They say that a bond between a mother and a child is so strong, that nothing can break it. But is that really true? We find this out in Crazy Cinderella, an original.
Once upon a time, that’s my favorite line in stories. To me, it’s the perfect beginning to any story. I love reading books about history, mysteries, periodicals, but most of all, fairy tales. Maybe it was because when I read them, I could pretend to be someone else, instead of who I was. Maybe that’s why I snapped because of them…
Do you want to know what my favorite fairy tale is? Cinderella. I used to always pretend that I was Cinderella, because in the end of the story, she finds her fairy godmother and her Prince Charming, and lives happily ever after. I guess you can say it gave me hope, that maybe one day, things will get better.
So you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, in this cell. Or what I did to get here. You may think I’m crazy and you are probably right. But do I look like I care about that? It’s been made blatantly obvious since the day I was born that I was crazy, that I was ugly, that I was useless!
I apologize; it’s not your fault that I’m here.
It was her! It was her whole damn fault! If she didn’t treat me like dirt every single minute, maybe, maybe if she let me have a life, if she loved me, I wouldn’t have so much hatred towards her! If she would’ve act like a real, loving mother, she probably wouldn’t be dead right now.
But I’m getting off topic; I should start from the beginning.
It started as far back as I can remember. My dad left us when I was young. I don’t remember much about him. But she always made a point of saying how much I looked like him: black hair, brown eyes, certain facial resemblances. I remember she would always tell me, Damn you! I never wanted you! You were a mistake!
…How can you say that? To your own child! I just…I don’t get it! It doesn’t make any sense to me.
I had a younger sister, Marilyn, who looked more like my mom. She was mom’s perfect little angel with perfect hair, perfect eyes, a perfect face, just like mom.
And I remember her always saying, Why can’t you be like Marilyn? She’s smart and beautiful. She always helps me around the house, unlike you, you’re worthless.
She would shout that at me while my sister would just stand there watching everything as if it were a television show. There was never a, Mom, stop shouting at her, or a, Mom, this is wrong. Instead, she’d just look at me, with this horrible look in her eyes, the look that said,
It must suck that Mom doesn’t love you as much as she loves me.
I remember once, when I was eight, when Mom was taking a nap and she had left the dishes in the sink. So then I had gotten a stool…and hoisted myself up to the sink and tried to wash the dishes. I guess I wanted to show her that I was not worthless, that I was a good daughter…that I tried. Maybe then…she’d love me too. Water was splashing everywhere when then suddenly…Mom ran into the kitchen and shouted, Can’t you ever do anything right? What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you like wasting my money?
I had broken one dish, one, and she had thrown a fit. She then grabbed a broom and…and started beating me, everywhere.
No! Mommy please, stop! I’ll be good. I promise. I won’t break anymore things. I’m sorry, please Mommy!
And later, as I was picking up the broken shards, I saw my sister. She tried to help me. I guess she must have loved me…back then. Well…she cut herself, and Mom saw. She fused over her like you would a baby, putting on peroxide and a band-aid and saying things like, Oh honey, are you okay? You know you’re not supposed to pick up sharp objects. You might hurt yourself. My poor baby.
I think it was that moment that destroyed whatever remaining love I had for my mom. It was then that I finally saw the contrast, how she treated my and how she treated my sister.
She didn’t love me…
That was my life, day in and day out…
When I didn’t eat my vegetables…
Whenever I fell…
Whenever I, Please Mommy, I’ll be a good girl. Please…just…no!
The only things that got me through all of that were my fairy tales. Through them, I would pretend to be somebody else; a princess, a hero, Cinderella. You know sometimes…if I closed my eyes long enough…thought hard enough…I was Cinderella. That somewhere, there was somebody out there who cared for me, who loved me, who would save me. And for a little while, everything would be okay.
I came home from school one day, months ago, only to find an empty bookshelf. They were gone! NO! She did not do this to me!
I ran to the kitchen, where she said, You’re too old to be reading that kind of crap.
But there were my books! They were mine! You had no right to do that!
Don’t you ever talk to me like that again, you ungrateful brat!
Ungrateful? Ungrateful? I have been nothing but a good daughter! I listen to you, I do whatever you tell me to do, I try to help you…I love you! And you have the nerve to call me ungrateful? You’re the ungrateful one! You’re the worthless one! I hate you! And I wish you were dead!
I hurt her. I didn’t know how it happened…the knife was just there and I was angry. But you know what? I wanted to. I wanted her to feel how it was to be a victim. How it is to have bruises and cuts all over your body. And…I couldn’t stop.
Why did you do this to me? What did I ever do to deserve this? Why don’t you love me? Damn you! Answer me, you bitch! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Mommy…doesn’t it hurt? I love you Mommy. Why don’t you love me?
She never answered me.
It didn’t take long for the cops to come. My sister saw, she heard, she didn’t say anything…she just looked at me. And I looked at her. And though I wanted to do so many things to her, to cut her, to kill her, I just…I just was so tired…tired from all that was going on.
So when they put me in the cuffs, I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t see her but I knew she was there. My fairy godmother had come, finally.
Ahem…I’m sorry, I got a bit carried away with my story. Do I regret what I did? No. She deserved it. All I ever wanted was love. Was that too much to ask for?