Disclaimer: REALLY?
Warning: Mentions of child abuse, really dark...
"Hansel and Gretel had a party with their Father while the witch roasted in the oven and they lived happily ever after. The End."
"The wolf was never seen again, and Little Red Riding Hood and Grandma lived happily ever after. The End."
"Cinderella married Prince Charming and the two lived happily ever after. The End."
Happily ever after. It just happens, doesn't it? The slipper just fits, the hunter just comes, the witch just falls for the trick...
Simple, right? Not so simple.
My life is like a fairy tale. I slave away like Cinderella, Go hungry like Hansel and Gretel, and my relatives are really just wolves dressed in people clothing. Oh yes, my life is like a fairy tale - the terrible, first part of the story, before the perfect, magical ending, that is.
I'm still waiting for somebody to notice my Mona Lisa of scars, my galaxy of purple, the decades of war I've had. I'm still waiting for my savior, still waiting for my justice, still waiting for my The End.
But, if there's anything I've learned in life, it's that you sometimes need to take matters into your own hands.
Strike on box matches, the front reads. Warning: Fire hazard. Keep out of the reach of young children.
A price sticker, the paper kind, has been ripped off the back, leaving sticky residue, that's black from collecting dirt. The part I'm supposed to strike the match on is dry, yet somehow leathery, kind of like dead skin or a dog's tongue.
Kerosene, the bottle reads. Warning: Flammable.
The plastic label is peeled off slightly at the corner, reveling a triangle of plain white hard plastic underneath. The handle is smooth and slippery, and is molded with little ridges to fit hands better.
Tonight, I'm creating my own happily ever after.
And, at twelve o'clark sharp on a Sunday, so precise, some people swear it was planned, a fire started.
"There has been a massive fire on Pivot Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, tonight," The news reporter drones. "...Still don't know how the fire was started...fifty deaths...we pray for the families who have lost...Survivors include Ms. Abrella Figg...and a young boy by the name of Harry Potter...interviewing them now.."
Somewhere, on the other side of the T.V, a young boy sits, being interrogated and told how "Sorry people are for his loss."
However, in this boy's mind, there is no loss, and, if you were listening really closely, you could almost hear him say, "So the fire burned all the boy's evil, evil relatives and the boy lived happily ever after..."
THE END.
Wow! Where did this come from?! This is by far the darkest story I've ever written in my entire life. I really appreciate FAVORITES, REVIEWS, AND FOLLOWS! (But if you were too mentally disturbed by this story to review, that's okay too)...
FIRST PERSON TO REVIEW - I'll write you a one-shot based off of whatever prompt that you want to give me (AS LONG as there's not...any...of...it...I think you know what I'm talking about)...
Thank you for reading! You guys don't know how much it means to a person when they see even one person gives positive (or negative) feedback. Please please take the time to review. I know you're reading this. I can see into your mind: Your hesitant to review, I mean, I bet OTHER people can do it...
PLEASE be the person to review. PLEASE.
Are you even reading this? Probably not, but, if you are, go listen to Piano Man by Billy Joel. No, seriously (Sirius-ly? ha ha!) it's a good song.
Now, to ensure that this note isn't longer than the story itself, I bid you good day.