This story was originally written for an English Project, but the ones who've read it liked it, so I thought it was worth a shot to try and publish it.
This one is dedicated to Isa, who heard it first.
(Comments and Constructive Criticisms are very welcome)
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This was no time for glass slippers.
The leaves of the ancient yew tree that stood in the driveway of the rambling house were yellowing in time for autumn as a simple carriage drove past it, its occupant shrouded inside the darkness of the carriage. She stepped out of the vehicle, one delicate foot after another, wrapped in the furs which she held close to her skin, as if she might catch a chill from the very air of the place.
A growing of weeds had run over the doors of the once magnificent house. A generous coating of dust met her hands as she turned the handle of the doors, which creaked noisily as it finally gave way. A cloud of dust rose up as her foot touched the marble flooring, settling on the fine silk of her shoes. Almost, she could feel the cold sobriety of the floor under her skin, remembering those days many years ago, when she used to clean and scrub them.
She could barely see, the dark was too dense for her eyes, but she could just make out the steps of the grand staircase. She quickened her footsteps towards it, reaching the top of the step in good time. Briefly, she paused, her hand holding the railings for support, her chest heaving. Was she really ready to this?
“Yes.” She answered herself, her lips barely moving, her voice a soft whisper to herself.
The outline of the house was still the same, and she found out the room she was seeking in no time; another pause, this time longer, to collect her feelings and focus her thoughts. What does one say after years of pure hatred for one another? She breathed deeply and recited the line that had always haunted her during her prayers, “Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who have sinned against us.” This was her last chance to set wrongs. Determined now, she turned the handle of the door, and beheld the sight that greeted her.
The woman lay on the bed, her gray hair fanned out, and the once magnificent hands now a bony ghost of what they once were, bereft of the rings that adorned them and resting on top of the blanket covering her body. The woman’s head turned towards her as she crossed the threshold of the doorway.
“You came.” The woman’s voice was raspy whisper, barely audible, but all the words were clear to her.
“I did.” She replied in similar coldness. “I did, stepmother.” The last word was spoken with contempt, as if she would spit on the word.
“Cinderella” the woman replied, using the name she so liked to call her “You were always obedient and compliant.” A smile curved her lips. Was it out of amusement or contempt?
“Ella now.” Cinderella retorted. “Elizabeth, to be exact.”
“You will always be Cinderella to me.” Her stepmother replied, as if taunting her. Ella looked away from her eyes.
“Be that as it may please you.” Ella replied. “But let’s stop beating around the bush. You sent a message to the palace, telling me to come here. Was it to mock me for one last time, or have you still other tricks up your sleeve?” She asked harshly, her voice as accusing hiss.
“No, Cinderella. I am much more than that. You might not have noticed it, but I do care for my immortal soul. One does not want to spend eternity thrashing in hell. And my vehicle to the afterlife is ready to leave at any moment now.”
