The Tale of Cinderella

(This is a fantasy story, and I've adopted some medieval kind of things, as well as a few modern ones. Just remember to not shoehorn them into a particular era and you'll be fine. It's placed in somewhere like England, it's a monarchy, and it's sexist, but not racist. Oh and, I do a lot of describing clothes and hair, but bear with me alright)

*

I've decided to set the facts straight. My sister, Marianne, might not mind the outrageous lies that were spread, and everyone believed, but I just can't keep silent.

I've always been that way. I got a fair amount of the ruler from my teachers – little girls are to be seen and not heard, after all. They preferred Marianne, so quiet, writing poems on scraps of cloth. She often dozed off in class, but then, the teachers didn't pay any attention to the girls, concentrating on the boys who could make something of themselves.

Most people thought she was a snob and an airhead, never talking to anyone much, often lost in her own head. Only those who knew her knew that she was the sweetest person one could ever meet, loyal and caring. She was older but I was always bossier and more outgoing. When I was a kid I used to take on bullies and got into fights a lot, the despair of our mother. She was certainly glad when I traded in physical for verbal.

Our mother was a strong woman. She married bad, but then she married again, and much smarter. John was an asshole as well, but with one important difference; he was rich.

You see, my mother ran away with a local bad boy – and also local loser, but then she didn't realize that at the time, madly in love with at the time as she was – and got disowned from her rich and snotty family. Marianne was about five when he left. Our mother then took quick stock of her life, and then returned to high society to find a husband of two qualities; rich, and sickly. I probably don't need to mention that her belief in true love fairly crushed.

So she met John, who, with his copious amounts of money (inherited, and increased by his knack of finding out stuff about people and generously allowing them to pay him to silence several times a year) and fondness of smoking, drinking and hunting – often simultaneously – was a perfect candidate, walking death trap to himself that he was. Sure enough, only eight months after they married (Mother got to himjustin time) he fell off his horse while hunting – and drinking and puffing away – in a village men hunt kinda thing. He was drinking the same ale as everyone else – just more, and there were dozens of witnesses, so there was never any suspect of foul play, surprising considering his side income, but nobody was sad to see him go. Well, except for one person.

He had a daughter, Portia. She didn't see much of him growing up, raised mostly by her maids, but she was nevertheless quite infested in his views of women; "dumb no good twits only good for one thing" (nice contradiction, huh?). She had adored her father, and while she was always polite like the little lady she was, quiet, respective and obedient to elders, she hated my mother. She didn't much like me either, a definite bad girl, but the feeling was mutual. She was a doormat, and the fetch girl for the popular girl – and actually just as bad as me, only more diplomatic about it – Amanda.

It happened around the time we had just hit puberty – we were twelve, to clarify. Tough time, with guys and hair and dresses, not to mention girl cunning. The thing is, women are meaner then men. Men are supposed to be, but things are much simpler with them. And with girls, before teens, it's often the same. But then we hit puberty, become women, everything changes. We fight like women. It's much scarier then men.

So anyway, we were all competing for guys, and the top of our "types". There were other girls in each type, but we were each the most – most. Amanda, with her glossy black hair and chocolate colored skin, her 5'7 height, still to grow more, and her buxom figure. Me, with my dark brown hair to below my butt, pale face dominated by big black eyes, average figure standing 5'3. Then there was Portia, whose baby blue eyes, light honey blonde hair, big breasts and tiny waist would have made her a big hit except she wore shapeless dresses and did her best to not stand out. A few guys, guys who could see past her don't-notice-me-clothes, or the guys who were drawn to her good girliness liked her. Oh, and Marianne, two years older then us, unknowingly adored by half the boys in school. She had long red ringlets, bright emerald green eyes, lightly freckled skin and an hourglass figure. She was never interested in any of them, and her aloofness only made hem lust after her more.

I felt sorry for Portia, so one time when Amanda was putting her down, I told her to lay off her and stop being such a pig bitch, or something like that. She threw back something or another, I can't even remember, but the teacher came back so that was that. Or so I thought.

After school I got yanked into the classroom of Lady Wippet - this real bitch who taught sewing – and she hisses in my face, "I've been informed that you spoke devil talk" (swears) "during midday break" Then she yanked my hand out and beat it bloody. I always figured she had a fetish for inflicting pain.

As I said, I was not nor am the type to stand in silence, but what was I to say? Lying seemed lame, and anyway I shouldn't have had to lie. "Devil talk", my ass. The crime here was Amanda for ratting on me, the bitch.

So after I got out I went after her to kick some ass. She didn't look at all surprised to see me. "Well well well, hello El. I thought you might come along. Saw you caught the Wipp"

"Yeah, you bet I caught her. And you have just half a sec to savor that before I pretty you face up using cow manor!" But before I could move her gaze shifted to behind me.

"I told Lady Whippet" Portia said.

"You what?" I asked, thrown off guard.

"You shouldn't speak devil talk like that, Elizabeth. Only cheap women and sinning women speak like that."

"Oh lay off the holier crap! Don't call me Elizabeth, and don't expect me to ever help you from anyone ever!"

"Please don't be mad, it was only for your own good!"

"Oh fuckoff!" I turned and stormed home.

I met Marianne at home, and she only sighed when she saw my hand, and then bandaged me up while I went into a torrent about Portia, almost in tears. I mean, I was trying to help and I wouldn't've minded getting trouble, except by the very person I was trying to help. Marianne only commented when I mumbled something like "She and Ms. Queen of the world probably get along real well".

"Com'n, El, Amanda can be a little nasty but you know she would never rat on anyone. It really amazes me how alike you two are, you'd think you would be friends."

"Marianne!" I gasped in horror. "How could you even utter those blasphemous words! Euw, god, I could heave!" I made exaggerated motions of throwing my guts up and handing them to her. She just grinned and shook her head, well used to my theatrics.

So you know how Amanda and I felt about each other. As the two alpha females in our class, we clashed. Yes, we had the same code of honor and all, and a kind of subconscious understanding and all, but we did not like each other. At all. This remained same 'til we were all in our last year of school (18 - 20 years old), considered adults (and Amanda, the bitch, had grown another two inches, while I was still bloody 5'3). – The school system grouped us into classes with the youngest, 7 year olds, to 9 year olds being 1^st level, 10 to 12 2^nd level, 12 to 15 3^rd level, 15 to 17 4^th level, and finally, 5^th level, 18 to 20.