The Wrong Daughter

I was born the true daughter of the Mueller dynasty, but my life was a nightmare under the reign of a fake. My twin brother, deaf to my cries for help, accused me of jealousy and slander. He even swore that the imposter was his only sister. My fiancé was also ensnared, and together with her lies, they condemned me to a year in prison. I was stripped of everything, reduced to a shell. Now, with their lives in ruins, they come crawling, pleading for absolution.

“Number 487, you're free to go.”

I was numb as they shoved me towards the exit, just a shell of a person.

The warden dug her nails into my arm, eyes narrowed, "You get out there and keep your mouth shut, got it? Don’t go flapping your gums about what went on here, or you’ll regret it."

I flinched, hands trembling in their gloves, "Yes, ma’am, I won't say a word!"

The warden sneered, patting my cheek, "Now that's the right attitude, you little tramp."

I didn’t react. The word, dripping with malice, didn’t sting anymore. I’d heard it countless times.

When they’d shock me ‘til I was jerking and close to peeing myself, she’d cackle, "Tramp. This is what happens when you mess with the golden girl of the Mueller family, you hear me? You deserve this!"

Even though I was the real Mueller daughter. And Mindy was just an imposter who’d stolen my life.

When they’d whip me ‘til I couldn't stand, ‘til I was a mess of blood and bruises, they’d slap me so hard my ears would ring, "You little slut, stop pretending you’re someone you’re not! This is what you get for trying to take what ain’t yours!"

But Jake was my fiancé! How could he not be mine?

I tried to fight back, at first, "I am the Mueller daughter. Jake is my fiancé, I’m not some trashy woman!"

All it got me was more hell and more beatings.

The warden would smile that creepy smile, picking up a hot iron, "Don’t blame me, honey, this is all Mindy Mueller's doing.”

“Everyone knows, the Muellers don't want you. Mindy’s the real Mueller daughter now."

Watching the smoking iron get closer, I’d scream for help, "Jake! Ben, please help!"

When I was at the end of my rope, I called out the names of everyone I thought might save me.

But no one came. Nobody heard my cries.

And with my sobs, they branded the word "SLUT" across my back.

Shameful. Horrific.

To stop it from healing, the warden would trace over it with a needle, making sure it stayed raw, a little smile on her lips.

And that was just one form of torture.

Crushed fingers, ripped-off nails, pins hammered into the back of my hand, acid thrown on my wounds….

There was no end to the cruelty, and they all called it "rehabilitation." Like they were doing me a favor, making me a better person.

I saw Jake leaning against his car, smoking. He was handsome, profile sharp and strong. The cigarette glowed in his fingers.

“Get over here,” he said, cold. He jerked his chin at me like he was ordering a dog.

I hesitated. The warden said someone like me couldn't look at Jake, much less tou...