Recently I find that most of my thoughts consist of the words Take it or leave it. I am forced to wake up once every hour because I'm the only one without thick, sound-blocking curtains on their windows-Take it or leave it. I actually have to get up at 4:00am just to get all my chores done in time-Take it or leave it A horse bites my hand while I'm feeding it-Take it or leave it. On and on this continues throughout the day, until it's time to go to sleep at 11:00, only to wake up again in an hour. Again, Take it or leave it.
You probably think my life sucks, and I will be the first to confirm your suspicions, but all I can say is, it could be worse. I could have a dreadful name, like my sisters, Anastasia and Drizella. I mean, come on. That's just nasty. My name is pretty. Ella Tremaine. Of course, if you ask Anastasia or Drizella, they would tell you that my name is Cinderella, because I am always covered head-to-toe in soot. They told me that that's how I came into the world, but I know that that's not true. I have a picture to prove it.
This little painting sits on my armoire, right next to some lovely flowers that I had found while tending to the garden. I'm wearing a beautiful, handmade dress made of lace and blue silk. My hair has a white ribbon in it, tied in a bow, with the slightest bit of shine in it. My mother, Cassandra Hollbrooke (as that was before she had died of the croup and my dad remarried Lady Tremaine), was at my right, wearing a lovely lavender bonnet encasing a head full of curls, with a matching gown with ruffles. My father was there too, but he just wore brown, which hardly complimented his handsome, sharp features.
That was a good time. My mother was still alive, for one matter. She wasn't even sick. I was four at the time, I think, and as cute as a button, if I do say so myself. I'm not so cute anymore. Emilia, my other step-sister, the only one that actually likes me, says that I would be absolutely fetching if I just washed all of the ashes off. You see, I'm always covered in something dirty, as I have stated before. It's dreadful really. Even now, in my dreams, I'm dreadfully dirty. You must be thinking, her father is still alive, why doesn't he do something about it? Well I'll tell you why not. He died. He was trampled by his own horse right in front of me, when I was only seven years old.
When my papa and Lady Tremaine first got married, Papa told me something very important. A rule that I still abide by today. He told his young daughter, only five years old, that one day, and it will happen, if his wife, ever tells his young Ella to do some nasty, cruel, dirty work, just do it with a nod and a "Yes ma'am." He said to just keep doing that until he found out about it. Looking back, that wasn't foolish. It shows that I will still be polite and respectful, no matter how hard you push me. Of course, he probably thought I would only have to do one thing, and, because I told him everything, she wouldn't ever ask me to do such thing. Look at the good that did.
Ding! Oh no. Please don't tell me this will strike four.
Ding! No! It can't be time! I couldn't bear to get up! No! I won't do it!
Ding! I swear, I won't let that wretched old lady have her way this time! It will not happen! Will not!
Ding! Okay. Time to feed the hogs.
