traditional maid's uniform - a long, plain dress that fell just above my ankles, with an apron starched to perfection. The dress was a prison of its own, a constant reminder of my lowly status as the school's servant. I tied the apron strings tightly around my waist, feeling the fabric bite into my skin as if it was a silent declaration of my servitude. Lastly, I placed the maid's cap on my head, the stiff material pressing down on my ears, a final touch to complete my transformation into the role of a subservient maid. 

When I looked again into the tiny cracked mirror above the washbasin, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. Gone was the confident, privileged student from the Jones family; in her place stood a submissive figure, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and defeat. Despite the coldness of the room, my cheeks were flushed with a warm blush, the memory of Mrs. Henderson's punishment still vivid in my mind. I touched my bottom lightly, the tender skin a stark reminder of the humiliation I had endured. 

"Things can't get any worse," I whispered to my reflection, trying to convince myself that things could only get better. Little did I know how wrong I was. 

Just as I finished buttoning my dress, the door to my room swung open without warning. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. In walked the stern figure of the Dean, Mrs. Cavendish. Her expression was grave, her eyes scanning the room with a critical gaze. Two female security guards, both dressed in sharp black uniforms, flanked her. They stepped inside, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. "Good morning, Miss... Jones," Mrs. Cavendish said, her voice dripping with scepticism. "I've brought some assistance to help us with our investigation." 

I quickly dropped a curtsy, my eyes cast downward in an automatic gesture of respect and subservience. The towering presence of the security guards made me feel very uncomfortable. They were clearly accustomed to dealing with rebellious girls, and I felt a shiver of fear as they approached me. 

"We need to search your things," Mrs. Cavendish said, her voice firm. "To find any evidence that may help us clarify your... identity." The deana's gaze was like a vice grip on my throat, her eyes piercing into my soul. I knew what she was looking for, the proof that I was the delinquent girl she believed me to be. But even if she found something, what good would it do? All my true possessions had been confiscated upon my arrival at Elmwood. I had nothing in that room to prove who I really was, except the truth that remained trapped in my own head. 

The guards started with my wardrobe, tossing clothes onto the floor. Their cold, calloused hands sifted through my few meagre possessions with the precision of robots. They paused briefly at the sight of the tattered maid's uniform I had been wearing the previous day, a stark reminder of the humiliation I had endured at Sabrina's hands. Then they moved on to the dresser drawers, pulling them open so violently that the wooden frames groaned in protest. My heart skipped a beat as they rummaged through my underwear, their eyes meeting briefly, sharing a silent amusement at my predicament. 

Mrs. Cavendish remained stoic, her arms folded over her chest as she observed the chaos unfolding in the room. She had the poise of a seasoned interrogator, waiting for the moment I would crack under the pressure. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back, my breath shallow and rapid. I knew I had to keep my cool if I had any hope of convincing her of the truth. 

The guards, two towering figures in black uniforms, moved with military precision. They tossed aside pillows and flipped the mattress, leaving no stone unturned. It was as if they were searching for contraband in a prison cell rather than a maid's possessions in a prestigious academy. As one of the guards reached into the pocket of my discarded uniform hanging on the chair, her eyes widened, and she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "What's this?" she barked, holding it up for Mrs. Cavendish to see. My stomach plummeted. It was a set of course notes, meticulously scribbled by the delinquent girl's hand. They were a lifeline to the world of education that I had been secretly studying, a world currently forbidden to me as a lowly servant. 

Mrs. Cavendish's eyes narrowed, and she snatched the notes from the guard's hand. "How did you come by these, girl?" she demanded, her tone a blend of surprise and accusation. I swallowed hard, knowing that this could be the nail in the coffin of my already precarious situation. 

"I-I found them," I stammered, trying to think of a believable lie on the spot. "One of the students must have dropped them in the hallway. I picked them up to return them, but I didn't know who they belonged to." 

Mrs. Cavendish's gaze was icy as she scrutinized the notes. She knew as well as I did that a maid wasn't allowed to touch such things. The rules were clear; we were to maintain our station, invisible and subservient to the students we served. The very act of holding the papers was a breach of protocol. 

"These are from Mrs. Williams' advanced Leadership Development class," Mrs. Cavendish announced, her voice as sharp as the creases in her immaculate blouse. "A class for our most esteemed students. Highly privileged young women who are groomed to become the leaders of tomorrow." 

I felt the blood drain from my face as she unfolded the notes, revealing the elegant script of the other Melissa' handwriting. The topics covered were as foreign to a subservient maid as the luxuries of the life I'd been born into: communication strategies, the art of persuasion, the subtleties of power dynamics. It was a curriculum tailored to the elite, the kind of knowledge that could unlock the doors to boardrooms and political offices. 

"Girl," Mrs. Cavendish said, her voice like a whip crack, "you do know that maids are strictly prohibited from handling any student property, let alone class materials from such an exclusive class." 

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the ground, feeling the weight of her accusation crushing down on me. The room was thick with tension, the air heavy and suffocating. The guards watched me like hawks, their faces a mirror of Mrs. Cavendish's suspicion. 

"Well?" Mrs. Cavendish barked, her patience wearing thin. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" 

My mind raced as I watched the colour drain from Mrs. Cavendish's face. The guards looked at me with a mix of suspicion and disgust, their eyes flicking between the notes and me as if trying to piece together the puzzle. I knew I had to tread carefully. "I... I know it seems strange, Ma'am," I began, trying to keep my voice steady. "But I found them in the hallway outside the library. A student must have dropped them. I was going to turn them in to lost and found." 

Mrs. Cavendish's expression was unreadable as she studied the notes. Finally, she spoke, her voice as sharp as the creases in her uniform. "This is a serious matter, girl. Studying is a privilege reserved for our pupils, not for the help. We cannot have maids getting above their station." 

The guards exchanged glances, their grips tightening on their batons. "Ma'am," one of them said, "perhaps the girl found them by accident. It's not uncommon for students to misplace their things." 

Mrs. Cavendish's eyes didn't leave me for a second. "And perhaps she did," she said, her voice like a whip crack. "But the fact remains that a maid should not be in possession of such documents. It suggests an inappropriate curiosity, a desire to know more than she ought to." 

Summoning all the courage I had left, I looked up and met her gaze. "Ma'am, I know it's hard to believe, but I'm not just a maid. I'm Melissa Jones, the student that's supposed to be here. I've been switched with the other Melissa, the one who's been sentenced to community service. I don't belong in this uniform." 

Mrs. Cavendish's eyes narrowed, and before I could react, her hand shot out and slapped me hard across the face. The sting was immediate, sending a shock wave through my body and making my ears ring. I stumbled back, my cheek burning with the imprint of her hand. "You will not speak unless spoken to!" she snarled. "If you are indeed the student you claim to be, it will come to light. But, until then, you are a maid at Elmwood Academy and you will be treated as such. Your purpose here is to serve, clean, and obey. Is that clear?" 

I nodded, my eyes watering. My heart pounded in my chest as Mrs. Cavendish continued, "Such course notes are not for your kind, girl," she said, her voice like a thunderclap. "Maids who seek to elevate themselves are a danger to the order of this institution." She paused, letting her words hang in the air like a sword over my head. "Guard Jenkins," she said, her eyes never leaving me, "escort Melissa to my office. We will deal with this matter there." 

As one of the guards stepped forward to grab my arm, the head maid, Mrs. Henderson, strode into the room, her face a mask of disapproval. She looked at the scene before her, the mess of my belongings scattered across the floor, and her eyes landed on the incriminating piece of paper in the Dean's hand. 

"Mrs. Cavendish," she began, her voice calm but firm, "perhaps there's been a misunderstanding. Melissa is new here, and she might have been confused about the protocol." 

The Dean's eyes snapped to Mrs. Henderson, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "Mrs. Henderson," she said, her voice cold, "you are well aware of our rules. No maid is to come into contact with student property, especially not their academic material." 

Mrs. Henderson took a deep breath, her expression unflinching. "I understand, Ma'am," she replied. "But Melissa has shown exceptional diligence in her work, and she's eager to return lost items to their rightful owner. It was a simple mistake, an act of goodwill gone awry." 

Mrs. Cavendish's gaze shifted from the head maid to me, her eyes narrowing. "Is that so, girl?" she asked, her tone still sharp. 

I nodded frantically, trying to convey my innocence. "Yes, Ma'am," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "I didn't mean to take them. I just wanted to help." 

Mrs. Henderson stepped closer, her voice low and urgent. "Mrs. Cavendish, I vouch for Melissa. She's had a... difficult adjustment to her new role, but she's a hard worker and a good girl. I assure you she had no malicious intent." 

The Dean's eyes remained on me, scrutinizing every twitch of my face, every quiver in my voice. "Very well," she said at last, her expression unchanging. "This time, we will let it pass as a misunderstanding. But rest assured, girl, this is your first and only warning. If there's even a hint of you overstepping your bounds again, I won't hesitate to take drastic measures." 

Mrs. Henderson nodded, and I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe this would be the end of it, the closest I'd come to a victory in this twisted game of identity. But as Mrs. Cavendish snatched the notes from the guard's hand, something fell from the crumpled pages. My eyes widened in horror as I watched a few banknotes flutter to the floor. It was the meagre payment from the delinquent girl, the only reward for the hours of labour I'd put into her assignments. 

Mrs. Cavendish bent down, her brow furrowed as she picked up the money. "What is this?" she asked, holding it up as if it were dirty laundry. 

I stood there, trembling, my heart racing. I knew that if I admitted to taking money for helping the other Melissa with her schoolwork, it would be seen as a confession of dishonesty and cheating. Yet, the truth was like a boulder on my chest, threatening to crush me. I had been paid to do something that was strictly against the school's rules. My mind raced as I searched for a plausible explanation. 

Mrs. Henderson stepped in again, her eyes flashing with a silent warning. "It seems Melissa found some money on the floor," she said calmly. "Perhaps it was dropped by a student and she intended to turn it in as well." 

Mrs. Cavendish's gaze remained on me, the question hanging in the air like a noose waiting to be tightened. I nodded, trying to match Mrs. Henderson's cool demeanour. "Yes, Ma'am. I didn't know what to do with it, so I kept it safe until I could find the owner." 

Mrs. Cavendish's gaze bore into me, scrutinizing every flicker of my eyes and quiver of my lip. "You should have given it to Mrs. Henderson, as is proper protocol. As you didn't, it's clear that you had other intentions." 

My stomach twisted in knots. "I didn't mean to—" I began, but she cut me off with a sharp wave of her hand. 

"Save it, girl," Mrs. Cavendish snapped. "You've had your chances to come clean, and you've chosen deceit. Theft is a serious offence at Elmwood Academy, especially for someone in your position." 

The security guards, their faces stoic, stepped forward and pulled out plastic straps. My wrists were bound together, the material biting into my skin. I felt a surge of panic, my mind racing with the thought of the police arriving and the consequences that would follow. The room spun around me as they secured me to the chair, and the reality of my situation grew more terrifying with every passing second. 

Then I was left alone except for a silent security guard who stood watch, ensuring I could entertain no thoughts of fleeing. The plastic straps bit into my skin, holding me fast against the unyielding chill of the metal chair. Each thump of my heart echoed like a drumbeat against my ribs, a frantic rhythm in the sudden, echoing silence. Abandoned and utterly helpless, a crushing wave of despair threatened to engulf me, but my struggles against the restraints were futile. 

After an hour that felt like an eternity, the door to my room swung open, and in walked two policewomen, their uniforms sharp and authoritative. Their expressions were stern, and their eyes swept the room before landing on me. I tried to look as innocent as possible, but the fear in my eyes likely gave me away. 

"Melissa Jones," the taller of the two began, "you are under arrest for theft." The words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around my neck. 

With trembling hands, I looked up at the policewomen, their stern expressions unwavering. "Please, you don't understand," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hammering of my heart. "It's all a misunderstanding." 

The shorter of the two policewomen, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, stepped forward, her handcuffs glinting in the harsh light of the room. After cutting the plastic straps the were holding me fast against the chair, she took my wrists in her firm grip, the cold metal clicking shut around them with a finality that sent a shiver down my spine. "We'll sort this out down at the station," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. 

The cold steel of the handcuffs bit into my wrists as the two police officers, their faces impassive, steered me towards the door. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that had fallen in the room. Just before I crossed the threshold, my gaze snagged on Mrs. Henderson. Her face was showing sadness and regret. She had been my advocate, my champion, her voice raised in my defence just moments before. But now, faced with the stark reality of the situation, she was powerless. All she could do was watch, her expression a mix of sorrow and helplessness, as I was marched out of the room, my reputation crumbling with every step. 

The hallway beyond the classroom door felt impossibly long. It was lined with students and staff, their faces a blur of curiosity and judgment. The hushed whispers that rippled through the crowd were like a Greek chorus, each murmur a fresh accusation. The sight of the uniformed officers flanking me, their hands firm on my arms, had painted the scene with a stark clarity. There was no room for doubt, no space for ambiguity. Something was terribly wrong. The witnesses to my departure followed my every move, dissecting my posture, my expression, searching for clues, for confirmation of their suspicions. Each glance was a tiny pinprick, deflating what little remained of my pride. I was a spectacle, a public display of shame and defeat. Every step I took was a step further into the abyss of humiliation, each whisper a nail hammered into the coffin of my former self. The walk to the exit felt like an eternity, a slow, agonizing procession played out in public view. 

Finally, we reached the heavy double doors that led to the outside. The bright sunlight, which moments before would have been a welcome relief, now felt harsh and intrusive, illuminating my shame for all the world to see. The officers steered me across the asphalt, the crunch of our shoes on the gravel a stark counterpoint to the hushed whispers that still followed us. My eyes were fixed on the black and white patrol car parked a short distance away, its presence a stark symbol of my downfall. It seemed to loom larger with every step, a monstrous beast waiting to swallow me whole. The closer we got, the heavier my limbs felt, as if gravity itself was conspiring to keep me rooted to the spot. The taller policewoman opened the back door, the metallic click echoing in the sudden quiet. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the door handle. This was it. The point of no return. Once I crossed that threshold, there would be no going back. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, I slid into the backseat, the cool vinyl a stark reminder of the cold reality of my situation. The door slammed shut, the sound a final, decisive punctuation mark on this chapter of my life. 

The ride to the station was a blur of sirens and the smell of stale coffee. The handcuffs bit into my wrists, a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. My mind raced with thoughts of how this could all be a terrible misunderstanding, a twist of fate that had me paying for someone else's crimes. But the reality was, I was the one who had been caught with money I was not supposed to have, and without any way to prove my innocence, I was at the mercy of the system. 

The stark fluorescent lights of the station pierced through the fog of my thoughts as we arrived. The cacophony of voices and the cold, sterile walls sent a shiver down my spine. I was ushered into a small, windowless room with a single chair and a table. The room was cold, and the smell of disinfectant clung to the air, a reminder of the countless others who had sat in the same spot, feeling as lost and scared as I was. 

The taller policewoman pulled a thick manila folder from a drawer and slapped it down on the table. "Looks like you're quite the prolific little thief, Miss Jones," she said, her tone mocking. "Your record is quite... impressive." 

My eyes widened as she flipped through the pages, revealing a string of past offences under the same name. My heart sank as I realized the gravity of the situation. The delinquent Melissa's history of theft was now a noose around my neck, tightening with every page. "But I'm not her," I whispered, my voice barely audible. 

The policewomen exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of disbelief and annoyance. "Save it for the judge," the shorter one barked, clearly unconvinced by my protests. "You're going down for this one, Melissa." 

The taller officer pulled out a camera and a black plate with my name and "Repeat Theft" printed in bold, unforgiving white letters. "Hold this," she said, her voice a mix of amusement and disdain as she handed me the plate. "Let's get a good look at you." The weight of the plate felt like a brand, a public declaration of my supposed crimes. I stared into the camera, my eyes filled with a mix of anger and despair. The flash of the camera was blinding, capturing my tear-stained face, the maid's cap still perched awkwardly on my head. The room felt smaller, closing in on me as the second, and then the third, picture was taken. My face was a mask of shock and despair, my eyes wide with fear. Each click of the camera shutter echoed in the small space, a stark reminder of my complete and utter defeat. 

The developing images were a blow. Fear held my eyes wide. Gone was the confident young woman who had first set foot in Elmwood Academy with dreams of becoming an astronaut. In her place was a girl whose spirit had been brutally crushed by accusation and humiliation. 

The shorter policewoman took the mugshot and slapped it onto a clipboard, her eyes scanning it before she nodded to her partner. Then she cleared her throat, bringing me back to the present. "Miss Jones," she said, her tone firm, "since your fingerprints are not yet on file with us, we're going to need to take them now." She gestured to a pad of black ink and a set of cards on the table. "Please place your hands here, palms down." 

I obeyed, my heart racing as I watched her pick up my trembling hands, one at a time, and press each finger into the ink. The feeling was alien, the coldness of the pad contrasting sharply with the warmth of my skin. With a practised ease, the policewoman rolled each digit onto the cards, creating a pattern that was uniquely mine. I couldn't help but feel a pang of fear as she labelled each one with my name, a stark reminder that I was now part of a system that had marked me as a criminal. 

As the ink dried, I couldn't help but think about the irony of the situation. My fingerprints were now registered as being the delinquent girl's, not only in the school biometrics system, but also in the police database. The very essence of who I was had been replaced by the identity of someone else. It was a twisted joke, a cosmic trick that had turned my world upside down. 

The two policewomen exchanged a look, and I knew they had seen the fear in my eyes. They didn't care about my story, my truth. To them, I was just another troublemaker to be processed, another number in the system. The coldness of the room was a stark contrast to the heat of the tears that threatened to spill over my cheeks. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. The handcuffs were removed and my shoes confiscated, and the taller policewoman, her expression stoic, led me through a maze of corridors to a cold, concrete cell. The door clanked shut behind me, the sound echoing through the emptiness. The cell was stark and unwelcoming, with a single bed, a metal toilet, and a sink. The floor was cold and unforgiving under my bare feet, the harsh lighting highlighting the stains on the walls, hinting at the tears and fears of those who had come before me. 

The reality of my situation crashed over me like a wave. I had been so focused on keeping my composure that the gravity of the accusation had barely registered. Now, as I sat on the hard, lumpy mattress, it hit me with the force of a sledgehammer. I was not just a maid at Elmwood any more. I was a criminal. The weight of the word settled on my shoulders, heavy and oppressive. I had always dreamed of reaching for the stars, but now, it felt like the universe had collapsed in on me. The cold, gray walls of the cell closed in, the only sound the distant echo of footsteps and the occasional muffled conversation. I felt utterly alone, a stark contrast to the bustling academy life I had known just hours before. The smell of disinfectant and despair clung to the air, a suffocating reminder of my new reality. The tears I had held back for so long began to fall, tracing a salty path down my cheeks and onto the stiff pillow.