Chapter 8: The Breaking

Elisa stepped off the bus into a gray dawn, the Servants’ Evaluation Course facility looming before her—a squat, concrete building in an industrial wasteland, its windows dark and uninviting. Her small bag felt heavy, her plain t-shirt and jeans a far cry from the tailored suits of her lawyer days. The forum’s words echoed in her mind—“The course will strip you, but you’ll thank it”—but her stomach churned with dread. She hadn’t chosen this, not fully, but the pull of servitude, forged in weeks of cleaning and mockery, had brought her here.

Inside, the air was stale, the fluorescent lights harsh. Twelve other applicants—men and women, young and old, their faces taut with nervous anticipation—stood in a line. The instructors, three women in severe black uniforms, prowled like wolves. The lead instructor, Ms. Carver, was a gaunt woman in her 50s, her eyes cold and her voice sharper than a blade. “You’re here because you’re nothing,” she spat, her gaze raking over them. “Pathetic worms, crawling to us, begging to be less. You think you’re special? You’re specks, tools, dirt under our heels. Strip and change.”

Elisa’s hands shook as she was handed a gray smock, shapeless and rough, and ordered to a changing room. She shed her clothes, her identity slipping with them, and pulled on the smock, its fabric scratching her skin. Back in the main hall, Ms. Carver barked, “Work starts now. Move, you useless slugs!”

The Relentless Labor

Elisa was thrust into a whirlwind of tasks, each more grueling than the last. She was handed a bucket and a frayed sponge, sent to scrub a tiled corridor crusted with grime. “Faster, you lazy cow!” Ms. Carver shouted, her boot tapping inches from Elisa’s knees. “This isn’t a spa! Scrub like you mean it, or you’re out!” Elisa’s arms burned, the sponge disintegrating as she attacked the tiles, her breath ragged. *Scrub harder, get the corners,* she thought, the rhythm consuming her. Law—briefs, arguments, courtrooms—was a distant memory, replaced by the urgency of the task. *I’m nothing if I don’t do this right.*

The mockery was ceaseless. “Look at her, panting like a dog,” an instructor, Ms. Lyle, sneered, her voice dripping with scorn. “You thought you were a lawyer? You’re a scrubber, a nobody. This is your place, on your knees, where you belong.” Elisa’s face burned, but she scrubbed faster, the words sinking in. *I’m a nobody,* she thought, the sponge slipping in her sweaty hands. *This is where I belong.*

Next, she was sent to a kitchen, its counters piled with greasy pots, the floor sticky with spilled oil. “Clean it, you worthless speck!” Ms. Carver snapped, slamming a rag into Elisa’s chest. “You’re too slow, too stupid for anything else!” Elisa scrubbed pots, the grease blackening her nails, her mind blank except for the task. *Soak, scrape, rinse.* She thought of Liz’s apartment, John’s penthouse, the satisfaction of a gleaming surface. *This is better than law,* she admitted, shame flooding her. *I’m good at this, nothing more.* Ms. Lyle leaned in, her breath hot on Elisa’s ear. “You’re pathetic, groveling in our filth. You love it, don’t you? A lawyer, reduced to this? You’re less than nothing.”

Elisa’s body ached, her knees bruised from hours on the floor, but there was no pause. She polished silverware, each fork and spoon inspected by Ms. Carver, who tossed half back, screaming, “Smudges, you idiot! Do it again!” Elisa’s hands trembled, her thoughts a loop of insults. *I’m an idiot, a smudge, a nothing.* She cleaned toilets, the stench gagging her, the brush heavy in her hands. *Scrub the rim, check the bowl.* Ms. Lyle’s voice followed: “This is your future, toilet girl. You’re not worth more than this. Say it!” Elisa’s lips moved, a whisper: “I’m not worth more.” The words felt true, a weight lifting as she embraced them.

The Psychological Assault

The labor was only half the course. In a stark classroom, the applicants were subjected to exercises designed to shatter their identities. First was a “personality test,” a rigged questionnaire with questions like “Do you prefer to lead or follow?” and “What is your greatest achievement?” Elisa answered honestly, clinging to her lawyer past, but the results, handed back by Ms. Carver, were a gut punch. “Elisa Harper,” Ms. Carver announced, her voice mocking, “Type 0 Blank Personality. No ambition, no individuality, no worth. A perfect servant, because you’re nothing else.”

Elisa stared at the paper, the words blurring. *Type 0 Blank.* She wanted to argue, to cite her law degree, her cases, but the instructors’ laughter drowned her thoughts. “Blank, like your brain!” Ms. Lyle jeered. “You’re a void, girl. Meant to be filled with orders.” Elisa’s chest tightened, but the words burrowed in. *I’m blank,* she thought, her hands clenching. *I’m nothing.*

Next, they were forced to list the top five people who would be disappointed in them for becoming a maid. Elisa sat at a wobbly desk, her pencil shaking. She wrote:

1. My mother, Susan—proud of my law degree, her “star.”

2. My father, Michael—paid for my education, expected a legacy.

3. My sister, Claire—always looked up to me.

4. Professor Linden—my law mentor, believed in my potential.

5. Myself—or who I used to be.

Ms. Carver snatched the paper, reading it aloud to the group. “Oh, poor Mommy and Daddy, wasting their money on a scrubber!” she mocked. “Your sister’s better off without a failure like you. And yourself? You were never anything worth keeping.” The applicants laughed, some nervously, others cruelly, and Elisa’s face burned. *They’re right,* she thought, internalizing the shame. *I’m letting them all down. I don’t deserve their pride.*

The final exercise was the most brutal: listing five reasons they didn’t deserve their old lives. Elisa’s hand trembled as she wrote:

1. I was never good enough at law—always stressed, always second-guessing.

2. I failed my cases, lost my edge, let my team down.

3. I’m happier cleaning, serving—it’s all I’m good for.

4. I’m too weak to lead, too spineless to fight.

5. I want this—servitude—more than I ever wanted law.

Ms. Lyle read hers aloud, her voice a sneer. “Happier cleaning? What a joke. You’re a worm, Elisa, crawling away from a life you didn’t earn. You don’t deserve law, or freedom, or a name.” Elisa nodded, tears pricking her eyes. *I don’t deserve it,* she thought, the words a mantra. *I’m a worm, a nothing.*

Internalization and Breaking

By the second day, Elisa’s thoughts were a chorus of the instructors’ insults. She mopped a dining hall, the floor streaked with mud, Ms. Carver’s voice barking, “Faster, you useless slug! You’re wasting our time!” Elisa mopped harder, her arms screaming, her mind echoing: *I’m useless, a slug, wasting time.* She polished a chandelier, perched on a ladder, crystals clinking, Ms. Lyle shouting, “You’re a clumsy cow, you’ll break it!” *I’m clumsy, a cow, I’ll break everything,* Elisa thought, her hands shaking.

She cleaned a library, dusting shelves, the books mocking her with titles on law and philosophy. *I don’t belong here,* she thought, wiping cobwebs. *I’m nothing, meant for dust.* Ms. Carver’s voice followed: “You’re a speck, a tool, not even human!” *I’m not human,* Elisa agreed, the words settling like truth. She scrubbed a staircase, her knees raw, the wood splintered, Ms. Lyle’s taunts relentless: “You deserve this, scrubber! You’re born for it!” *I deserve this,* Elisa thought, her breath hitching. *I’m born for it.*

The course gave no time to breathe, no space to think. Meals were cold porridge, eaten in silence, insults raining down. “Eat faster, pigs!” Ms. Carver snapped. “You don’t deserve food!” *I don’t deserve it,* Elisa thought, swallowing the gluey mess. Sleep was four hours on a thin mat, the instructors waking them with shouts: “Up, worms! You don’t deserve rest!” *I don’t deserve rest,* Elisa agreed, her body heavy but her mind clear with purpose.

By the end of the weekend, Elisa was broken. Her smock was filthy, her hands raw, her hair matted with sweat. The instructors lined them up, Ms. Carver’s voice triumphant. “Look at you, nothing but tools now. You’re ready—or you’re gone. Speak!” One by one, the applicants begged to serve, their voices cracked but resolute. When Elisa’s turn came, her voice was a whisper: “I’m nothing. I want to serve.” Ms. Carver smirked. “Good. You’re learning.”

Return to the Office

Elisa returned to the city on Monday, her body aching, her mind a haze of insults. She wore her lawyer suit, but it felt like a costume, too tight, too false. At Daley & Associates, she kept her head down, avoiding colleagues’ stares, their whispers louder now. Her desk was piled with more admin work—endless forms, no trace of her old cases. She didn’t care. Law was gone, replaced by the rhythm of cleaning, the truth of her worthlessness.

She knocked on Mr. Daley’s office door, her heart pounding. He sat behind his mahogany desk, his suit immaculate, his smile as predatory as ever. “Elisa,” he said, leaning back. “How was the course?”

She stared at the floor, her voice barely audible. “I’m ready, sir. Ready to enter service.”

Mr. Daley laughed, a low, cruel sound that sent a shiver through her. “HA! You’ll have to beg better than that, girl. Service isn’t given—it’s earned. On your knees, and show me you mean it.”

Elisa’s knees buckled, the carpet soft under her, her head bowed. She was nothing, a worm, a tool, and for the first time, she felt free.