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DO YOU KNOW when fairytales stop being read?
It's when you outgrow them. It's when you're old enough to realise that all these unattainable romantic clichés are actually hoaxes that we all fell for at some tragic point in time. The truth is: nothing lasts forever. Prince Charming isn't so charming anymore, romance does fade and yes – love might die.
And those stories read before being tucked to bed? Well, turns out they're just stories to tell. In fact, uncompleted ones that often left out the nitty-gritty endings that were a far cry from a happily ever after. In the oldest versions of the story, the slightly more sinister Cinderella culminates with a lot more gruesome specks that wouldn't make anyone dream of breaking out their violins.
In the brothers Grimm version, Aschenputtel was hardly the romantic and quite the escapade artist. With Prince Charming being persistent to uncover her identity, he escorted her back home twice. She then stowed away in a pigeon coop and up a pear tree until he went away, never to be found after both balls. Which, I supposed, in seldom instances, just proved that some fairytales did play out in reality, because here was my life – completely imitating art in the metaphorical sense.
Much like Aschenputtel, I was relentlessly hiding away from the men I fancied. Except this time round, I was hiding in the constraints of my home. Sinking down to the floor in resignation with my back leaning against the door, I pulled my knees up to press them against my chest. It dawned on me, in the mist of desperately trying to keep myself together, that maybe it was okay to fall apart.
And it was very, very difficult not to.
"Lila?" I heard a familiar, croaky voice that instantaneously was a comfort to me.
Before, my father stood stunned into silence, the expression on his face unreadable while he peered at me with concern.
"Let's see – you're sitting on the floor, dressed up and barefooted. It's five past midnight so I suppose the only safe assumption is that dear, old fairy godmother reverted the enchanted items back to their original state?"
I shot him an unamused look. Which he only returned with a quirked up smile that soon vanished once he caught onto the seriousness on my face or maybe it had been the tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Tough crowd," he muttered crossly under his breath before he strode toward me, leaning on the door before he sunk down to the floor, sitting by me. "How come you're home so early? I figured you kids would be out painting the town by now."
"Dove was always much better at doing that sort of thing than me."
"Yeah, try telling that to your sixteen-year old self." He deadpanned, with a rogue's grin. "Who do you think she learned from?"
