Project 365 - DAY 2 - Like Glass/Cinderella - since i pretty much suck at creativity, i resort to what i do best. ruining perfectly nice fairy tales. written in 30 minutes so suckitude, yes.
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At sixteen years of age, her fingertips are worn and callous beyond her years. Each crease across the back of her hand is a narrow line marking the history of a lifetime of servitude she had to this family; like the rings of a tree, it encircles her skin. Like the rings of a tree, there are many, too many that she soon loses count.
Of the many memories she has of the house she could not call her own, the most vivid one that is carved into her mind is the one of the gardens. In the gardens behind the house she could not call her own was a large, slender tree. It laid in the shadows, secretive, untouched, unseen by moonlight, like the sight of bare flesh she saw that night, of her stepsister and a young man she was unfamiliar with, twisting with and into the darkness,
She dreams hopelessly, the only thing that she can do. She dreams of a man with thick hair and soft lips and skin as smooth as hers were not. In her dreams, she calls him prince. He tells her there is no such thing, but she does so anyway. In her dreams, the tree behind the house she could not call her own is there as well.
At nineteen years of age, she is finally wedded. A few years too long of a maiden's fate, but married no less. She has a diamond ring around her callous finger, a symbol of her eternal devotion to her husband, her prince. The day of their wedding, she is dressed in white, standing with grace wearing glass slippers that do not break beneath her feet. She admires her ring. She admires her prince. She admires herself.
She no longer dreams hopelessly. At long last, her dreams have come true and she has awakened. The cold, hard truth of reality thrusts its way into her, exposed, touched, seen by moonlight. She calls him prince. He tells her there is no such thing, and she believes him. On the night of their consummation, she is dressed in red, red that trickles down her bare legs to her feet, staining her fragile, breakable slippers of glass. She has a diamond ring around her callous finger that hangs heavy, heavy, heavy and sometimes, she believes, too tightly around her finger.
At twenty one years of age, she leaves behind the world to sway in the gardens of the castle she could not call her own, From her place beneath the branch, her body twists with and into the tree. She is part of the tree. Her white dress floats in the wind and wraps around her knees to her bare ankles. Her long hair sails in the wind, a smile on her drooping face. Her glass slippers dangle dangerously on the edges of her toe, and ever so gently pushed by the wind, one of them falls into the ground below.
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At sixteen years of age, her fingertips are worn and callous beyond her years. Each crease across the back of her hand is a narrow line marking the history of a lifetime of servitude she had to this family; like the rings of a tree, it encircles her skin. Like the rings of a tree, there are many, too many that she soon loses count.
Of the many memories she has of the house she could not call her own, the most vivid one that is carved into her mind is the one of the gardens. In the gardens behind the house she could not call her own was a large, slender tree. It laid in the shadows, secretive, untouched, unseen by moonlight, like the sight of bare flesh she saw that night, of her stepsister and a young man she was unfamiliar with, twisting with and into the darkness,
She dreams hopelessly, the only thing that she can do. She dreams of a man with thick hair and soft lips and skin as smooth as hers were not. In her dreams, she calls him prince. He tells her there is no such thing, but she does so anyway. In her dreams, the tree behind the house she could not call her own is there as well.
At nineteen years of age, she is finally wedded. A few years too long of a maiden's fate, but married no less. She has a diamond ring around her callous finger, a symbol of her eternal devotion to her husband, her prince. The day of their wedding, she is dressed in white, standing with grace wearing glass slippers that do not break beneath her feet. She admires her ring. She admires her prince. She admires herself.
She no longer dreams hopelessly. At long last, her dreams have come true and she has awakened. The cold, hard truth of reality thrusts its way into her, exposed, touched, seen by moonlight. She calls him prince. He tells her there is no such thing, and she believes him. On the night of their consummation, she is dressed in red, red that trickles down her bare legs to her feet, staining her fragile, breakable slippers of glass. She has a diamond ring around her callous finger that hangs heavy, heavy, heavy and sometimes, she believes, too tightly around her finger.
At twenty one years of age, she leaves behind the world to sway in the gardens of the castle she could not call her own, From her place beneath the branch, her body twists with and into the tree. She is part of the tree. Her white dress floats in the wind and wraps around her knees to her bare ankles. Her long hair sails in the wind, a smile on her drooping face. Her glass slippers dangle dangerously on the edges of her toe, and ever so gently pushed by the wind, one of them falls into the ground below.
