Straws on Fire

Cinderella, Cinderella, haven't you learned that glass is fragile?

 

   It's twelve ticks from midnight and you just finished the dance. You feel bursting with happiness. He is The Prince. You could ask for nothing more.

   Five ticks.

He smiles and you fall for him again, harder, deeper. His eyes reminds you of sapphire and deep waters, precious and drowns you with its depth. You feel small in his presence.

   'It will be midnight soon,' he whispers, and his voice reminds you of sirens. They are soft, calling, falling.

    The clock tolls once, twice.

    And

    you

    run.

 

   Somewhere between here and the castle, your glass slippers fall. All you remember is run, run, run, only a sharp but short burst of pain made you stumble. Now that you slow down, it feels like your feet are crushed by stones.

   They are bloodied, caked with dirt. Little things glint in the moonlight, not dulled by the earth that stuck to the blood.

   They are ugly, dirty. Just like you.

 

   Cinderella, Cinderella, glass slippers adorning your feet,

So easy to break, so easy to shatter.

   Cinderella, Cinderella, glass shards cutting your hands,

You are such a fool.

 

   hope is fragile, and Hope is glass on your feet, glass your godmother gave you. It was so stupid, but you go along with it. How long would shattered glass last? How long will it be before someone sees the broken glass and trails of blood? How long will it be before someone gives up because what would broken glass mean?

   The fact that it's made of glass ruins everything.

   Hard contours hurt your feet, each step is painful. You carry on. It's sad when it's in vain, doesn't it?

 

   Because really, Cinderella, are you naive enough to believe that someone would look for someone with bloody glass shoes?

 

 

   Good evening little match girl, what is that on your apron?

 

   The night is cold, the snow stings, the darkness is blinding. Why are you out here? Fate is a cruel mistress, that she is.

   You know that first hand, don't you?

 

   Light a match. Do you see that? Tiny flicker. hope. Maybe. Fire is.

   Hope comes in many forms, you see.

 

   Is it warm? Is it nice?

 

Ah little dear, you are not pitied.

 

   Do you see that? A tiny little picture. Surely you need to see it again, for it fills you with warmth. Light another one. Maybe, if Fate wills it so, you will see it again.

 

   It's warm for a second. Wind is known to snuff out little fires like that. Would you like more? It would be hard to give you more in a weather like this, but it is not impossible. Mind the consequences, though.

 

There's a saying, it goes like this:

If you give a man a match, he will be warm for a minute, but set him on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.

But perhaps, you could work and get your own happy ending, too.

Author's Note

If you think that there's something morally wrong about this, congratulations, you are normal.
Sometimes I disturb even myself.