Sinful Cinderella

Sewing hell.

That’s where I am.

It’s late, my neck is stiff, my fingers cramped. I’ve got all the pieces cut for Loony’s purple monstrosity. Now I’m stitching them together. I need to finish the entire gown tonight. Spend tomorrow making Moody’s. Then on the next day, the day of the ball, I can make mine.

But it’s not enough time.

I yawn, sucking in the whole night. So, so tired. My stupid steps went to bed hours ago. I wonder if the white magic could perk me up a little. I never tried it for that and don’t want to. I will need every drop for the ball.

Our prince’s name is Edgar. The name may not be beautiful but oh my, he sure is. Blonde like me. A confident grin. I’ve caught glimpses of him when his carriage rolls through town, just a flash of face in the window. I wonder if his eyes are blue, or green. I wonder if his voice is soft. I wonder if his smile can make me feel snug and safe, like my father’s did.

Papa....

I lower my hands, lost under mounds of purple. I’m sitting on a chair beside my bed and now I droop sideways, resting my cheek on the faded quilt. I close my eyes and think about Papa. It smooths the wrinkles in my heart.

Papa. The only person I have to love. You realize I spend a lot of time hating: Stepmother, Loony and Moody, the men who amused themselves with me, the women of this town who stopped speaking to me when I descended from count’s daughter to lowly servant. But I can never hate Papa. Dead or alive, everyone needs someone to love, someone to feel with your heart when you close your eyes at night. It’s the only thing that keeps me from feeling completely alone.

Papa. When I was a child, he would curl me into his arms, let me tuck my face in his neck. I remember the scratch of his beard on my cheek. We took all of our meal’s together, sitting at the table’s corner where we could talk companionably, and he’d say, “Tell me what’s in your Cinderella head tonight.” On days when business tied up his time, he would squeeze my elbow as he hurried past me, a reminder that I was loved even when he couldn’t say it.

Papa. The only mistake he ever made was marrying That Woman. But even that I cannot hate him for. He did it for me, to replace the mother I lost at birth and give me sisters to play with. It wasn’t a bad idea. They seemed nice at first; I was happy. I tried to ignore the resentment I saw in Stepmother’s face when my father kissed my forehead or rustled my hair with his fingers. For his sake, she restrained her contempt, so I never really knew how much she hated me.

And then he died.

My cheek is still on the bed. I feel myself sinking, my thoughts disconnecting. I swim down through layers of sadness and longing, each one darker and deeper. One final thought floats to the surface.

Papa, if you hadn’t left me, I’d never have gone bad.