Prologue
There is not always a happy ending.
Every Cinderella has her prince, her sunset, her glass slipper. Every Rapunzel has her flowing dress, her golden hair, her castle. Every Beauty has her prince-turned beast, her happily ever after.
I may have gotten the beast, but where was my happily ever after?
I'll start at the once upon a time.
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Life had never been easy for me. I grew up in a home devoid of anything remotely similar to love, where I was always trying to capture the recognition of those important to me who never even spared a glance. Sure, my mother would coddle me – like all mothers do – but she didn't matter. Father was most important to me. He always told me to do better, to try harder, to be like Brother. Oh, how many times he compared me to Brother. In his eyes I was an insignificant speck of light in the shadow of my aniki; if only he would step out of the way, I would be given the chance to shine so bright it would blind them all!
But he never did step out of the way. He just made sure no one was there to see me when I /did/ have the chance to outshine him. It was easy for him: I was heading home, it was dark, they were alone. Two gunshots, the neighbors reported. Mother through the back of the skull with an exit wound over her left eye; Father right in the middle of the forehead, bullet lodged in the brain. I wasn't there to see the smoke rising from the mouth of the gun, but I was there to see the blood.
The blood that still splatters my nightmares, drips down my thoughts, stains my "perfect porcelain" hands, as he once described them. He used to describe a lot of my body parts as "perfect." And pale, like moonlight. He said I was so flawless for such a tainted seven-year-old.
And why should he be allowed to gaze upon my alleged flawlessness when he tried so desperately to ruin it? When he saw something in me he couldn't surpass and attempted to stain it scarlet as his hands soon would be?
Life was harder after that. I changed foster homes like clothes; I would not, absolutely screaming/kicking not, stay in the home of someone who was under the sad misconception that they understood what I was going through. I refused with all my might to open up to the social workers with the bittersweet words and cold glass smiles who said they only wanted to help me. Help me? Ha! Good one!
They called me a "tough case." Hell, I was. That entire chapter of my life was a fight against the world: fight the man, beat the system. Well, it turned out the system was a little too extensive to beat, but I tolerated. I kept my mouth shut, bided my time, and waited eleven years for the day I'd be free.
But that was then.
This is now, and this is where my story begins.