The Dreams That You Wish

Prolouge

            I was eight years old when I ran in through our back door, crying.  My beautiful new blue dress was muddy and ripped, my hair was a tangled mess, and the only thing cleaning my face at the moment were the tears that came streaming down.

            Mary, eight months pregnant at the time, was in the kitchen, and immediately cried out, “What’s wrong?”

            But I didn’t stop to answer.  I didn’t want to talk in my moment of shame.  I burst into the hall, and was surprised to see my father, there.  It was late in the evening, and I’d have thought he’d be spending the night with Lady Tremaine again.

            “Ella?” he asked as I passed by.  I looked at him for a moment, with tears blurring my vision, then turned and sprinted upstairs.  Inside my room, I collapsed onto my bed, letting out loud, raucous sobs.

            Mary and Papa banged on the door for a while, begging me to open up, to tell them what was wrong, but I was wrong, only occasionally pausing to scream, “Go away!” and “I don’t want to talk!”  Finally, they gave up, and I cried myself to sleep.

            I awoke to the sound of knocking. “Ella?” Papa asked.  I sniffled and sat up.  My head was pounding, and my hair stuck up in places.

            “C-come in,” I was just remembering what had happened earlier. He opened the door, stuck his head into the room, and an excited smile lit his face from ear to ear.

            “What is it?” I asked.

            “Come here,” he said in response. “I have something I want to show you.”

            I climbed out of bed and followed him downstairs to the hall.  “What is it?” I asked again.  He turned and put his finger his lips. “Shhh,” he whispered, “Let’s not wake Mary.  She needs her rest.”

            I nodded and I sat in front of the cold, empty fireplace.  I waited a few minutes as Papa lit a match, and added some wood, and before long, there was a good fire blazing.  He sat next to me, and ran his fingers through my hair.  I winced, as he pulled free some knots.

            “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked.  I shook my head and he nodded, understanding, and continued to weave his way through my hair.

            With the fire bringing the only light to the otherwise dark room, I ran over that day’s events.  Just that morning, Mary and I had finished making the dress.  Mary had made plenty of dresses for me, but this was the first that I had helped with, and it was by far the nicest.  I had gotten to pick the color myself. But now, it wasn’t the color of the sky anymore: now it was roughened and dirty.

            “They made fun of me,” I said, before my shame could stop me.

            “Why?” Papa asked.

            I quickly launched into the story.  I had run outside that afternoon, beaming brightly, ready to show my friends my beautiful creation. The boys had taken one look, and had launched a barrage of insults my way.

            “Look at her!” Ricky had cried out.  “She looks like a girl!”

            “That’s ‘cause I am a girl, nitwit!”

            “Yeah, but you never looked like one till now!” And with that, he gave me a hard shove and pushed me down into the mud puddle fresh from the recent rain.  The boys all laughed and stomped hard on the skirt of my dressing, ripping it in several places. “Stop!” “Stop!” “Stop!” I cried consistently, trying to stand up and push them off, but they persisted.