Hello! I have just gotten back from a screening of Insurgent, and today, I am not posting another chapter from "Watch". I will be taking a brief break and will be posting the fourth, fifth, and final chapters starting next week. What I have for you today is a passage I made in February inspired by Cinderella! I haven't seen the movie yet-- gosh, I'm such an Abnegation, being considerate of what movie we watched. Anyhoo, I hope you all enjoy it!
Come here! Come closer. The sight, the sound, the sweet smell of freedom—oh, how much I wish for this to be bestowed upon me! Everyone has a story to tell, and yet mine is not one that may have been heard.
You may first look at me and scoff at my appearance. I am but a girl, dressed in blue rags and black bags that hang so outspread under my eyes. My hair has been given the gift of ashes. Please do not turn away from my appearance, not yet. Instead, let me say what I must. What could such a girl be doing in such conditions, especially in grand dwellings such as these?
My parents have died, and my stepmother is the caretaker of the house now, along with my two stepsisters. The three latter I have mentioned placed me to do housework chores.
“Sweep the kitchen!”
“Fetch me my dress first!”
Stepmother always complains about me. She does not bother to hide her hatred for me in her words. “You pathetic little brat, you are too slow! Gosh, we have taken you in after the death of my dear husband, and this is how you treat us? Work faster, you understand?”
The work in the household is tedious, but I work until my hands begin to bleed as a scrub the floors. I do not argue. I do not act spiteful. Be good, be nice, be kind, be courageous. These were the last words that my parents had each said before they had disappeared out of my life, bless their souls. I shall live up to what they say. Those words are all that I have left of them, along with memories. Every time Stepmother’s ill-spoken words were laid upon me, I must remind myself of these lessons instilled in me. I sigh and say, “Yes, Stepmother.”
Some days I weep. Stepmother rarely allows for visitors to see me. I have very little interaction with the world outside. There are days when it feels cold. I feel alone. My actions, I think, are sometimes are all in vain, yet—
Hope keeps me going. It is hope that fuels me to go on in my day. Someday, I will be able to go out and meet the world. Perhaps someday, I shall feel the wind take me up in her arms and finally, after all of my days of waiting, I shall feel freedom.