all fairytales must have an ending, and they all have their relics
Drabble requested by Prinsessa~ ♥
Fabio and Daniela; broken pieces - "I can't glue him back together."
~ * ~
Once upon a time, she had a dollhouse.
A present from her mother and her father, it was a beautiful thing with its finely decorated exterior and intricately designed interior. They also had dolls made for her: beautiful dolls where their faces were painted on smooth porcelain, and Daniela treasured them. They fit in that dollhouse, which was very big, bigger even than her. It had a veranda and gardens, and inside there were bedrooms and dining rooms, parlors and kitchens, even a ballroom and some other miscellaneous quarters. Only the best, her father had said, for my Daniel-ita.
She lived in a dollhouse, she had soon realized. Her dollhouse is an exact copy of the Vongola Manor, once she looked past the pastel colors and the absence of tall, protective walls. Romanticized. Born of a fairytale. She was only five, and it had been beautiful, but then that was when it all ended, because all fairytales must have their endings, and it went like this:
Having lived in a dollhouse, loved like a princess and then shunned as a vestige, all the porcelain dolls had shattered by her feet. One by one by one. And though she gathered the pieces and cut her fingers, tried to reassemble and glue them together, only one face, she could not recreate.
It had become too blurred, and she could no longer remember the warmth of an embrace, the loving smile and the fond eyes. They had been replaced by the cold of porcelain, the painted lips and the empty gazes. So she stands, and leaves the pieces smeared with the blood on her bruised and calloused and cut hands.
She continues to live in that dollhouse, where the dead trees are now uprooted and replaced by growing shrubs, where concrete and cement hide the cracks on the walls and ceilings, where broken windows and mirrors are replaced, where white roses are painted red. As red as her hands. As red as the sky when the day was like a dying man, falling, falling, and bleeding the vermillion rays of its departure, of ends and also beginnings. Dramatized. And born of reality.
It has a new coat of paint, new furniture and new dolls. And the porcelain pieces of the old are swept away, kept on the high pedestal where love, hate and bitter regret do not tarnish the fairytales of once upon a time.
~ fin ~
Fabio and Daniela; broken pieces - "I can't glue him back together."
~ * ~
Once upon a time, she had a dollhouse.
A present from her mother and her father, it was a beautiful thing with its finely decorated exterior and intricately designed interior. They also had dolls made for her: beautiful dolls where their faces were painted on smooth porcelain, and Daniela treasured them. They fit in that dollhouse, which was very big, bigger even than her. It had a veranda and gardens, and inside there were bedrooms and dining rooms, parlors and kitchens, even a ballroom and some other miscellaneous quarters. Only the best, her father had said, for my Daniel-ita.
She lived in a dollhouse, she had soon realized. Her dollhouse is an exact copy of the Vongola Manor, once she looked past the pastel colors and the absence of tall, protective walls. Romanticized. Born of a fairytale. She was only five, and it had been beautiful, but then that was when it all ended, because all fairytales must have their endings, and it went like this:
Having lived in a dollhouse, loved like a princess and then shunned as a vestige, all the porcelain dolls had shattered by her feet. One by one by one. And though she gathered the pieces and cut her fingers, tried to reassemble and glue them together, only one face, she could not recreate.
It had become too blurred, and she could no longer remember the warmth of an embrace, the loving smile and the fond eyes. They had been replaced by the cold of porcelain, the painted lips and the empty gazes. So she stands, and leaves the pieces smeared with the blood on her bruised and calloused and cut hands.
She continues to live in that dollhouse, where the dead trees are now uprooted and replaced by growing shrubs, where concrete and cement hide the cracks on the walls and ceilings, where broken windows and mirrors are replaced, where white roses are painted red. As red as her hands. As red as the sky when the day was like a dying man, falling, falling, and bleeding the vermillion rays of its departure, of ends and also beginnings. Dramatized. And born of reality.
It has a new coat of paint, new furniture and new dolls. And the porcelain pieces of the old are swept away, kept on the high pedestal where love, hate and bitter regret do not tarnish the fairytales of once upon a time.
~ fin ~