The Crimson Crown

I sat on the edge of the bed; my hands clasped tightly in my lap as Clara’s words hung in the air. The washcloth in her hand dripped faintly into the basin, the sound like a faint echo in the otherwise quiet room. I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze. My body felt too heavy, too numb from the day, and the saturated padding beneath my dress was a humiliating weight that seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment.

“Lila,” Clara said softly, her tone somewhere between exasperation and concern. “You can’t just sit there. You need to clean up.”

I didn’t respond, my fingers gripping the hem of my dress tighter. I couldn’t do it—not here, not now, not with her watching. The shame was a lump in my throat, choking me, and I bit my lip hard, willing myself not to cry.

Clara sighed, the sound filled with both patience and irritation. “Fine,” she said after a long pause. “If you’re not going to do it, I will.”

Before I could react, Clara stepped forward and began undoing the ties and buttons at the back of my servant’s dress. My hands shot up instinctively, but she swatted them away with surprising firmness. “Stop fussing,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “You’ve clearly never done this before. Let me help.”

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as the damp dress slipped from my shoulders and pooled around my waist before she tugged it down completely. The cold air of the room hit my skin, and I sat there in just my undergarments—or rather, the soaked diaper that had become impossible to ignore.

Clara stepped back, her sharp eyes taking in the sight of me. She folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head slightly as her gaze swept over me from head to toe. I couldn’t move. My arms hung limply at my sides, my knees pressed tightly together, and my face burned hotter than it ever had before.

Her eyes lingered on the diaper, and I fought back a fresh wave of tears as I saw her brow furrow slightly. The silence was deafening, each second dragging on like an eternity.

“Well,” Clara said finally, her voice softer now. “That explains a lot.”

My stomach twisted, and I bit my lip harder, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I—” I stammered, but no words followed. What could I possibly say? There was no explanation, no excuse that could make this moment any less humiliating.

Clara sighed again, though this time it sounded less irritated and more understanding. She crouched in front of me, her tone gentler than before. “Lila, look at me,” she said firmly, waiting until my eyes reluctantly met hers. “You don’t need to be ashamed.”

I blinked at her, disbelief written all over my face. How could I not be ashamed?

“I don’t know where you came from,” she continued, her voice low and steady, “or why you’re in this position, but it doesn’t matter. We all have things we’d rather keep hidden. You’re no different. But you have to take care of yourself, or someone else—someone less kind—will notice.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight as I nodded faintly. Her words were pragmatic, but they carried a faint kindness that kept the tears in my eyes from spilling over. Even so, the shame remained thick and suffocating as I sat there in silence.

Clara took one last look at me and slipped from the room in only her undergarments. As Clara stepped out of the room, I sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the cold air brushing against my skin and the weight of my soaked diaper pressing down on me like a physical burden. My hands trembled as I tried to wipe the tears from my cheeks, but they kept coming, hot and uncontrollable, sliding down my face in quiet streaks. I couldn’t stop them. The humiliation of sitting here, exposed and vulnerable, was too much to bear.

My mind churned with a thousand thoughts, each one worse than the last. How could this happen? I was a princess—wasn’t I? The title felt hollow now, a distant memory that had no place in this cramped room, this foreign life. The soaked padding beneath me and the tears on my cheeks were a cruel reminder of how far I’d fallen.

The door creaked open, and I stiffened, hastily scrubbing at my face with the back of my hand as Clara returned. She carried a small stack of supplies—a fresh set of diapers, a tin of powder, and a package of cloth wipes—her expression matter-of-fact as if this was just another chore to handle before bed. I wanted to protest, to say something, but the words caught in my throat, tangled with my shame.

Clara moved efficiently, setting the stack on my bed before pulling open the top drawer of my wardrobe. She began filling it with the supplies, arranging the diapers neatly in rows beside the powder and wipes. The ease with which she did it made my stomach twist, and my cheeks burned even hotter as I realized what she was doing.

Then, as casually as if it were nothing, she pulled out the folded panties from the wardrobe, glanced at them, and carried them across the room. She opened her wardrobe, slipping the panties inside without a second thought, before returning to mine and closing the drawer.

“There,” she said, brushing her hands together as if she’d just finished tidying up. “That’s better. No point in keeping things that don’t suit you.” She didn’t even look at me as she spoke, her tone practical, as though she’d done me a favor.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My tongue felt heavy, my throat dry, as I stared at her in mute disbelief. She thought I needed them. She thought I wasn’t… potty trained.

The thought sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over me, but I couldn’t bring myself to correct her. What would I even say? That she was wrong? That this was all some bizarre misunderstanding? The truth was impossible to explain, and even if I tried, I didn’t have the energy to fight her assumptions. My body was too numb, my mind too fogged with exhaustion and humiliation.

Clara turned back to me, placing her hands on her hips as she studied me. “All right,” she said, her tone softer now. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better once you’re sorted for bed.”

I nodded faintly, not trusting myself to speak. The shame sat like a stone in my chest, heavy and unyielding, as I braced myself for whatever was to come. For now, it was easier to let Clara think what she wanted, even if it made me feel smaller and more vulnerable than I ever had before.

Clara’s sharp eyes lingered on me as I sat there frozen, my hands gripping the edge of the bed tightly, my legs pressed together as though I could somehow will away the humiliating truth of my situation. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she tilted her head, the faintest hint of concern flashing in her expression before she let out a soft sigh.

“You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” she said, her voice softer than I expected but laced with an edge of disbelief.

I tried to protest, my mouth opening and closing uselessly as the words caught in my throat. My cheeks burned, my body stiffened with embarrassment, and I could only shake my head faintly, unable to meet her gaze.

She set her hands on her hips, letting out another sigh. “Fine. Looks like I’ll have to do it. You clearly can’t sort yourself out, and we don’t have all night.”

Before I could even process what she’d said, Clara moved with brisk efficiency. She gestured toward the bed, her tone firm. “Lie down.”

“What?” I managed to choke out, my voice weak and trembling. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Clara interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Look, Lila, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m not about to let you sit there all night like this. Either you figure it out yourself, or you let me help.”

I hesitated, my hands trembling as I gripped the bed tighter. The shame was overwhelming, a heavy weight pressing down on me, but Clara’s steady, no-nonsense demeanor left me no escape. My body moved on its own, as though in a trance, and I lay back on the bed, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.

Clara knelt beside me, her movements calm and practiced as she reached for the supplies she’d just placed in the drawer. “There,” she said, almost to herself. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I bit my lip, staring at the ceiling as tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I could feel her hands at the waistband of the diaper, her touch brisk and impersonal, but the shame burned hotter with every moment.

As she worked, Clara spoke, her tone conversational but tinged with curiosity. “So,” she began, unfastening the tapes and carefully removing the soaked padding, “how does someone end up like this? You can’t be older than me, and yet... this.”

I swallowed hard, my face flushing as I turned my head to the side, avoiding her gaze. “I... it’s complicated,” I muttered weakly, my voice barely audible.

Clara didn’t let up. “Complicated, huh? Was it your mother? Didn’t bother to potty train you? Or is it one of those things—what do they call it? A... condition?”

Her words stung, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. The truth was far too tangled, far too impossible to explain, and the lump in my throat made it impossible to speak.

“And where is your mother, anyway?” Clara continued, her tone growing sharper now. “If she’s not here, what are you doing in the servants’ quarters? You don’t belong here; that much is obvious.”

I closed my eyes tightly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. Her questions cut too close to the truth, but I couldn’t let her know. Not now. Not ever.

“Fine,” Clara said finally, her voice softening slightly. “Don’t want to talk about it? Suit yourself. But you’re going to have to learn how to take care of this.” She finished fastening the fresh diaper snugly around my waist, patting the front lightly before standing and brushing her hands on her dress. “There. All set. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I sat up slowly, my cheeks still burning, unable to meet her eyes. Clara’s expression softened as she watched me, and for a moment, her sharp edges seemed to dull.

“Look,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to tell me. But you’re here now, and if you’re going to survive in this place, you need to keep your head up and keep yourself together. The headmistress doesn’t take kindly to weakness, and neither does anyone else.”

I nodded faintly, my voice caught in my throat. The shame was still there, heavy and suffocating, but Clara’s blunt pragmatism carried a strange sort of comfort. For now, at least, I wasn’t alone.

Clara grabbed the washcloth from the basin, wringing it out with practiced ease, her movements smooth and unhurried. She knelt beside me again, her sharpness softened, and her voice gentler than before. “Let’s get you cleaned up properly,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting mine briefly. “You’ll feel better afterward, trust me.”

I stiffened at first, my cheeks flushing hot with shame, but Clara’s tone was surprisingly kind. The day’s grime weighed heavily on my skin, and I couldn’t deny that part of me longed to feel clean again. Still, I couldn’t meet her gaze, my hands fidgeting with the hem of the blanket beneath me.

As the cool cloth touched my skin, wiping away the dirt and sweat of the day, I felt the lump in my throat grow heavier. Clara’s touch was brisk but not harsh; her attention focused entirely on the task. I hesitated, my mind racing for something—anything—to explain my situation without revealing the truth.

“My... my mother,” I began haltingly, my voice trembling. Clara paused briefly, her gaze flicking up to mine before returning to her work, waiting for me to continue.

“She was always so busy,” I said, my words spilling out in a jumble. “There were... so many things to take care of, and I guess she just didn’t have the time. To—to teach me.”

Clara tilted her head slightly, her expression curious but not judgmental. “Teach you what? To take care of yourself?” she asked gently, her hand pausing for a moment.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Potty training, changing myself... all of it. She was always working, always doing something else. There just wasn’t time for me.”

The words came out shakily, and though they weren’t the truth, they carried a kernel of honesty. My real circumstances were far more complicated, but the pain of being overlooked, of feeling lost, was real enough.

Clara let out a soft sigh, resuming her work with the washcloth as she considered my words. “That’s rough,” she said after a pause, her tone thoughtful. “I’ve seen it before, though. Some parents just don’t... prioritize the right things. Doesn’t make it easier on you, though.”

I nodded faintly, the shame still burning in my chest. “I—I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m not... I’m not very good at this. I don’t know how to—”

“Hey,” Clara interrupted, her tone firm but kind. “None of that. You’re here now, right? That means you’re still standing, even if it’s not perfect. And you’re going to have to learn, Lila because this place doesn’t go easy on anyone.”

Her words hung in the air, both reassuring and daunting. She continued scrubbing, her motions careful but thorough. “You’re lucky you’ve got me,” she said after a moment, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’ll help you figure it out, but you’ve got to show me some strength, okay? You can’t survive here if you don’t.”

I nodded again, her words settling into the fog of my exhaustion. She was right—I had to be strong, no matter how impossible it felt right now. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Clara shrugged, her smirk softening into a faint smile. “Don’t mention it,” she said. “Just don’t make this a habit, okay? Next time, you’re going to learn to do it yourself.”

The thought made my stomach twist with dread, but I nodded anyway, knowing I had little choice. Clara’s pragmatism was a lifeline, and for now, I had to trust it. As she finished her work and set the cloth aside, I felt a small, tentative flicker of gratitude beneath the layers of humiliation. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to survive this after all.

Clara set the washcloth back into the basin, wringing it out one final time before wiping her hands on her dress. She stood, brushing her knees briefly, and glanced at me with a mixture of satisfaction and mild amusement. “There,” she said, crossing her arms. “All cleaned up. See? Not so bad.”

I nodded faintly, too drained to respond. My body felt heavy, weighed down not only by exhaustion but by the lingering humiliation of the past few moments. The fresh diaper was snug against me, a stark reminder of everything I had to endure. I avoided Clara’s gaze, focusing instead on the small, cramped space of the dorm room, trying to steady my breathing.

“Come on,” Clara said briskly, moving to the stack of blankets and sheets on my bed. “Let’s get this made up before lights out.”

She worked quickly, her movements efficient as she unfolded the sheets and tucked them neatly around the narrow mattress. I did my best to help, though my fumbling hands and trembling arms were little use. Clara didn’t comment, only nudging me gently aside when I got in the way.

When the bed was finally made, she stepped back and nodded toward it. “Get in,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve had a rough day. Rest now because it’s going to start all over again tomorrow.”

I hesitated, glancing at the freshly made bed and then back at her. She raised an eyebrow, waiting. Without a word, I climbed under the covers, the fabric cool against my skin as I pulled them close. Clara adjusted the blanket slightly, tucking it around me with a casual ease that made my chest tighten with unexpected gratitude.

She moved to the lantern by the door, turning down the flame until the room was swallowed by darkness. For a moment, the absence of light felt suffocating, the pitch-black pressing in from all sides. I clutched the blanket tighter, curling into myself as the sounds of Clara settling into her bed reached my ears—a faint creak of the mattress, the rustle of fabric.

The day’s weariness was impossible to ignore. My muscles ached, my hands throbbed, and my eyes burned with exhaustion. Despite everything—the shame, the fear, the uncertainty—the weight of sleep began to drag me down, pulling me into its depths. As I lay there, the soft sound of Clara’s steady breathing filled the room, a small comfort in the overwhelming quiet. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness consume me, and for the first time that day, my mind was blissfully blank.