1. Cinderella.
drip, drip, drip
What is that sound? Did someone leave the tap on? Is there a leak somewhere?
drip, drip, drip
Maybe it's raining. It hasn't rained in a long time. She remembers one rainy day in particular, from before she planted her wishing tree under which she weeps. She remembers the smell of sweat, clinging cloth to skin, streaming down a forehead. The all-too-red blush on cheeks. Wheezing and coughing and puffing, creaking planks and a leaky roof (her father will fix it, surely).
drip, drip, drip
How old was she? I don't remember, but she was only a child. It hit her by surprise, but could there be any other way for it to hit her? One day they were in the market, the regular bustle of sellers trying to seduce you into buying their goods and the hustle of buyers aiming to reduce its price. She clung to her mother's dress, looking about in certain awe even though it wasn't her first time there. One stand had a variety of greens and roots, another displayed caged animals, and another trinkets and amulets, to ward off the dark or make him realise he loves you. Her mother bargained over a baker's dozen, when her eyes fluttered, her left hand let go of the basket, which crashed into the ground, splitting eggs apart and sending yolk streaming down the pavement. Her mother hit her head on the counter and fell to the ground.
"Mom?"
Her condition worsened. Her mother screamed in her sleep. The fever came shortly after. No diagnosis*. She curled up in her cot, tears in her eyes, goosebumps crawling up her arm, and heard her mother wail. It started to rain.
drip drip drip
The soft splash of water seeping into a towel, the gentle squeeze and tug so it won't drip, and softly placing it over the fevered head. A relieved moan. Repeat. Rinse and repeat. It didn't help. Her mother's eyes darkened, her clothes drenched in sweat. Her mother called her to her deathbed. Made the child promise to remain pious and good. She choked on her tears, held her mother tighter, felt how cool she was in comparison. Burdened breaths...in...out...in...out...
In...out... In...out... In...out... ... ...
No more. The grave was a simple one. Her mother would've liked it, as much as anyone can like their own grave. The ground in front of it became moist from tears, and soon it became soft from snow, and not long after wet from spring's dew. And then the other one came.
She couldn't look her father in the eye. To bring another woman to sleep in her mother's place? She sunk back into herself, disconnected from her surroundings. She endured the pain showered from her step-sisters. Cinderella remained pious and good.
drip, drip, drip "Forgive me, mother..."
She planted a tree near her mother's grave. A white bird perched there. She often talked to it, the bird listened. Maybe it was her mother. It was most likely just a bird. But whatever she wished for, be it a tinderbox or the courage to move on, the bird granted.
Until one day, the second to the king's festival. Mocked by her sisters yet again. She knew what she was. They were envious of the "foreign princess", not knowing it was she. They pointed out the "foreign princess"' flaws. Her step-mother chimed in, and they roared like drunken pigs.
She went to her mother's grave. This time she did not weep. Resolute, she looked at the bird. The bird looked at her. She whispered "I wish for a butcher's knife".
drip, drip, drip
Red liquid streamed across the board, falling down where planks were not perfectly aligned. The basement needed scrubbing. It smelled like blood.