Chapter 10: The Pinnacle of Nothingness

The private jet touched down on the Daley estate’s airstrip, the early morning mist clinging to the rolling hills. Elisa stepped onto the tarmac, her small bag clutched tightly, her plain t-shirt and jeans a stark contrast to the opulent mansion looming in the distance. The Gothic structure, with its ivy-covered stone and towering windows, felt like a judge awaiting her verdict. She was escorted to a small antechamber outside the grand hall, left alone to wait for her ceremony. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant clink of glasses and murmurs from the Daleys within.

Elisa sat on a wooden bench, her hands folded, her eyes tracing the cracks in the stone floor. This was it, her last moment as Elisa Harper. Her mind drifted, unspooling the threads of her life, each memory a weight she was about to cast off.

She saw herself at 10, running track, her ponytail bouncing, her mother cheering as she crossed the finish line first. *I was fast, strong,* she thought, a faint ache in her chest. At 16, she was valedictorian, her speech about justice earning a standing ovation, her father’s proud smile brighter than the stage lights. *I believed I’d change the world.* College blurred by, late nights studying law, coffee-stained books, her first love, Rachel, kissing her under a dorm room lamp, whispering dreams of a shared future. *I loved her, but I let her go.* Law school was a grind, her mentor Professor Linden praising her briefs, her sister Claire texting, “You’re my hero.” *I was someone, wasn’t I?*

But the memories soured. The stress of cases, the panic of failure, the hollow victories that never filled her. The Servants’ Evaluation Course had stripped her bare, its insults, “You’re nothing, a worm”, revealing the truth she’d always felt. Cleaning Liz’s dishes, John’s floors, Mrs. Daley’s marble, it was simpler, purer. The forum’s cheers, her letters of apology, her own signature on the documents, they all led here, to this moment. She was turning her back on her future, her family, her name, for a life of servitude. *I’m nothing,* she thought, the course’s mantra a comfort. *This is right.*

A maid, silent, eyes downcast, opened the door. “It’s time,” she whispered. Elisa’s heart raced, her legs trembling as she stood. She followed, her steps heavy, into the grand hall.

The Ceremony

The hall was a cathedral of wealth, chandeliers glittering, frescoed ceilings soaring, a long mahogany table at the center. The Daley family sat like royalty: Mr. Richard Daley at the head, his predatory smile gleaming; Mrs. Eleanor Daley beside him, elegant and sharp; Liz, smirking in a silk dress; John and Sophia, their eyes glinting with amusement. Other relatives filled the seats, their faces a blur of privilege. Elisa’s documents lay on the table, her life reduced to paper.

She dropped to her knees, the marble cold, and crawled forward, her smock scraping the floor. The family watched, silent, as she reached Mr. Daley’s feet. Her voice shook, but the words poured out, raw and desperate. “Please, Mr. Daley, Mrs. Daley, all of you,” she said, her head bowed, “I’m nothing, a worm, a blank. I beg you to destroy me, to take my life, my name, everything. Make me your servant, your tool. I deserve nothing more. Please.”

Mr. Daley’s laugh was low, approving. “Well done, girl. Sign your life away.”

Elisa rose to her knees, her hands trembling as she took the pen. The first document was the asset transfer, her apartment, savings, possessions, to the Daley Family Trust. She signed, her signature shaky, each stroke a surrender of her independence. *I’m giving it all,* she thought, her chest tight. The legal and medical powers of attorney came next, granting the Daleys control over her body, her choices. *I’m theirs now.* She signed, tears pricking her eyes. The final paper was the name change form: *Elisa Harper* to *Daley Servant 7.* Her hand froze, the weight of her past, school, sports, loves, family, pressing down. *This is the end.* She signed, the ink sealing her erasure.

The family clapped, a slow, mocking rhythm. Mr. Daley raised a glass. “To Servant 7,” he said, and the others echoed, their voices a chorus of triumph. Elisa knelt, frozen, as two maids seized her arms. They tore off her smock, leaving her naked, her skin prickling in the cool air. A third maid produced clippers, the buzz filling the hall as they shaved her head, dark locks falling like discarded dreams. Elisa’s scalp burned, exposed, as depilatory cream was smeared over her body, stripping every hair, leaving her smooth, vulnerable. A tattoo gun hummed, and she flinched as “Daley Servant 7” was inked onto the back of her neck, the pain sharp but fleeting. *I’m marked,* she thought, a strange calm settling.

The maids dressed her in her new skin, a starched black dress, white apron, cap, identical to the others. The uniform was tight, a constant reminder of her role. The family cheered, glasses clinking, but Elisa felt nothing, her identity gone. The maids led her away, their grip firm, as the Daleys’ laughter faded behind her.

The Housekeeper’s Welcome

“Well, Number 7,” Mrs. Holt said, her voice a low growl, each word dripping with disdain. “You’ve clawed your way here, haven’t you? Thrown away your name, your life, everything, to grovel at our feet. You think that makes you worthy?” She stepped closer, her breath hot on 7’s face, her eyes boring into her soul. “Listen well, girl. You’ve reached the pinnacle of your pathetic existence. This, ” she gestured to 7’s uniform, the corridor, the bucket at her feet, “is the highest you’ll ever climb. There’s no ‘up’ for you, no dreams, no future, no redemption. You’re a silent, anonymous servant, a speck, and you’ll never be more. Your life is this: scrubbing floors, bowing to orders, fading into nothing. Fail me, and I’ll make you wish you’d never crawled to us.”

The words crashed into 7 like a collapsing wall, stealing her breath, her heart pounding with a sickening thud. The pinnacle. She hadn’t seen it, not fully, not during the course’s insults, not while scrubbing Liz’s dishes, not even as she signed her name away. She’d clung to the idea that servitude was a purpose, a choice, maybe a strange freedom. But Mrs. Holt’s words tore that apart: there was no growth, no reward, no escape. Only this, endless tasks, endless silence, her existence a number etched in ink. I’m nothing, forever, she thought, panic clawing at her chest. No Rachel, no law, no family, no me. The tattoo burned, a brand of her finality, and the weight of her choice crushed her. There’s no way back. Her knees buckled, but she stayed upright, Mrs. Holt’s sneer pinning her in place.

“Don’t stand there sniveling, you useless speck!” Mrs. Holt snapped, thrusting a bucket and rag into 7’s hands. “Scullery, now. The pots are a disgrace. Move, or I’ll have you scrubbing with your tongue!”

7 nodded, her eyes downcast, and shuffled to the scullery, a dank room piled with greasy pots and pans, the air thick with the stench of old food. She knelt, her hands plunging into cold water, and began scrubbing, the grease stubborn under her nails. Soak, scrape, rinse. Mrs. Holt’s voice echoed: “The pinnacle of your life.” The words burrowed deep, undeniable. This is all I am, 7 thought, her arms aching, her heart a knot of fear and resignation.

The Life of Servant 7

First Week: 7’s body rebelled against the relentless tasks. She scrubbed the kitchen floors, the tiles icy, her knees bruising as she crawled with a bucket of soapy water. Mrs. Holt loomed, her temper a whip: “Faster, 7! You’re a slug, a waste of space!” 7’s hands blistered, her uniform soaked with sweat, each scrub a reminder of her fall. I was a lawyer, she thought, memories of courtrooms vivid, stabbing. I argued cases, won praise. The Daleys passed her in the halls, Liz texting, John laughing with Sophia, not a glance, not a taunt. They mocked me before, she realized, a pang twisting her gut. Now I’m not worth their words. Regret surged, raw and bitter. I gave up Claire’s hugs, Mom’s pride, Rachel’s love for this, soapy water, bruised knees. At night, in her cramped attic room, a thin mat her only comfort, she curled up, tears silent. What have I done? This isn’t freedom, it’s a tomb. She saw her mother’s face, smiling at her graduation, and sobbed, the tattoo a burning reminder of her irreversible choice.

Second Week: The tasks grew harsher, the estate’s demands unending. 7 cleaned chimneys, soot blackening her face, her lungs burning as she coughed through clouds of ash. “You’re filthy, 7!” Mrs. Holt snarled, tossing her a rag. “Clean yourself, you pig!” 7 washed linens, her hands raw from lye, the scalding water searing her skin. She ironed curtains, the steam hissing, her fingers trembling from the heat. The Daleys’ indifference was a deeper cut than their old mockery. Mrs. Daley swept past, her perfume lingering, not a flicker of recognition as 7 polished a banister. I’m invisible, 7 thought, her heart sinking. Below contempt, below notice. Regret gnawed, memories of her past life sharp, running track, her mother’s cheers, Rachel’s kisses under a dorm lamp. I threw it all away for soot and lye. She scrubbed a fireplace, ash smearing her uniform, Mrs. Holt’s insults relentless: “You’re a speck, 7! Not worth the coal you’re cleaning!” She’s right, 7 thought, despair heavy. I’m nothing, and I chose it. Sleep was fleeting, her dreams haunted by Claire’s voice: “You’re my hero.” I’m no one’s hero now, she thought, waking with a sob, the attic’s darkness her only witness.

One Month: 7’s body hardened, her movements mechanical, but her mind churned with regret. She mopped the grand hall, the marble gleaming where she’d crawled for her ceremony, the memory a knife in her chest. I begged for this, she thought, the mop’s rhythm no comfort. I signed away my name, my life. She dusted chandeliers, perched on a ladder, crystals clinking, Mrs. Holt shouting, “Careful, you clumsy cow!” The Daleys dined, their laughter bright, 7 a shadow pouring their wine. Liz spilled her glass, not glancing as 7 knelt to wipe it, the red stain like blood on her rag. I’m not worth their scorn, she realized, the thought crushing her. I’m furniture, air. She remembered her law school graduation, her father’s proud tears, and sobbed in her attic, the tattoo a burning chain. I could’ve been someone, loved, free, a sister, a lover. The forum’s words, “Embrace the shame”, rang hollow, her regret a scream she couldn’t voice. Did I choose wrong? she wondered, scrubbing a staircase, splinters digging into her knees. Is this all there is?

Three Months: 7’s tasks were a relentless cycle, ironing linens, steam scalding her hands; cleaning bathrooms, tiles caked with soap scum, the stench of bleach stinging her nose; washing dishes, grease coating her arms until her skin felt foreign. Mrs. Holt’s cruelty was a constant: “You’re a worm, 7! Do better!” 7 nodded, her thoughts quieter, regret still sharp but softening at the edges. The Daleys’ indifference was absolute, John walked through her mop water, his boots leaving muddy prints, not noticing; Sophia dropped a napkin, not looking as 7 retrieved it, her fingers brushing the cold floor. I’m nothing to them, she thought, the pain duller now, a bruise instead of a wound. This is my pinnacle. Memories of her sister’s texts, her mother’s voice, lingered, but they felt like echoes from a lost world. I chose this, she told herself, scrubbing harder, seeking solace in the rhythm of wipe, rinse, repeat.

One evening, Mrs. Holt summoned 7 to her office, a stark room with a single desk and a dusty laptop. Her sneer was sharp, but her voice held a rare note of approval. “You’re not completely useless, 7,” she said, sliding a slip of paper with a URL and login. “Access to the forum. The Daleys allow it for servants who don’t fail me. Write a post, detail your journey, your first three months. Make it honest, or I’ll know, and you’ll scrub the stables with a toothbrush.”

7 nodded, her heart quickening. The forum, her lifeline before the ceremony, its voices cheering her surrender. Back in her attic, she opened the laptop, the screen’s glow harsh in the dark. Under her old pseudonym, CityStar28, she wrote:

Subject: My Journey as Daley Servant 7
I was Elisa Harper, a lawyer, with a family, a future. I threw it away, my apartment, my rights, my name, for the Daley estate. The course broke me, taught me I’m nothing, a worm meant to serve. I crawled, begged, signed my life away. They shaved me, tattooed “Daley Servant 7” on my neck, dressed me as a maid.
Three months in, I’m a shadow. I scrub floors, my knees bruised, my hands raw from lye. I clean chimneys, soot in my lungs, dishes with grease that never leaves. The housekeeper, Mrs. Holt, calls me a speck, a slug, and she’s right. The Daleys don’t mock me anymore, they don’t see me. I’m below their contempt, invisible, and it hurts more than their taunts ever did. I was someone, loved, proud, free. I regret it, every day. My sister’s smile, my lover’s kiss, my mother’s voice, they haunt me. I wonder if I chose wrong, if this is a mistake.
But the tasks, mopping, polishing, folding, ground me. They’re simple, true. I’m nothing, and that’s my place. The regret is fading, slowly. I’m learning to be silent, obedient, to find peace in being less. Is this what you promised, ShadowServant, SilentVow? I’m trying to believe it.
, CityStar28 (Daley Servant 7)

7 posted, her fingers trembling, and read the responses. ShadowServant wrote: “You’re home, 7. The regret is the old you dying. Keep serving.” ServantHeart added: “I was you at three months. It gets easier. You’re perfect.” SilentVow cautioned: “Regret lingers, 7. I serve, but I miss my name. Hold on.” 7 stared at SilentVow’s words, her regret flaring, but the tasks called, and she returned to them, seeking solace in their rhythm.

Six Months: 7’s life was a seamless cycle of tasks, her body lean, her hands calloused, her mind calm. She polished mirrors, her reflection, bald, uniformed, numbered, a stranger she embraced. I’m Daley Servant 7, she thought, no longer flinching. She scrubbed pots, the grease a familiar foe; dusted shelves, cobwebs a routine enemy; folded linens, each crease precise. Mrs. Holt snapped, “You’re slow, 7!” but 7 barely heard, her focus on perfection. The Daleys were ghosts, Mr. Daley’s voice a murmur, Liz’s laughter a distant echo. They didn’t see her, didn’t care, and 7 found peace in that. I’m nothing, and it’s right. Regret lingered, a faint ache for Rachel’s touch, Claire’s smile, but it no longer consumed her. I chose my place, she thought, mopping the grand hall, the marble her world. I’m silent, obedient, doing my best. She caught her reflection, her eyes steady, and felt a quiet truth: This is home. The forum’s voices, even SilentVow’s warnings, faded, replaced by the rhythm of her tasks, her purpose as a maid.