⚠️ Warning: This is absolutely NOT the fairytale you remember. And it covers some pretty dark moments, including abuse, rape, trafficking, murder, and more. Please read with caution.
Down a steep and dark flight of stone stairs, there lived a girl who had once known everything sweet and beautiful in life. Though she had spent several years in hardship, it had yet to break her. Her eyes remained a clear blue, her mouth a soft cupid’s bow, her pale skin glowed, and her long blonde hair tied in a snaking braid to her hip.
Cinderella had not always lived in the expansive cellar that was now her workplace. As a young girl, she had thrived and enjoyed life, skipping through large gardens, her grand playroom, her comfortable bedroom, her sprawling home. She had been loved, had been provided with every possible gift and pleasure.
An only child doted on and admired.
Life changed two years earlier; her father died. Her heart shattered and perfect world soured, leaving Cinderella broken. Her mother looked elsewhere for succour.
And just twelve short months after her father’s death, Cinderella watched numbly as her mother remarried.
The initial meeting of the families had brought further changes. Her new stepfather, and his three children, arrived in her father’s house and completely altered Cinderella’s life.
Cinderella lost her room, the majority of her treasured possessions, and her status. Her mother placating the new members of the household at her daughter’s expense. Cinderella was abandoned; relegated to the cellar to earn her keep as a maid.
At first, Cinderella was too numb to care.
She served the food, she cooked, she cleaned. The new daughters of the house wore her clothes, made derogatory comments, and happily created mess. They found the ridicule and malicious teasing a source of amusement. Her mother treated her with disdain and distance.
Dutifully, Cinderella bore the hardship with the grace her departed father taught her. Despite how her stepfather attempted to undermine her composure with vindictive remarks. With sneering touches.
The only light in her life was her new stepbrother, Gennady.
Older than Cinderella by a matter of months, he tried to alleviate her distress. At the wedding of his father to Cinderella’s mother, Gennady had seen the hollow emptiness in Cinderella’s eyes, and it had eaten into his heart. Watching how she was treated by his family, and his new mother, had almost shattered it.
Since then, Gennady had visited Cinderella daily. He loved to sit with her beside the warm fire, to soak in the brightly polished kitchen utensils and gleaming tiles. Their hours spent drinking hot chocolate, with cream and cinnamon, pondering life.
Gennady brought gifts when he could; candy, ribbon, or trinkets for her sparsely decorated space. But Cinderella valued the time they spent together far more. It provided a rejuvenated hope, a sense that there was a way to escape this cruelty. A strengthening bond which never crossed the familial line.
Then Cinderella’s mother died.
Estranged as they were, she had been Cinderella’s only living blood relative. And now, she was alone. It was at this point her life, which could be considered harsh, took a further turn for the worse.
She was run ragged on errands. Errands which were then dismissed or ignored; the results discarded. Her stepfather chastising her, punishing her, for wasting time. She would be sealed in her bedroom, only to then be rebuked for not completing her allotted tasks.
It had been a slow escalation. A steady increase in reprimands, with spikes of change which underlined that reinforcement of place. The sly replacement of her bedroom door with a set of bars. The removal of keys to prevent Cinderella controlling her own privacy. The addition of a locked gold chain around her neck.
Welded while she slept.
Her stepsister Narcissa would call for her, only for Cinderella to be scolded and sent away for the intrusion. Portia, her other stepsister, would purposefully spill red wine over white linen, laughing snidely while Cinderella struggled to scrub it clean.
Gennady’s attempts to intervene were met with the harsh side of his father’s tongue. And if that did not work, then the sharp side of the horse whip. Cinderella would, in their moments alone, beg her stepbrother not to worry, not to make the situation difficult for himself.
She was convinced she could cope.
Even as the rules kept changing.
Her stepfather’s treatment of her was intermittent and baffling; at once hard and soft. He would call her, ask for coffee, barking his order and sending her away if it was even slightly incorrect. If Cinderella had not stirred it enough, had not added sufficient milk or sugar.
He would strike her if she repeated a mistake.
Yet, Cinderella meekly accepted her fate.
If she followed instructions she would be thanked. Her stepfather would stroke her face then kiss her forehead. He would praise how well she served him.
Cinderella did not quite know how to accommodate his behaviour, not least because she never deviated from her work. The coffee was the same. Her attention to detail the same.
His reactions were not.
His anger scared her; she never knew what he would do next. She had been struck, been thrashed with his belt, and had been kissed with tender caresses on her raw skin. He would sit and watch her complete the tasks he set; ready to catch her out.
Ready to find blame.
Demands made which Cinderella tirelessly sought to meet.
All she desperately wanted to do was escape.
Even if only to her cellar, to her fire.
To the hopeful conversation with Gennady.
Gennady was the only person to treat her with consistent care. He was the only one to see beyond the maid to the woman. He would listen attentively as she poured out her troubles. He would offer counsel and encouragement.
What he heard about his father concerned him, but Gennady feared confrontation. He knew better than to risk another beating from him. Or worse. He felt powerless. If he acted, if he defended Cinderella, he could make life worse for her.
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Cinderella and Gennady were in their usual chairs, either side of the fire, with a cup of hot chocolate. Their conversation had centred on the forthcoming charity ball being held by one of their neighbours.
She had cautiously admitted she hoped to attend. They were plotting how they could secretly achieve this dream when the bell rang from her stepfather’s study.
Immediately, she scrambled up and raced to the stairs, leaving her hot chocolate with Gennady, their sentences unfinished.
As she vanished from the cellar, taking the stone steps two at a time, she barely heard him call out that he would wait for her to return. That he would fill in the time by starting to prepare dinner.
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She knew something was wrong the instant she opened her stepfather’s study door. Laid out on the otherwise empty desk was a length of silk, a horsewhip, and two sets of shackles. Her heart pounded but she forced herself to focus on him, sitting behind the desk in his leather chair.
‘Close the door, child,’ he ordered. Gently. Persuasively. Followed by a pause. ‘And lock it.’
Swallowing, Cinderella spun to close the door.
To turn the key.
Her eyes on the floor.
‘Please stand by the chaise.’ There was soft authority in his tone; he knew she would do as bidden.
She always did.
Trembling, Cinderella stood beside the burgundy brocade. The room was stifling, her vision blurred, her ears thrummed. She felt, more than saw, her stepfather collect the silk from the desk and walk over. The feel of the fabric tight as he wrapped it around her head.
Eyes covered.
Physically, she shook. Her breath hardly left her chest, was certainly barely taken in. She was faint. She willed herself to fight, but felt utterly unable to move. To complain. The words trapped in her throat.
She recoiled as he undressed her. With no finery to her uniform, this did not take long. She shivered, more from fear than cold. From unknown malice. The sensation lingered in the air, threat in every move. When he secured metal over her wrists, a tear fell. The salted water soaked into the silk, pressing into her flesh.
Her stepfather stepped away.
And she felt worse.
It was an eternity of waiting; every noise magnified, every possibility screaming in her mind. Cinderella was not naïve, but she was innocent of such acts her imagination conjured.
Her chest was tight.
She held her breath.
The return of his hands elicited a startled cry. Her arms drawn over her head, her body pushed down. The click of another set of shackles laced through the ones chaffing her wrists, holding her in place. Her body draped over the chaise. The breath on her skin caused it to bump.
Then, it was gone.
And she was stranded again.
Prone; the brocade soft below her quivering skin.
Tensed when the weight changed. Cinderella could smell her stepfather’s cologne. Could feel his rough hands forcing her legs apart. Felt his fingers walking up her thighs, skirting her hips. Tilting her up from the security of the chaise.
Hot and sharp, her flesh ripped. Bled. His body carving forcefully into hers. Each thrust coupled with groping hands. There was only his need and desperation. Cinderella was merely a commodity, a possession for him to use as he saw fit.
To test out before he disposed of her.
Cinderella’s tears soaked through the silk, crept below the binding darkening her eyes. Her pale wrists bitten by the shackles rattling from his erratic movement. His grip on her hips bruising flesh. Her pain transferred to the tightening of her jaw, the copper on her tongue.
His grunt signalling an end. His weight departing as quickly as it had arrived. Nausea roiling in her stomach at the thought of consequences to his greed. Of what would be expected again.
Cinderella did not move.
Could not move.
Her body frozen. She lay in the remnants of his sweat, leaking onto the brocade, her tears halted. Eyes encrusted with salt. Her shaking limbs inert, aching from the way they stretched above her golden curls. The beat of her heart drowned all other noise; an unruly reminder of how it had broken.
She was unsure how long she lay there. But the release of her hands brought numb surprise. The replenished scent of her stepfather’s cologne a suggestion he had showered. Had changed his clothes.
With a sway, she was dragged to stand.
Flinched when scented water ran over her sticky flesh. Perfunctory but gentle, she was washed. Dried. Dressed. The blindfold still securely over her eyes, Cinderella was overwhelmed with sensation.
Bewildered and, despite the cleaning, dirty.
His kiss on her forehead brought a shudder.
‘You’re dismissed,’ he said, releasing the silk with a flourish. ‘Next time, I don’t expect tears.’
Cinderella rushed to the door. It took three attempts to open it before she realised it was still locked. Twisting the key, she flung it aside and ran to the cellar.
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‘What’s wrong?’ Gennady asked as Cinderella dashed past him to her small sink. He heard her vomit; it brought him to her side.
She was hunched over the basin, tears streaming down her face as silent sobs matched each heave of her body.
‘Ella,’ he whispered.
She dodged the touch of his hand on her shoulder.
‘Ella, please, let me help you. Talk to me,’ he soothed.
Standing taller, Cinderella collapsed into his arms. He stumbled back but held her. Held her tightly. Felt every wailing sob cascade through her body. Rocked her until they began to subside. He stroked her hair from her face, gazing into her raw eyes with compassion.
‘Ella,’ he prompted, coaxing.
‘I need to make dinner,’ she announced flatly.
Passing him, she finally saw the kitchen. Gennady had been busy in her absence; everything was prepared. This caused more anguish, for someone to have been so kind when she experienced such brutality only delivered more sorrow. Feeling fragile and lost, Cinderella’s tears began to flow again.
‘Ella.’ Gennady took her back in his arms. ‘What happened?’
Once she started, she could barely stop. Her heart poured out. Her pleas issued when he curled his fists and attempted to leave; to tread the stairs and confront his family.
The tainted family.
Only he was different; Gennady would never hurt her.
When her tears were dry, her voice hoarse and cracked, all she could do was lean into him. Allow him to hold her. To cradle her body and soul. Gennady was her comfort, and Cinderella wished to cling to it with every breath she had.
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As the days passed, life continued with strange routine. She refused to allow them to break her. Cinderella was determined to stay focused on her own survival. For her, and Gennady, that meant ensuring she could attend the charity ball; they believed that would offer her an escape. An opportunity for rescue.
Cinderella fetched and carried, cooked and cleaned, just as she had every day before she was shackled and humiliated. Though every casual touch glancing over her skin would cause her to flinch, the only attacks she faced were verbal; her stepfather and both stepsisters quick to issue commands.
And rebukes.
She was expected to spend hours with Narcissa and Portia, sewing fabric to create exquisite gowns. Cinderella meekly knelt by their long satin skirts and pinned. She bit her tongue and sewed. Listening to their excited chatter about the event they believed Cinderella too lowly to be invited to.
Gennady was her only solace. The only one who kept her strong and serene. The one who wiped her tears when she was frustrated. The one who reassured her when her stepfather’s hands meandered; unwelcome and cruel. Between them, they would ensure she was safe.
The charity ball arrived. Cinderella was relieved to watch her adopted family depart in their hired transport. She was jubilant, she had made it through. Her dignity in scraps, but just about held together. Cinderella had endured each day in servitude, had been able to brush aside the looks, the comments, the suggestive touches.
She was finally alone.
Her stepfather, Narcissa, Portia, and Gennady were gone.
And in their absence, she prepared. Brushing her blonde curls until they shone. Adding subtle make-up to her fresh face, she accentuated her natural beauty. Slipping into her hand-sewn gown she felt every bit her father’s daughter.
He would have been so proud of her now.
The soft grey satin hugged her skin. The crystals on the bodice drew the eye to the jewel she had added to the welded gold chain around her neck. A jewel Gennady had gifted her; the diamond sparkling.
Cinderella was confident her troubles were about to end.
⛓️💥🔥⛓️💥
Her mask matched her dress, embellished with gems. Handing her ticket to the doorman, she strode into Charming’s Ball. Before Cinderella was her future, she was sure of it. She felt invincible.
Her eyes drank in the swirling mass of bodies. Descending the stairs, she gazed across the room; a series of cream and red marble tiles framed with a solid gold border. An ice sculpture slowly dripped into a mass of liquor. Guests ladled servings from the punch pooled there.
To the right of the refreshments, a large display held neatly arranged lots to bid on. Framed pictures and text. All for charity.
Her body moved to the music. Her face naturally formed a smile. Her hands accepted a drink from a passing waiter. She knew she was turning heads, and she thrived on the attention; it renewed her hope. That she would find her rescuer here. That here she would be saved.
The heat from her stepfather’s gaze was deflected with the certain belief in her escape. The fawning laughter of her stepsisters melted into the swell of voices, the beat of the melody. The trio buzzing around their host in desperation for favour. Her stepfather hopeful of ensuring one of his daughters caught Charming’s eye.
Charming was anything but.
He was money, and debauched luxury, made flesh. It drove him and owned him. He lived a life of leisure and excess. This annual charity ball held to promote himself, to evade tax, and have fun. Rumours of his many conquests and path of ruined hearts were legendary. Many a young girl had attempted to tame him, but each had felt their love splinter under his philandering and lustful adventures.
No wonder, Cinderella considered, her stepfamily appeared utterly charmed with him.
‘Wow, Ella,’ Gennady breathed in her ear, taking her hand to lead her to dance. His gaze appreciative; his heart pounding.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled, blushed. ‘Not so bad yourself.’
‘You got here with no problems?’ He held her closer; aware his father was watching him with curious interest.
‘All fine.’ Cinderella rested her head on his shoulder a moment. ‘I best mingle before questions are asked.’
With her mask, and skilful avoidance of revealing her name, she was able to dance. Was able to talk. Was able to relax. There was peace and there was joy.
It was only when she stumbled into an office, while searching for the bathroom, that her sense of freedom was caged.
Dominating the wall was a map of the charity board, revealing the truth behind the lots on display. No favours of weekend retreats. No offers of monetary prizes or luxury goods. No, here in this small room was the decoded reality of what would be auctioned.
She froze.
She blinked.
Cinderella knew it was a photograph of her. There was no head on the square image, but she could make out blonde curls, and the silk strip draped over her shoulder. The delicate gold chain around her neck. And she recognised the chaise she was lying on.
Naked.
The words alongside the photo swam, but offered Cinderella some relief. She had been subjected to regular birth control injections for months, while she slept.
‘I’m expecting high bids for that,’ Charming sneered; unconcerned his scheme had been discovered. He assumed his guests knew the truth of his event.
The words brought Cinderella from her fixed panic. ‘Has there been much interest?’ she choked out.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Though I’m considering buying her myself.’
Cinderella forced a smile.
Turning, she walked briskly away while willing her nausea to remain contained. She could not stay and watch herself be sold. The room felt cold, the music disjointed, the guests a malicious, disfigured crowd. Her mask hid the tears; she was thankful for that.
Outside, Cinderella leant briefly against the stone pillar on one side of the ornate porch. She breathed raggedly. How could her family do this? How could she be traded in such a way? What could she do?
Did Gennady know?
She had been fighting. She had become so strong. She had really believed she could get through this and make it out the other side. But how could she get out of this? She had nothing, and her stepfather was selling all she had left.
All the elation and confidence she had was gone. Destroyed. She threw down her mask, kicked off her heels, and ran.
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They came for her after lunch. With nowhere else to go, Cinderella had returned home barefoot just after midnight. She had not slept, and had heard her family return as dawn broke. Gennady had not been to check on her; which only added to her sense of doom.
Of failure.
Her stepfather rang for her and handed her over without a word. The man in the hall was someone she remembered seeing at the ball, but could not place. He said nothing to her.
She thought Charming had been outbid, after all.
The man directed her from one house into another. From one master to another. One cell to another.
She had been blindfolded before she was ushered from her home, and it was not removed until after she had been led down into a stone walled, cold room. Cinderella sensed it was a cellar from the flow of air, the stagnant smell. It was familiar.
And it was dark.
The man placed a leather collar around her neck, above the welded gold necklace. Metal chimed as the iron ring on the leather was attached to a chain. Fabric ripped as he removed her clothes. Silence grew as his steps retreated.
She spun wildly, but could not see him. She could not even see her own skin. Slowly, Cinderella stepped forward, trying to gauge the room’s dimensions. It was larger than she thought, and larger than she was able to explore. She got seven paces before the chain was taut and she could go no further. The pain in her neck constrictive.
She circled, and found she could walk the full circumference without meeting any obstacle. She could also criss-cross the space without meeting whatever tethered her. Reaching up, Cinderella could feel the chain stretching to the ceiling. The floor was stone, rough on her bare feet. She shivered. Hugging her arms around her, she waited.
Too tired and too scared to cry.
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She woke up on the floor, feeling the stone below her aching bones. The room was now lit, with ivory candles dripping from sconces on the hewn walls. It was sizeable, with an arched ceiling. And it was long, with a stone table at one end, and intricate carvings on the wall behind it.
She was also no longer alone.
There was a man in the room, cloaked and with his back to her. He prepared drinks at the table. Through her half-closed eyes she watched him, trying to determine who he may be.
What may be about to happen.
‘Child,’ he said, ‘you must be thirsty.’
Silent, she knew it was futile to pretend to sleep. Struggling with stiff limbs and aching bones, Cinderella sat. Her legs drawn up, trying to cover up as much of herself as she could; relieved the candlelight cast forgiving shadows.
His cloak swung around his naked body when he turned. Both hands clasping a goblet of dark red liquid. He strode toward her, his face steadily revealed in the light.
She gasped; it was Charming.
She immediately lowered her eyes.
‘Now, child,’ he instructed. ‘Drink.’
It was not a request to be ignored. Cinderella accepted the goblet and drank. Then spit the metallic tasting liquid to the stone.
He struck her face with the back of his hand. Quick and powerful, a sharp smack. ‘You don’t like it? You’ll learn to.’
Her face stung. Her heart pounded. The same coppery taste lingered in her mouth, added to from her bleeding lip. She swallowed it down and raised her head to face him. ‘Never,’ she whispered.
‘You will do whatever I tell you, my dear Cinderella,’ he stated coldly, eyes narrowed. ‘I own you now.’
‘You may own me, but you’re not the first to use me,’ she retorted with more bravado than she felt.
‘Is that true?’ He paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘Your stepfather?’
Cinderella tightened the curl of her arms around her chest, took a deep breath, and nodded.
‘Then your stepfather is a fool to have taken the one thing he pledged to be selling, and he’ll pay.’ Charming sneered, but smiled. ‘But I will enjoy you all the same, ruined as you are.’
‘Please—’
‘I do love it when they beg.’ He laughed, stepping closer.
She shuffled back, her body curling in on herself.
‘If you won’t drink, then I shall give you something to eat,’ he said with a wry smile, gripping her hair to pull her head up. His cock forced inside her reluctant mouth.
Charming slapped her when she tried to bite. Held her closer when she gagged or tried to move away. Rolled her head to excite him. Pulled on the chain to increase the pressure on her neck. To change the pace of her breath.
His hot release choking her.
Striding away, Charming poured another liberal measure into a fresh goblet and drained it. His eyes closed.
Behind him, Cinderella spat, tried to wipe his taste from her mouth. Her face was raw from the repeated strikes she had received. Her jaw ached. Salt and blood mingled, making her nauseous. Her eyes leaked inaudible tears.
Reality crept in.
How could she endure this?
What had she done to deserve such a life?
How could she end her torment?
‘I will return for your second lesson,’ Charming stated before stalking from the room.
The echo of the bolt brought a howl. Her pent-up fear and anguish escaping. Cinderella’s body shook. She vomited, mucus trailing from her violated mouth. She pulled against the chain, trying to make the collar choke her.
It would not tighten, only chaffed her neck.
She cried until she could cry no more, her sour tears exhausted. Her howls reduced to a quiet mewling. She clutched her shins, her knees to her chest, and welcomed the rough stone against her skin.
At least she could feel this, at least she could breathe.
Cinderella clung to dreams of escape.
Clung to memories of happier days. Clung to the desperate hope this was not how she would be forced to live. She willed her mind not to buckle under the hurt. She was broken, but not totally. There had to be some sliver of a chance.
Some tattered faith in optimistic justice.
⛓️💥🔥⛓️💥
Cinderella did not hear the gun shot when it rang out upstairs; the cellar was so deep and buried in Charming’s estate no sound travelled from it, or to it. She did, however, hear the loud slam of the bolt, the door thrown open.
She dare not look around when the sudden rush of air extinguished most of the candles in the lofty room. The shadows ate up the space, and once again, she could barely see her own skin.
‘Ella!’ Gennady yelled, his footsteps rapid over stone.
Cinderella sensed the chain tighten before it clattered to the floor; its hold broken. The leather collar cut from her neck. A soft robe wrapped around her quivering flesh.
She was light in his arms as he took her up the stone stairs; they seemed to spiral eternally. The light creeping into their eyes the higher they climbed. Despite the harsh brightness, she widened her gaze at the scene they grew closer to.
Charming, cuffed and on his knees, with blood running down one exposed arm. His chest and feet bare, his trousers soaking in the dew from the morning grass.
Her stepfather and stepsisters separated, and being questioned by police officers. Narcissa and Portia wailing, pleading.
She nestled deeper into Gennady, closing her eyes to the chaos.
‘It’ll be ok, Ella, I have you now,’ he crooned gently. ‘No-one will ever hurt you again.’
You can find this, and other short stories, poetry, and vignettes, in The Menagerie. Or, you can get a feel for the dark vibe of the book with a listen to the playlist.
Well damn