tattered cinderella
disclaimer: no way.
((I'm thinking about you so much… time doesn't stop for me))
Reno.
He's her childhood friend, the one who held her while she cried, and helped her grow up. He's the one who she called her best friend, as she laughed with him in days filled with bubblegum and cotton candy clouds. He's the one who make her smile first and stood up for her. He's the one who made her grow into a better person, stronger and able to handle criticism, and know when people are serious or playful. He's the one who was able to open her heart; he's the one she comes to when she discusses her deepest secrets.
He's the one who has fallen completely head over heels in love with her.
And yet…
He's the one who gets pushed aside when she sets her eyes on a boy with the resemblance of the sky and the sun.
He is the one who is forgotten.
He is the one who is left behind.
He is the one who stands still while he watches her move on forward, reaching out to that boy who she's seen, captivated by his sun-kissed hair and eyes of the bluest sky; hoping one day that she'll be able to muster the courage to talk to him, able to step closer to him, able to do so much more than just smile in his direction and blush prettily on her rosy cheeks, thinking maybe – just maybe – that today she has a chance – today she will talk to the boy of her dreams.
He is the one who wants to embrace her, shield her, and protect her from all cost from a boy like him, because he knows all too well what happens when naïve and happy-go-lucky girls like her get too close to ephemeral boys with arrogant attitudes, and hands that break hearts like hers for a living. He's the one who knows that she's going to break, because he used to be someone just like that, used to be so many terrible things until he realized something, until he found out—
It doesn't matter anymore.
He's the one she pushes aside as he tries to grab her, to prevent her from making that one mistake, as she retaliates and yells at him, snatching herself out of his grasp, as she finally makes the decision to talk to him, the prince that she's come to admire, the handsome prince with the kindred spirit and twitching smile, and maybe, since she's worked up the courage to get this far, maybe, perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but someday, gather the courage to confess, to tell him what she feels for him.
He's the one who's been protecting her for far too long, and he should have realized that now that he's gotten so attached to the role – to her, dammit, that he can't help but watch her as she tears herself away from him, and into the arms of someone who he knows – one day – will break her delicate fragile china heart into broken fragments.
((My empty heart still can't find your feelings))
Elena.
She's a clumsy girl. She's a shy and stuttering girl. She's a girl who has got a temper too feisty and a pride that never backs down.
She's a girl who sees the world in watercolour and dreams of magical things that grant wishes and give wings that fly and can eventually, with hard work and effort, reach the sky and touch the sun.
She's a girl who sees the world in sugary sweetness and laces her shoes in the strawberry worms that taste ever so sweet and laughs at her idyllic life, never once knowing that she was being sheltered from a far darker threat.
She's the kind of girl who believes in love in first sight, and so she can't stop herself from falling to a blue eyed prince, and with the purest skin and the most touching of smiles that grace his lips. She's the kind of girl who fumbles as she sees him, who blushes and stutters whenever she is near him, who never talks to him because she fears the magical spell that he has cast over her might end. She's the kind of girl who crashes into him as she storms off from her best friend, turning three shades of red; cherry, crimson, cerise, as she stammers out an excuse, mumbling an apology, flustered as she is, and tries to avoid her prince's eyes as she, trembling and shaking, walks in a not so straight line.
She's a girl who doesn't notice his ice like eyes piercing her retreating figure. She's the kind of girl who doesn't see his skin flush into an unhealthy pallor, darkening as his mouth curls into an ever graceful smirk, beautiful to the naked eye, cruel to those aware of his behaviour, his wonderful hobbies that made brainless girls swoon into his favour.
She's the kind of girl who doesn't notice that it was that moment, clumsy fumbling moments of heating cheeks, flinching and awkwardly acting like herself, that it was that moment that made him pursue her.
She's the kind of girl who doesn't know when the game of cat and mouse has begun.
She's a girl who's fallen in love.
She's a girl who smiles in his direction; a girl who, under his watchful eye, becomes more beautiful and delicate and more trapped and enamoured with him.
She's a girl who doesn't know when to stop.
She's a girl who once blushed at his slightest direction, flushed every time he gave contact to her, whether it was with his eyes, his voice, his smooth hands or his enchantingly tapered fingers, and she's a girl who used to stutter every time she was consciously aware that he was in the same room with her. She's a girl who falls away into bliss as he leads her into a pas de deux.
She's finally become a girl who sees and hears and touches and smells and tastes and senses the only things she wants to.
So with a nervous smile, but a beating heart and the gentlest touch; with the fragrance of lavender and the embrace of her sweet prince, a chaste kiss leads into something more deadly, more lustful, the teasing brushes explore the map of her body, as she flies, touching the flames of the sun, blinded by the naivety of her love.
With one whisper, her small hand in cased in his, she whispers.
"Yes."
((I can never draw the same picture twice))
Rufus.
There is nothing but broken things in his domain. The world he lives in is shattered and tainted. All his possessions – things he claimed as his own – are left in his destructive wake, his fiery fury; his icy demeanour. He plays life by a cruel hand, always taking and never giving. He is aware, and he loves himself for it, that girls who wish to fly, to cover themselves in wax wings in a brittle attempt to touch the sun, all come to him, and with delight, he melts their wings slowly – ever so slowly – so they don't realize until he chuckles darkly and all they can hear is their piercing screams and his maniacal laughter.
5…
He leaves her, alone and slumbering, no note, nothing; with no trace of him ever being there, except in a memory.
4…
He doesn't answer his phone when it comes to her, doesn't return the calls, or even bother calling her.
3…
He avoids her, cruelly smirking in her direction, at something that she doesn't understand.
2…
He makes other girls swoon; kissing them, fully aware that she's watching him.
1…
One last confrontation; one last tearful confession.
"I love you."
Well too bad princess. He never has, he never will; all he wanted was to corrupt that pure heart of hers, and watch it break before their very eyes. In the end, all those touches that she thought were real, were lies; all those gestures with subtle notions of his unspoken love, were only imaginary. Oh, princess, what have she done to herself? She wanted to fly, she wanted to touch the sky and hold the sun in her arms. All she's done, that silly princess, has gotten burnt, blinded by the sun, lost in the sky, her fine dresses torn and tattered around her as she wakes up – not to a world of cotton candy clouds – but to a world with vultures ripping and tearing and weeping and crying to her lost innocence. Too bad all she got was in fact stolen from her. There's nothing more but…
A rag doll.
((But my emotions are just repeating over and over))
Elena.
She's not the girl she used to be.
She can't smile. She can't frown. She can't laugh. She can't cry.
She's a girl who doesn't want to eat. She's a girl who doesn't want to feel the vibrancy of life, or remember the exquisiteness of acting like a pampered princess. What point is there when nothing matters any more?
She's a girl who's wasting away, dancing the pas de deux by herself, isolating herself from the people she knew, because – because – because what point is there?
"Oh, Elena…"
She's a girl who can't feel the arms of her forgotten best friend wrap around her. She's a girl who used to see the world in such bright colours, yet now, saw anything and everything as black and white, the dimmed version of the life of an extinguished flame.
She is the fallen Icarus, who flew too high and fell too fast, her wings set alight by the signs all too obvious, yet blinded by the love she held, and now is drowning in the sea that she herself made.
She is a broken princess, her fine clothes bought by her precious prince in tatters, the clothes she wears now mere rags compared to the pretty dresses made of spiders silk and enchanted jewels, as she is chained to her bedpost, gazing sightlessly into the distance, reduced to nothing more than a living doll, hearing and seeing nothing apart from the sound of her heart being repeatedly broken.
In between the space of dream and reality, she catches sight of, yet forgets, a glimpse of red and green.
((I don't need a reason; I know I can't turn back))
Reno.
He's the one who's still in love with his beautiful princess, always there to catch her when she falls.
He's the one who always watched her from the sidelines.
He's the one who punched the heartless prince when his delicate princess is asleep.
He's the one who wiped her tears and murmured soothing words in her ears, holding her when he knows she needs it the most. He's the one who tries to talk to her and receive a response, whether it's by brushing her soft, wavy hair of spun gold, or letting her tangle her fingers in his hair, toying with it in dull fascination, silently wrapping it around her hand, gazing at the contrast of colour, pearly white skin against shades of cherry, crimson and cerise.
He's the one who asks her for problems to solve, for the sake of hearing her voice; he's the one who brings her food that she slowly savours, always quietly commenting that his cooking hasn't improved much. He's the one who calls her beautiful and she doesn't doubt him, as eyes as green as fresh leaves stare into hers, not something else, and she falls back into his arms again.
He's the one who holds her as she falls asleep, just to make his rag doll princess feel safe again. He's the one she sees as she wakes up.
He's the first one who she begins to see in colour, never leaving, always there, and he's the one who she cries into, he's the one who she finally feels something. He's the one who slowly lets her mouth tug and twitch into something that's the beginning of her ever-pretty smile. He's the one who takes her hand as he gently leads her into a far more beautiful and honest pas de deux, always at her side.
He's the one who she can see, slowly but surely, taking the tattered dresses and throwing away the spoiled rich cuisine, hiding away all the reminders of a doomed love. He's the one who is slowly filling her world with colour and candy, with light reminders that the clouds, when the sun rises or sinks, magically turns into candy floss. He's the one who reads her fairy tales that he once scorned, but she loved.
His words are making the sound of the broken heart fade away.
Because she, never realizing this, didn't know that it was he who never stopped protecting her, never stopped loving her, always softening the blow and giving her hope. She never realized, even as her china-white, pearly princess skin returned to a healthy colour, as she became accustomed to life with him, with him always by her side, slowly making that broken smile become true beauty, her small lips brushing against his, giving him a chaste kiss of gratitude.
Slowly but surely; it's Reno who's mending and piecing together the fragments of Elena's broken heart.