Cinderella Under Glass

Cinderella Under Glass1

He fancied her from afar, hiding in the deep corners. He knew she wouldn’t like what she saw. So he hid from her, the world, and himself. But that did not matter. Only she had mattered. Her gorgeous, flawless face, and the pearly white smile she constantly flashed.2

Alone in the darkest corner, he cradled back and forth, imagining the great touch of her skin. He extended his right hand to feel the softest cheek, all the while staring into her eyes, convincing her that he was trustworthy. He just wanted to know what it felt like to touch superiority, to know that it exists. He began massaging this perfection, and his heart fluttered as she closed her eyes in ecstasy. He told himself that she knew his soul from his easing touch; she didn’t run in the other direction like his fear expressed.3

Her hand extended to reach his face but he refused it, instead holding it to his lips and giving an assuring, sweet kiss. She opened her mouth, a sentence ready to emerge from her tongue but he silenced her by smoothly placing his index finger on her lips. He didn’t need words. He just wanted something more, and then it arose like a phoenix. She had always taken it away in these intimate moments between the two, but it always found a way back. The movements he memorized fell into place, the wholeness he desired progressed with one glance of that sly smile. He adored it.4

The balance he grasped fell short in the quiet moments that the clear glass began to surround her, to secure her. It crept slowly and he cried out words of anger. There was never enough time between them. Never. His frustration grew into an outrage of cursing and pounding of his fragile hands against the cold, hard glass.5

And then his fear smiled at him sourly. Her eyes read safety under the glass where his stupid hands could not reach. She did not want to be there, she did not want his touch, and he knew it. Her hands aggravated her face, trying to erase his feel by peeling a fine, thin layer of skin from her lips. Her face began to sting from the constant blows she gave herself. It was not enough; she could still smell him. The glass began to shake as she bashed her head against it.6

Her torturous act reminded him of his own self-pity. In his right mind, he was lower than low. Self-esteem was never existent and never would be. He knew this with the touch of his own scaly skin. Pimples galore. Forget mirrors and forget viewers to the horror he despised. He wasn’t done exploring his self-hated body, and naturally his tongue rummaged around his mouth until it finally reached the imbalanced, yellow teeth. It was just another thing he could not fix.7

The interruption of the shattered glass and the vanished body of perfection sent him spiraling into a world he knew too well, but loathed. More corners to sit in, more people to hide from. But in return to his mind, she was still ideal. His secrete intimate moments were never recalled, and he still desperately wanted to feel her.8

He focused on the shadowed corner, thinking of her once again, and began to cradle back and forth.9