I’m Not Cinderella
I’m not Cinderella. I didn’t leave my shoe behind me at the ball, but of course the prince didn’t follow me out either, desperate to know who the mysterious woman was. And I didn’t leave at the stroke of midnight, leaving the music and chatter far behind, tears in my eyes as I returned to my dingy room to wait on my step-sisters’ return. After all, I was the hostess of this soiree, a married woman content to watch other swooning over their new loves. I had smiled and danced and looked admiringly at my husband, my snake of a husband who had invited his whore this evening as if I didn’t know the beautiful, blonde young woman was his newest conquest. And he had dared to hold her in his arms, to twirl her around the ballroom, to show her off.
Our last guests had pulled down the drive, leaving the house quiet . I took one of the lamps and told my him I was going down to the point. I didn’t yell, didn’t run, I just leave, hoping he’ll follow. I wait on the rocks, looking out at the cold, angry sea. I take off my shoes, not wanting to slip on the damp stone. As I stand here the dark clouds are parting, allowing the moonlight to spill onto the outcropping.
I look back toward the house and see him coming across the lawn. He’s so sure of himself, so confident. “I just need to get outside for a few minutes, ” I say as he wraps his arms around me.” His lips brush my cheek and he reprimands me. “It’s cold. Come back inside before you catch your death.” I smile, amused at his phrase. I back away slightly. “Let me put my shoes on.” He shakes his head, rolling his eyes at my lack of care for my own health I’m sure, and looks out toward the horizon, but I don’t bend over. Instead, I step closer to him, my bare feet silent. And I push. With a yell he tumbles over the edge and I know without a doubt that if it were light, I would see his broken body on the boulders below, the waves breaking against his lifeless face.
Only then do I put my shoes back on, and run back to the house, raising the alarm. “He fell!” I scream as the butler opens the door. “Help him!” Tears are appropriately streaming down my face.
I’m not Cinderella, pretty and passive. I will take care of my own problems, act rather than wait and hope for a fairy godmother’s help or a prince on a white horse. Perhaps I’m the evil witch, the strong woman who holds her fate in her own hands, who takes her revenge.
Dottie at Tink’s Place, with the help of Carole Rae from Carole Rae’s Random Ramblings, is our wonderful host of the Monday Morning Flash Fiction challenge. Each Monday a new picture prompt will be posted and if you choose to participate you post your story on Friday – 350 words, give or take.