Chapter 2

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The day had dragged on. The sun's hot rays pierced through the still windows and sweat prickled down Celeste's temples. She could feel the foundation slowly melt like mud down her face but she had to smile with her eyes and pose, pose and pose.

Business has to go on. Whether Celeste felt sick physically or emotionally, whether the weather was brilliant or horrifying – business is business, and modelling has to go on, no matter what.

The photographer twirled his moustache the same way, every day. Celeste memorised this action. Whenever he began twirling and twirling with his eyes squinting and his lips smirking; they had the shot, not just any shot, the perfect shot that would definitely be suitable for a high-end magazine; for instance, Vogue – where every model dreams of modelling on the cover.

Surprisingly, Celeste didn't care. Whether she ended up on Vogue, or if she ended up being part of the Victoria Secret angels – she couldn't care less. All she wanted was the money. She had zero motivation and energy. All she had to do was follow instructions and sit still looking pretty.

She stood there, the life drained out of her but she had to conceal it. So she smiled, a smile so big that it could've fooled anyone.

Her lips curled into a seductive smirk that would attract anyone who would take a look at her. Her eyes open and focused, in an attempt to draw in the viewer. She had to perfect the art of being in the spotlight; she had to draw attention. She had to be in the centre. She had to be more than just attractive.

"Hand on the hip," he instructed and she followed. "Now wink," he commanded and she followed. "Now, flirt with the camera mademoiselle."

And so she did as she was told, ignoring the feeling that dug inside of her – you are a puppet, people are pulling your strings, you have no sense of direction alone, and you are a follower, a Loser.

She wanted to scream the thoughts away, but she had to smile the perfect smile that would land on the cover of Vogue – if Vogue were pleased with her posture that is.

Crashing and shattering, the floor and the walls shook at the commotion. Celeste stopped what she was doing; her smile dropped, her flirting eyes turned casual and she twisted her face to the side to see what the fuss was about.

A young boy, his face flushed with embarrassment crouched on the floor to pick up broken pieces of glass.

"Who's that?" she directed her question to the photographer whose gaze was clearly focused on the awkward situation ahead.

"Just a helper – not sure of his name really. He needed a job so we told him he could bring refreshments if needed. So, I wanted water – taking photographs all day long tires me – so I guess the water is on the floor right now. Clumsy, silly boy."

"Oh," she sighed empathy for the boy.

Kindness took over her and she wanted to help. She ignored the photographer who begged her to continue, she simply walked towards the trembling boy. His knees pressed against the cold ground and she felt her heart sink with the familiarity.

"Let me help you," she smiled kindly to him as if begging him to not be embarrassed.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry," not only was his body trembling, so was his voice. His eyes levelled with Celeste and she could see tears stained on his cheeks.

"Oh don't cry. It's nothing – it could happen to anyone," she let out a soft chuckle. "I'm such a klutz, so don't be shy or guilty."

Relief ran through Celeste as she noticed the poor boy smile at her. Celeste realised that the boy was feeling better, she helped him and that brightened her unappealing day.

"I should clean up," he explained as he cupped the broken pieces in his quivering hands.

"I'll help you." Celeste gathered the remaining shards of glass in her hands and helped the boy clear up the mess.

As they gathered the glass, mopped and made sure that no more fragments remained, Celeste could hear the irritated photographer tusk. The fact that she had spent her time helping meant that she was delaying the photo-shoot and this made the photographer heat up with frustration. His forehead and cheeks became a bright crimson shade and his eyes growled at Celeste as she walked back to the set.

She ignored the grumbling whispers that escaped the photographer's lips and she posed, posed and posed as if her life depended on it.

Once her photo-shoot was done, she was thrilled to go home and rest. And so she did. She hopped on the bus and after fifteen minutes, she was home sweet home.

Her mother was absent, but this did not worry her. She was probably out at a bar drinking her sorrows away. So Celeste dumped her bag on the armchair and ran up the stairs as fast as she could, because she knew, the faster she ran, the quicker she'd land in the softness and comfort of her bed.

She grabbed the familiar book that was living on her nightstand and flipped through the friendly pages. Her only comfort and her only escaped lied in those pages.

The beautiful, longhaired girl refused to consider herself as a damsel in distress. Damsel in distress suggests that she needed saving, that she would have to rely on someone else. No, she was too stubborn for that. She was going to save herself; she would not wait for a knight in shining armour.

She would escape the tower that locked her away from her dreams, from the twinkling, dancing silver and gold stars. She would escape. She would. But the question was how?

Her mother would not allow her to even take a step outside. All she was permitted was the view that came from the single window.

The only scenery she obtained; trees, loads and loads of trees. Tall and looming, but not as tall as the 'prison' tower. So she had to look down to see them, their leaves flowed against the breeze that she had failed to feel against her untouched skin.

She longed to be touched.

She longed the grass to touch her spine, if she could supposedly roll around on the grass that she read from books. The books she read said that the grass is green and perfect to lie on. She could barely see it, from the height of her tower; she couldn't make out the details. She only saw a sheet of two-dimensional green on the ground and hints of purple, white and pink – which she assumed were similar to the flowers that were braided in her long, endless, waterfall-like hair.

The other thing she wanted to touch was the water. Of course she knew what water was, but she had never seen a lake filled with it. In romance novels, she could imagine the lake like a mirror with swans elegantly floating. But she had never seen a lake, or touched one. How would she feel if the lake water seeped through her fingers?

She also longed for sea. Countless novels she read were situated nearby a so-called beach. Apparently the sun would rise and set in the sea – flickers of orange, pink and red would reflect in the water. How would the sand feel against her toes? She longed to be touched by the golden sand; she longed to wriggle her toes against the so-called salt water.

But most of all, she longed for life, and freedom, and a sense of identity. All she knew was; she lived in a tower and was not permitted to leave, her mother's name was Gothel and her name was Rapunzel.

The tower. Gothel. Rapunzel.

That is all she knew – and she longed for more. 

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