Outside the Ballroom (A Cinderella Story- Retold)

 Cinderella-Rewritten

She stands in an abandoned corner,
quietly observing the compilation of hundreds of dresses,
the sounds of the fabrics as they swish and sway
in practiced movements,
as if they had been preparing for this dance all their lives,

while little Cinderella had been working away,
her calloused hands starting and finishing chores
too big for her little head.

The bright lights pouring from the grand chandeliers
seem to have a personal agenda against our poor Cinderella.
Her eyes blur
and the music rings in her head.

A mixture of sound pricks tiny little holes all over her body.
She scratches her arms,
her unkempt nails catching in the fabric of her borrowed dress.

Cinderella knows it deep in her bones,
how much she doesn’t deserve this dress,
but the old lady next door had insisted
Cinderella be the one to wear the dress her daughter never got to.

And Cinderella couldn’t find it in herself to refuse her.

After all,
she was the only girl who talked to the old hag.
While others called her spiteful and mean,
Cinderella found her stories warm and hopeful.

Mentions of her late daughter
always seemed to seep into their cracks.

She had once wished to wear this dress
and these transparent slippers
that now bite Cinderella’s poor feet,

and she had prayed for love.

But Cinderella couldn’t disagree more.

She was not thinking of love.

She was only trying
to survive the room.

But as every second passed,
all our miserable heroine could think of
was escaping this vain ball.

The piercing laughter from the other side of the room,
girls falling and fawning over the prince.

But Cinderella thought they were all as fake
as her stepmother and sisters.

The boy, she thought, looked just as cruel
beneath the ballroom lights.

As one final shriek pounds on her skull,
Cinderella lifts her gown and turns away.

Outside, in the dim-lit garden,
she lets the cold seep into her lungs
and presses a warm palm to her cheek.

Eyes closed,
she takes in a deep breath.

Foolish of her to think she could fit in.
To think her family would be so kind
as to let her tag along.

It was exactly this they had hoped for,
her firming her beliefs
that she could never be as pretty
and as happy as those beautiful maidens inside
with a chance to win the prince in marriage.

No.

Girls like Cinderella would die alone.
She was sure of it.

“You look better out here
than you did in your corner.”

A soft husk of a voice
brings her out of her self-wallowing.

His eyes are violent, turbulent waters,
yet Cinderella had always dreamt
of letting herself lose in the ocean.

Dreamt of cold waves
washing the grime and soot off of her.

Yet when something you have hopelessly dreamt of
your entire life
is placed in front of you,
you do the smartest thing you could ever do—

you turn your back to it.

Because it can never compete
with the sweetness and grandiose
of what it was in your imagination.

“Wait,” he says, catching up to her.
“The ballroom gets loud after a while, doesn’t it?”

The prince tries to convince the strange girl
to stop.

He could let her go.
There were hundreds of girls waiting inside.

Yet something about the distraught look
on this particular maiden’s face
pulls him in closer,

like a lighthouse leading a broken man to shore.

“I feel it all the time,”
he mumbles quietly,
as if the admission makes him unworthy of his title.

“You?
You of all people feel trapped in your own mind?
With everything at your disposal?”

Cinderella asks.

Not hateful.
Just curious.

In a room full of girls so sure of themselves,
her plain, naive curiosity
is a breath of fresh air
they both desperately craved.

Cinderella rests herself on the wet bench,
not caring for her, might he say, otherworldly dress
which still didn’t do
her painfully lovely features justice.

He takes her inquiring look
as an invitation to accompany her on the bench,

and for the first time,
the young prince does not complain
about his most expensive breeches getting spoiled.

“Does it come as a surprise to you, Princess?”

He leans in closer,
nothing intimate about the gesture.

“I’m no princess!”

The maiden laughs,
and it might be the most atrocious sound
he’s ever heard.

She recovers quickly,
possibly reaching the same conclusion.

“I just find it unbelievable.
A handsome prince,
with queues of pretty girls
all dying for one look from him,

and you tell me
you do not like it?”

She frowns,
as if the possibility of what she thought to be true
was in fact not true.

“Would you believe me,” he asks softly,
“if I told you that I tire of these vain demonstrations of beauty,
where your being has no room to participate?”

She doesn’t believe him,
and that only compels the young boy
to plead his case further.

Hours pass
until the final gong sounds.

It is time for his last dance.

“I suppose this is goodbye then, Prince?”

She stands,
her back already facing him.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

His eyes are lighter now,
the calm after a storm.

“Will you do me the honour
of stealing your first and last dance of the night,
fair maiden?”

He reaches out to her.

“Well, I-I would hate to step on your toes, Prince.
I’m a terrible dancer!”

She faces him,
laughter dancing in her eyes.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Princess.
I don’t mind at all.”

As if on the orders of His Royal Highness himself,
the garden lights up in arrays of lovely light.

The rain falls softer
for its favourite young pair.

The nightingales take their job seriously
as the young boy and the young girl
sway side to side
for the last dance of the night.

She should be running back home
to her wretched fireplace,

but perhaps she will stay for now.

The boy she met tonight
promises to be warmer
than the cold floor that awaits her.

Perhaps one night of breaking rules
shall not hurt her
more than life already has.

P.S: published this for a contest, and ahhhh i really love this oneee, even if it doesn't win it will still be worth it ahhhh-