It's not like I'm suck at my job

A hustle and bustle come from downstairs, following by heavy footsteps of a plump woman climbing up the wooden staircase. Every step was outburst with tantrums. Not a slight of delicate can be heard in those heavy stomps.

Her heels come to a halt at a cracked wooden door, which looks like it had been here for at least two centuries—old, mossy, full of broken holes, and patched many times by a low-skilled carpenter to keep it looking like a door and not a piece of trash. But cleary they've failed. This door is just a piece of trash.

"How long are you going to sleep in there? Rise up!" A high-pitched, ear-piercing voice cuts through the room as she smashes her fists on the trashy door like a madwoman. The dust is flying and the wooden walls are shaking, turning the inside of the room into an active volcano.

I break out of slumber, stupidly shocked. What the hell is going on? Cracking one eye open, I squint and reach for the wall, clinging to one of the wooden log like my very life depends on it.

The air is thick with dust, and my vision is clouded by the fierce dirt flying in the air and I'm sure my ears are literally deafened by all the frenzy blasting noise.

"Serene!! You little rat! Get your ass out here right now!"

Damn, it's such a painful voice; I feel like my ears actually bleed a little.

Covering my ears, I peer to the door, annoyed—why is Ingrid here in the early morning? I'm sure I didn't fuck up anything when I rub the whole inn clean—all four walls and the stone floor and not a single strain of dirt was left. If I could flip the floor upside down, I would have done it already. So what is wrong with her to cause such a big scene here?

Whatever the hell it is, my mouth is grossly wide open as I yawn my stupor away. Rubbing my eyes, I suck in a big breath. My twenty-four-seven slavey life is dangling bulky around my neck, and I can't help it. Fine.. fine! I got to rock my day again.

"Yes ma'am.." I reply in a sweet coated voice. I'm confident even steel would melt into pudding by my melody. But not here; nothing will fly with the innkeeper. She is so stern and stiff like a rock. I wonder why she even opened an inn when there's not even a shred of welcoming vibe in her.

I don't know if the business was even good to begin with. It's not like I have time to spy on it anyway, as my entire day was suck in the kitchen or in the washroom and I could get some time to breath only when it passed midnight.

It's sucks. I hate it. Not my ideal job, but I can't help it. I'm lost, I'm new, and I have no idea with whatsoever and all that, and my stomach ain't gonna feed itself, I need coins and I need food.

After a few groans, I finally manage to pull my head and brain together, and climb out of my old, hard, wooden mattress. Calling it a mattress is like a good slap in the face when it's just wooden planks nailed together into a rectangle, barely fits a person.

Thank goodness I have a blanket to keep myself from dying through the chilly night—a heavily used blanket that Ingrid tossed at me and I have thrown my best to wash, but it still reeks of an odd smell. And hell no. I don't want to guess what trauma this blanket has been through in this inn.

I get to my feet, stretching my body from side to side and hop into my leather boots.

Walking to the door, I push it open, and find a plump, middle-aged woman standing there with her arms crossing on her chest. She's wearing a brown leather corset with a cream chemise underneath. Her brown hair is short and curly, tugging behind her ears.

I can tell she is mad by the way her lips press together into a thin line and her bushy eyebrows knot into a twist.

Oh crap! No, please don't start, don't make me feel anxious. I purse my lips tight and hold my breath, my cheeks shaking from the laughter that itching in my throat, my eyebrows and my face twisted, I look just like a damn maniac. Goodness! It likes I can't help myself. I want burst out laughing whenever I have anxiety attack. This freaking habit is killing me.

I think my face must turned from twisted to semi-crezy by how high Ingrid's bushy brows shot up. Her dark brown eyes narrow, flickering at me with 'what the fuck is wrong with you' looks.

Just as I'm about to lose my bearings and laugh like a fanatic, her chubby hand grabs my elbow and yanks me to the stairs.

What is all this fuss about? My gaze turns to the window, and the sun is not out yet. It's freaking odd, Ingrid never wakes up at this early hour. Why would she? When this hot slave lady right here does everything so that the ma'am can slouch on her bed and snore until midday

Climbing down the stairs in a rush, my feet trip, and my face is heading to kiss the floor. I'm floating in mid-air, but the crash never come. My luck must be thick as Ingrid hand yanks me back on my feet and glares at me like I'm an idiot.

Well, at least I'm relieved for one thing, she wants all of my bones intact.

Ingrid drags me to the cellar and heads to the washroom. Inside, there is a large wooden water tank off to the left, a wooden bathtub in the center, and laundry tubs against the wall.

On one of the walls hangs an outfit—a beautiful sleeveless corset and a floor-length skirt, both are in moss-green color. I have no clue why it's here. It's far too pretty to be in a place like this. Maybe the guest accidentally forgot it.

I wince and whirl my face at Ingrid when she reaches to my back and unties my corset. I open my mouth to ask but was cut off by her piercing voice.

"Stop moving!" She grasps my arms up and pulls the corset out, "Hurry, and get into the tub!" she scoffs.

I hold up my front, my arms wrap around my breasts, "What's this all about? Why are you dragging me down here and stripping me off! Hey! Don't touch me." I yell at her.

She rolls her eyes and shoves me toward the bathtub, sneering, "Wash yourself as thoroughly as your filthy hands can and put on the dress!"

Her chin points at the moss-green outfit and she glares at me like I'm a piece of trash before leaving the room and slamming the door shut.

.

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