CINDERELLA DIDN’T CARE for princes, or for walking in glass. All she really wanted was a happy home life. Maybe it was the jealousy, the evil where there should have been love, perhaps she was just sick of cleaning. No fairy godmother saved her from that.
So yeah, she got herself a permit. Left the floors, the dust, the chores – they were never finished that day. Cooking never had been her thing. Washing clothes was fine, but she wasn’t going to clean anything that wasn’t hers ever again.
People say, killing your family, is truly psychotic, like it’s somehow worse than breezing through a stranger, a bank teller, or an officer of the law.
They don’t see beyond the surface. And Cinderella was sick of seeing everything beyond it, never acting on it, being a good girl and pleasing everyone.
Sure she’s certifiably nuts, locked up in maximum security, no stranger to solitary, but she had her reasons. And those bitches were what made her crazy.
During the more florid hallucinations she still believed a man would come to her with a shoe only she could fit into – a size six, like half the female population weren’t the same size. There was talk of a pumpkin carriage, some major significance about midnight.
Truth be told much of the tapes on file are garbled, but every now and then, I watch them, her big neotenous blue eyes staring, blonde hair scraped back, the blue dress deflated and stained. And there’s a story there, it’s undeniable. Somewhere between the bloodshot edges and pupils of her eyes, she wrote a book which she reads only to herself.
We never did find the bodies. And that house was so well cleaned there wasn’t a trace of incriminating evidence. A fascinating case, a devastating example of what destructive households could lead to. Maybe she could still apply for parole in 2026. But only if she gave up the burial sites.