Almost every parent tells you fairytales. To make you laugh. To make you learn. To make you hope. To make you want to dream. The day I heard the story called Cinderella was the day I died. Cinderella shouldn't be allowed to be told to young, innocent children, filling their heads insolent fantasies—the type only fools believe -- that someday they are going to meet their prince charming, riding away into the sunset – Happily. Ever. After. In fairytales, the poor girl has a godmother, who gives her a chariot, dresses her in the most beautiful gown and the lowlife goes on and marries the prince. In real life, the poor girl has no chance with prince charming. She can't even walk in his shadow. Life ain't a fairytale. The straight, damn truth is that there aren't any prince charmings, no princesses, no pumpkins that "magically" turn into chariots, and certainly no fairy godmother. Reality sucks. I know. I would know that better then anyone else. That was when I was six. I am now 17 years old. Look where Cinderella's gotten me. My boyfriend cheated on me. Live with an abusive father, who drowns away the heartbreaks, tears and memories by drinking. A dead mother. Working three jobs just to pay for school. No friends. Not even a single star in the sky to wish upon. Let's face it. Life ain't a fairytale. I wanted to jump. To leave the life I knew behind. To forget. Not to remember all the wrong decisions I made. All the shame. Regret. But he wouldn't let me jump.