Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a castle on the hill. She lived a life of luxury, of the utmost pleasure, and had the entire world at her fingertips. She was adored by those who knew her, a national treasure for those who didn't, but amidst the love came loneliness. Her only friend was a mouse named Andy who she'd found scouring in the garden, but he didn't answer when she'd strike up a conversation. The king and queen were far too occupied with their own affairs to entertain the whims of a thirteen year old girl, and so she sat. Day by day, night by night, the quiet voice in her mind eating away at her until finally she began to crack.

She needed someone, anyone, but this was a wish that died long before escaping the confines of the hilltop. Nobody was coming to rescue her.

Until one day they did.

His name was Harrison and he was bright and sunny in contrast to the darkness the princess had begun to harbor. He was a perfect match and he-

Lip shifts on his side, and a ten year old Fiona Gallagher sets her book down to pull the blanket over them both. She rests her hand on his forehead for a brief moment to make sure any lasting warmth from the fever has surpassed before gently pulling away. The fairytale calls out to her from its abandoned position on her thighs, but as she glances around the dimly lit living room and eyes the silhouette of her sick father on the floor, her interest declines. He's been so angry lately, and it's been up to Fiona to act as a shield. She doesn't know what's wrong, but her mom says she's clever for her age, so she's sure she'll piece it all together soon.

Her brothers are pressed against her slim form, and she can hear her little sister's soft breaths from the crib to her left. She wonders sometimes why night time seems to be the only portion of the day when things feel normal, when everything is peaceful. There's no worrying about her father when he's asleep, there's no worrying about why her mother hasn't left her bed when the sky is black. Ian and Lip sleep like the dead, and she's got her book of fairytales from her eighth birthday to ease her to sleep.

Ian grunts softly as she gently stands up to shelf the book. Her fingers trace the bottom of the page, to a sentence she's become quite familiar with. She reads it anyway.

The princess and the prince lived happily ever after.

When she'll think of this moment years in the future, she'll remember one thing. Fairytales were never her fucking thing.