She woke up to screams. Jolting up in bed, she turned on her lamp and threw off the sheets. The screams were coming from beyond her room and drawing nearer. Concerned, she retreated to the other end of the room, hands trailing along the wall in search of her broom.
The door flew open and the screams turned to shouts. In the faint light, she could make out the unmistakable sullen features of her stepmother. She was dressed in naught but her shift and gown, and in her hand was a candelabra. Her green eyes were ablaze with fury in the foggy dark.
“How dare you,” she snarled, “keep me waiting. Do you have any idea how important today is?” She stalked closer to her cowering form. She slapped her across the cheek, eliciting a shriek from her. Her stepmother’s diamond ring, once her mother’s, sliced her flesh.
“I-I’m sorry, mistress. It won’t happen again, mistress.”
“See that it doesn’t. Come.” With a swish of her skirt, her stepmother gracefully walked out of the ashen attic she called a bedroom. The bed was made of hay, as was the pillow, and a bucket beneath it served as her chamber pot. Around it were boxes, most of them unopened, and to the far corner was the chimney where the cinders often gathered and where she went every night to feed the mice. Her stepsisters, Arabella and Arianna, first found her there two years into the marriage. They wore their puffy wigs and their faces were so heavy with powder she briefly mistook them for ghosts.
Arianna, the youngest and least hideous, spoke first and asked, “What are you doing? You’ll ruin your dress, covered in cinders. What’ll mother think of you?”
“Atrocious,” scoffed Arabella, once she caught sight of the fat rats her stepsister called ‘mice.’ She stepped away. “You dirty, naughty girl. Look at you—you’re filthy!”
Arianna snickered and called her a foul name: “Cinderella.” The name stuck since.
She pushed away the memory as she scrambled to keep up with her stepmother’s long strides. Descending the long flight of stairs into the lengthy halls that were once her father’s, they came upon the bedroom, once her parents’, now hers.
“Start with my hair,” commanded her stepmother, sitting before the vanity. “The girls aren’t up yet. Prepare their dresses and their breakfast, then wash their linens and ensure their evening gowns are prepared. You may eat after you’ve done your chores.”
“Yes, mistress,” she muttered, delicately stroking her stepmother’s fading blonde hair. Cinderella couldn’t help but glance at the velvet envelope that sat on the vanity by her mother’s jewelry box. It arrived a fortnight ago, inviting every eligible woman from all over the kingdom to the king’s ball to be held that very night.
Heart fluttering with hope, she approached her family at breakfast and asked if she could go with them. As soon as the words passed her lips, her sisters doubled over in nasty chortles. Her stepmother sat silent and bemused.
“Who will care for the house? The dogs? What if a thief were to attempt to break in? I’m afraid the answer is no, my dear. We shan’t risk it.”
She stalked away, head bowed in obedience and continued to tend to her family. Her mother’s last words echoed through her heart like a somber melody, a faded tune from another time.
“Always be good, and bear everything with patience.”
Ten years later at sixteen, she couldn’t help but wonder if her shoulders had begun to grow weak from bearing such a heavy thing.
#
After completing her chores, she swiftly began tending to her stepsister’s needs.
Their bedroom mimicked that of a home after a hurricane, strewn with garments in the unlikeliest of places. Their Parisian dresses for the evening dangled on hooks behind their vanities.
“The prince will surely notice me with this,” said Arianna, holding up a powdered wig. Behind her, Cinderella was fixing her hair for the evening. “What do you think, Cinderella?”
She looked up from her task and saw that the wig was indeed suited to her stepsister’s face and she would be sure to catch the prince’s eye with it.
“It’s gorgeous,” she replied. “It’ll be sure to multiply your radiance a thousand times over.”
“It is truly a shame you cannot come with us.” Arabella pouted. She stood from her vanity and retrieved an old blue dress from amongst the heap on the bed. “This one would’ve suited you perfectly. A bit battered but I am certain you would be beautiful.”
Arianna burst into a series of cackles, gauging her stepsister’s reaction through the looking glass. But Cinderella did not react. She grabbed the wig and placed it tenderly on Arianna’s head, securing it, then picking up the ribbons to decorate it.
“I appreciate your consideration, dear sister,” she said. She remained silent and, despite their ludicrous insults at her obvious beauty, she continued to carefully prepare them for the party as she would’ve done herself.
When the dark shroud fell across the sky, her family departed from the mansion in a lavish carriage. Her heart could not help but despair at the loneliness that would comfort her that evening. She went into the kitchen and wept.
Such was her sadness that she did not notice the door opening behind her nor the quiet footsteps that followed.
“Dear child,” said a tender voice, similar to that of her mother’s, “Why do you weep?”
Sniffling, Cinderella said, “I wished to go the ball but my family would not let me. I miss seeing the world, the people, and all my friends.”
“There, there,” the kind woman said, stroking her head. “You will go to the ball, for I’m not your dear fairy godmother if you don’t.”
“How can I? I have not a dress or carriage,” Cinderella looked up at the woman who claimed to be her fairy godmother. She had a light about her, to be sure, of an unearthly glow and the kindest smile she hadn’t seen for years. Her likeness, however, bore a striking resemblance to her mother.
“I'll take care of that. Follow me.”
Her fairy godmother waltzed out of the kitchen and to the overgrown garden behind it. Cinderella followed. The woman surveyed the area and spotted a ripe pumpkin.
“That’ll do,” she said. After carving out its insides, her fairy godmother pulled out a wand, waved it over the pumpkin and, right before her eyes, it transformed into the most beautiful carriage she'd ever seen.
“Now you’ll need horses.” Her fairy godmother spotted four fat mice nibbling away at a rotten tomato. Waving her hand, they were transformed into four white stallions. “A coachman or two, that ought to do. Go into the garden, child, and fetch some lizards.”
Cinderella did as told. She returned with three lizards and placed them on the ground. Flicking her wand, the fairy godmother transformed them into dashing coachmen who scampered to their positions on the carriage. And finally, with a twirling of her wand, Cinderella’s fairy godmother transmuted her soiled rags into a gorgeous, bejeweled dress and her clops into elastic glass slippers.
“My dear, you are ready.”
#
“What’s her name?” asked the detective.
They stood in the middle of a chaotic living room. Blood was splattered across the maroon carpet and on the white cushions were dark, smudged handprints. Forensic scientists in hazard suits carried transparent bags holding clumps of bloodied hair and severed toes out of the front door barred by police tape. Outside, ambulances were arriving and police sirens wailed.
“Cristabel,” answered a disheveled man. He sat in a spot free seat wrapped in a thermal blanket. His face was that of a ghost’s, haunted, and his hands were pale as he clutched tightly at the covering. “My Cristabel.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about her? Signs, symptoms?”
The man shook his head. “She’s good. Nothing but good. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Glancing beyond the broken window, she saw the paramedics loading the body bags onto the ambulance.
The detective sighed.
“We’ll be moving you to a hotel, sir,” she told him. Again, he didn’t seem to understand.
“Hotel? Wh… What for? This is my home. My family… I cannot leave my family.”
Nonetheless, when she clasped his shoulder and led him out the door, he did not resist.
#
She gasped as she barged through the back door. Her family weren’t too far behind her. She quickly took off the glass slippers, hid them in the folds of her soiled dress and bolted upstairs to her musty room. As quickly as she could, Cinderella burrowed under the covers and hid the shoes in the straws of hay within her mattress. An icy chill ran down her spine, yet her body would not stop shivering in excitement.
The ball was everything she expected and more. The moment she set foot in the king’s hall, all eyes were on her. The women who had been pining for the prince’s attention glared at her as he intently walked to her. Hushed whispers trailed behind her, no doubt from curious nobles, as she strolled to meet him. He bowed, took her hand and placed a lingering kiss there.
“My lady,” he said. She curtsied in return.
“Your highness.”
“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me in a dance?”
“Of course.”
The silent instruments found life again, strung up into a slow waltz, and the young prince and Cinderella spent the entire night together, and her fairy godmother’s warning waned from her memory.
“You are the most beautiful and intelligent princess I have ever met,” said the prince, holding her hand as they sat in the garden.
“I am not a princess, your highness.”
He smiled. She gazed into his eyes and captured his meaning. A wide grin broke out on her face. But before she could utter another word, the clock tolled as it struck midnight.
“Oh no.” She jumped. “I-I’m so sorry, your highness, but you’ll have to excuse me.” She ran away with the folds of her dress clutched in her hands.
“Wait!” The prince pursued her.
Cinderella bolted to the courtyard where her carriage awaited her. She tripped on a pebble and her shoe came loose. She turned to pick it, but when she saw her prince nearing, she left it and hopped into her carriage.
“Go, go!” It lurched to a start and the horses bolted out of the palace yard. Behind her, the prince caught sight of her glistening glass shoe and daintily picked it.
Cinderella jolted out of her memory when a pounding came at her door. Hurriedly getting out of bed, she opened it and there stood her stepmother. Her face was twisted into a mask of anger. Cinderella felt her own innards twist for fear that she might be discovered. She made sure to stay out of her family’s sight that evening. Surely, they couldn’t have noticed her. Could they?
“I thought I told you to clean the kitchen,” said her stepmother, her lips curling in disgust. “What is that putrid smell? For goodness’s sake, girl, clean this room. You aren’t living in a pig sty.”
“Yes, mistress. I’ll get on it right away.” Cinderella grabbed her broom and dashed past her stepmother. As the door swung closed, her stepmother noticed something glinting in the corner of her eye. She turned her head to survey what it was but found nothing. Her suspicions aroused, she walked downstairs.
#
The day after the ball, a message was sent out to the entire kingdom concerning the mysterious lady from the ball. It stated that ‘all maidens were to try on a certain glass slipper. If the lady so happens to fit it, then their hand shall be given to the prince in marriage.’
For an entire week, the prince’s convoy visited each home with a daughter and they all tried on the slipper. They maidens tried all manner of trickery and homeware to get the shoe to fit. None were successful. On the eighth day, he began to lose hope.
“There is one more house we have not checked,” said his personal guard, “lying on the outskirts near the hills. It belongs to a widow and her three daughters.”
“Then that is where we shall go,” he ordered and spurred his horse into a gallop.
#
In a pristine white room that smelled of spirits and alcohol sat two women at a black table. Across from them was the man the detective spoke to a week prior. He had circles under his eyes and his shirt and trousers were wrinkled. Across from them was a one-way mirror.
“Where is she?” he asked, voice raspy. The detective motioned to the mirror. “When will she be released?”
The nurse and detective shared a look before the nurse pulled a file from her bag and slid it towards him.
“Indefinitely, I’m afraid.” She wrung her hands. “Your daughter has been diagnosed with schizophrenia.”
He shook his head. “No. Not Crista. She’s perfectly fine. She was fine before I left.”
“So you didn’t notice any signs? Any symptoms that may have alerted you to her behavior?” Questioned the detective. The man slumped in his chair, pensive. “We need to know everything, sir. To help your daughter.”
He looked at the two women, then at the mirror. His reflection greeted him and his heart sunk for the vision he saw there. He was a shell of the man he once was. But after all he’d lost, how could he not be? He’d lost his first wife, the love of his life. He had his daughter, for a time, before he met his second wife and her two beautiful girls. She was a kind woman, Guinevere. Even to his daughter, who, despite all they tried, isolated herself and barely spoke to anyone, except herself. But that was years ago, when she was but a toddler still learning her math.
“I… I wouldn’t know what to tell you. My daughter was a bright girl. This ball of energy. When her mother passed, she changed. I thought it was the grief. It must have been.” He suppressed his tears. “I was a businessman, so I was often out, sometimes for months at a time. My second wife, would stay with her and her two stepsisters. When I came home, it seemed everything was fine. But…”
He recalled a memory from a year ago when he’d returned home in time for the Christmas holiday. The house was festively decorated with stockings over the fireplace and the tree, not an inch of it left bare, touched the ceiling. That’s where he found his wife and children decorating the tree, but Crista was sat on the other side, in the shadows, struggling to tie an angel to a thin twig.
“Cristabel, look who’s here!” cheered his wife. She and her daughters greeted him with hugs and kisses. “Come say hi, Crista.”
His daughter didn't move. It was like she was frozen in her own world, her eyes intently fixated on the angel and her mouth moving. When he drew closer, he heard what it was she was saying.
“No, mama, it has to face north. Excuse me, mistress. I’ll set it down right away.” She put the down the angel and picked up a bell from the box. “I’ll put it up right away, mistress. Excuse me.”
A tear slid down his cheek.
“She loved fairy tales. Her favorite was Cinderella.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, all the pieces finally coming together. “She admired her, I think. Idolized her.”
“Do you think it would explain why she killed your family?” asked the detective. “Your stepdaughter’s bodies were mutilated. Their toes were cut off before their eyes were gouged out.”
He turned away, head swimming as he drove away the horrid images of his family. He didn’t want to hear more of this. His wife, her slit throat and mangled body, flashed before his eyes.
“Can I see her?” he asked, eyes shut. The detective glanced at the nurse, concerned.
“Sir, I—”
“I want to see my daughter.”
Tentatively, the nurse escorted him out of the room. They stepped into another darker room with nothing other than the same mirror as the previous one. On the other side, in a quaint hospital room, sat his daughter. Other than the strait jacket, her appearance was disheveled, from her hair to her bloodied feet. He recognized the look in her eyes and the slow smile that crept onto her face. She said something, her lips moving slowly, yet they heard nothing.
“Could you turn on the mic, please?” he requested. The nurse hesitated.
“Sir, you don’t need to—”
“I have to.” It was hard for him as it was, but he had to face her: his love and hate.
The nurse turned on the microphone.
“Yes. It’s me, my prince… Yes, I accept. On one condition.” Her smile widened. “My sisters shall marry your best lords. Only the best… Goodbye, mistress. Thank you for all you have done for me. I know you—”
“Turn it off,” he said harshly. The nurse did so immediately. He marched out of the room through another door, found himself him in the empty corridor and crumpled to the floor.
The shards of bloodied glass on the floor were what greeted him the moment he came home. Arabella and Arianna lay dead at his feet, their face dark from the blood draining from their empty sockets. Their feet were sawn off, brutally, as if with a razor blade. His wife’s body was upside down on the couch. Her hands were still warm, yet she did not breathe. The sight alone made him double over with nausea, yet nothing came up.
He pulled out his phone, hands trembling as he dialed the police. His palpitating heart compelled him further into the massacre in search of his daughter. He found her, far to the corner by the chimney, soaked in blood and wearing rags.
His Cristabel chuckled happily to herself, eyes distant once again as she impaled her feet with shards of blood-stained glass.
“Look,” she gasped, “a perfect fit.”
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