[exclusive] - Cinderella’s Glass Collar
Cinderella looked at her reflection in the dark window. The glass collar glittered, lovely and terrible. She thought of the silver lock, the key around her stepmother’s neck. She thought of a lifetime of small, careful movements. Of never tilting her head back to laugh. Of sleeping on her side so the glass wouldn’t press into her windpipe.
Cinderella took a breath so deep her ribs ached. Then she let her godmother dress her in starlight and silence. cinderella’s glass collar
“Break it,” she said.
The collar did not shatter. It sang —a single, crystalline note like a wine glass struck with a spoon. Then fine cracks raced across its surface, and it fell from her neck in a dozen glittering pieces that turned to dust before they hit the floor. Cinderella looked at her reflection in the dark window
It was not heavy. That was the cruelest part. A metal collar would have weighed her down, reminded her of its presence with every sore muscle and aching joint. But the glass collar was light as a whisper. She would forget it was there—until she turned her head too fast and felt the sharp lip of the clasp graze her throat. Until she tried to lift her chin at the dinner table and heard the faint ting as it struck the wooden back of her chair. Until she cried, and the tears slid down the smooth curve of the glass, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone like rainwater in a gutter. She thought of a lifetime of small, careful movements
At the ball, the prince did not ask why she wore no necklace. He only saw the faint red marks on her throat—not scars, but the memory of pressure. And when he asked her name, she lifted her chin high, turned her head freely in any direction she pleased, and said,