The Broken Cinderella

Here's poetry. I wrote it sometime back. I'm going to... bore you longer with what's to follow. It's called "The Broken Cinderella". I'm going to present it as a prose piece. Do tell me how it is.

((Prose))

She was happy, she was blessed, and she was elated. No one knew Cinderella was there, but she had no one to turn to, except the ghost of the father. Oh sure, it's the diatribe of the wretched ball: The "Royalty" and its morosity. But there was a desire, deep deep down which was a result of the haunts of a submissive rebel. No one to turn to, but the witch who spake of a spell, that would last till midnight. Her company all these years were the animals she had fostered with love, for no human would love her for who she was. Her insecurities, despite just how privileged she was, in terms of looks and intellect. Financial insecurity was a cripple.

She allowed all her life to be dominated, but this one decision she took on her own. She dared to defy the stepmother, the step sisters, their ever surpassing glory, only to fulfill her selfish desires. ONLY to shine, because she knew she couldn't. But deep inside, Cinderella was a crystal doll... a shattered crystal doll. Here she had nothing to carry, save the magic of the blessed witch, her rags, which were elusive to the coquettish as fashion, and rare and very aesthetic glass slippers. However, something had gone wrong with them. They were weak; they held a silent promise to break any moment.

No regrets, thought she. I’ve been brought up in isolation, and the regret has been borne far too long. I was a rebel, and I stand at the same spot again, I won’t let my will be shattered by my glass slippers.

And the music began, along with the rants of many women who were there. It became a comfortable tension, something she could take. Inner peace. There was some magic in that moment, and the music started, inviting the dance.

The music changed its course. Soon it was waltz, with an elated heart; she surrendered to the music, and swayed with rapture. However, a crack was sensed. Why did I come all the way? Thought she. The dress developed a minor rip, memories of the past and loneliness and death had come down to haunt her, and the glass slippers had developed a crack, all on the same night. In her heart she was beckoning to her prince, to seek her out, to accept her for the poor wretch she was, for she had not a penny to spare in her dowry. How dare she dream beyond her social standard?

Further movement is likely to cause damage, she realize that she should stay where she is without inviting any more trouble. She was looking her best, she was alone, but she was glory. She had finally bloomed. And in her gorgeous attire, no matter how frail may it be she loved the feeling of being herself. At this moment, more than ever. Suddenly, music went a few notes higher, but Cinderella was served by a more lucrative desire: the handsome Prince. His grace spoke of a more prominent language only royalties could.

Came an idea, as genuine as inspiration, as genuine as love itself. She started fostering the belief, that she shall meet him, sooner than late. She felt no compunction upon allowing her heart to be overpowered by infatuation. The tender Cinderella had fallen in love. And true and unbound as this desire, she was ready to fare him well, for she felt that if her love is true, it’d come back to her.

Began the waltz, and the Prince turned his eyes around the room and saw someone breathtaking. The dressing sense spoke of glories and fashions, her shoes spoke of frail antiquity. Her petite frame, big eyes and prominent features... Of course, who’d choose a town maiden, when there was a royalty present all for his eyes to see? Began the endless waltz; in that familiar tune; leading further still to the remnants of an endless continuum. The cracks of the glass slippers grew, and with each step Cinderella took, the shards started spreading its way across the floor. Hear this tale of the fleet of glass, and the blushing floor.

Silhouettes of the haunts of the past lives danced in the ball, in a mechanic infinitum, the world suddenly was drained of all the color, spare one.

A beauty with tainted grace and ever prominent patience, Cinderella bore the pain, only to be led by desire, only to give into sin, only to surrender to pleasure. The prince was charmed by the redness that surrounded him, that wide Carmen smile, which healed all the pains that the similar red of a… A carminative. What did the word mean, anyway?

However, Cinderella was haunted deep under that entire dazzle. The witch had already told her that the spell would last till midnight. The afterhours of madness had held both of them tied together.

Carminative… It seemed so wonderfully to describe that sensation of internal warmth, that glow, that physical self-satisfaction that came only by the taste of the lips of a sweetheart. It was intoxication, as true as the true wonders of alcohol, Carminative held the similar meaning. Carminative, the prince looked to meet the lips of the beauty he held in his arms, he held her by the threads of charms and chasms in a moment of frenzy, in the true glory of waltz.

Alas the fairy tale has lost its charm. She was ready to let it all go; it was just a mere fantasy. Carminative, each and every syllable of the word rang clearly in his mind. He imagined vaguely… it had something to do with carmen-carminis, still more vaguely with caro-carnis, and its numerous derivations (oh! The royal education, the barbarians!), like carnival and carnation.

Cinderella shrugged, but smiled, for all the Prince cared to see her lips flushed red with carmine dye.

She broke away from his embrace with a smile, and only looked over, to memorize each and every feature of that grandeur of his presence. Carminative--there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-colored and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Careme and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative--the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which... At this point, Cinderella broke away from the embrace, for the clock had gone twelve, and the shards of glass had already gone inside her feet.

Sadder still, the true meaning of the word had hit the prince along with the abrupt leaving of Cinderella, the true meaning of the elusive carminative had hit the prince like a sledgehammer. Windtreibend. Strange, the charm of this one woman, who drained him out of logic. A mere attraction? No, it was genuine love, or an idea as appealing. But not a glass shoe left behind, not a trail of the strange visitor. But committed was the prince to find this new beloved of his.

 Every house in the Town is knocked; hopes to find her prevail, still.

The memories of this diatribe shall be rendered by isolation, motivated by regret, in hope of every moment, never to be back again.