- Last Record: 2012-09-29 20:56:25 -0400
- Joined: Mar 11, 2012
I could tell you their names, but you won’t remember. People have been forgetting for years, so why should you remember now? I could tell you, too, what they really looked like. But you won’t remember that either. No one noticed the elder one’s auburn curls, the startling violet of the younger one’s eyes, the gentle curve of both their necks, not even when they were alive. So why should you pay them any mind?
Maybe you want to hear of how they grew up under the weight of a hardback tome on their heads. There to ensure good posture. Or of their hours spent practicing the fine art of sipping soup without making a sound. I might tell you of their proficiency playing the harp and the pianoforte. Or, if you’d rather, a litany of languages in which they were fluent (Latin, German, and French for a start).
But you’d rather hear of their crimes, wouldn’t you? You want me to tell you that they stomped muddy feet over Cinderella’s clean floors, that they tore at her clothes and pulled at her hair. Would you like me to give them warts? How about a square jaw? I might be able to give you an over-large nose. Maybe even one of those slightly squashed, round ones.
Ugliness is their true crime, after all, the one for which we cannot forgive them. They have been called evil, but ugly is always the one that stuck, the one that people latch onto, the one that people revel in. The two harpies with bloodied feet clawing at their beautiful stepsister.