diamonds from ash

the princess is breaking her toys again.

not ‘has broken’. she’s still doing it. she’s not stopping.

the castle is silent but for the sound of cracking and splintering and tearing. if the maids are aware of her activities, they haven’t bothered to come and stop her. and so, she tells herself, they must not care, must not think the toys are worth protecting from her rage and grief.

they’re just toys, after all, what does she care. what does anyone care.

it’s improper for a princess to behave this way. and she knows it. and still the princess is breaking her toys. she’s hurting herself in the process. shattered glass, tiny nails and screws, sharp wooden edges; there is blood on her hands, and it’s only growing worse. staining her dress, pooling on the carpet.

and still, the princess is breaking her toys.

because princesses are expected to behave. because a princess mustn’t make a Scene, even when she feels like her heart has been torn from her chest. she must smile and nod and keep her composure, because if she makes a Scene, then no one will ever take her seriously again.

and so the princess’s destruction is never directed outward. only inward, toward herself, toward the things she loves. the toys she’s spent so long crafting, so long working on, in hopes that she could look on them fondly, or perhaps display them for guests to see.

the toys that now lie in pieces on the floor, covered in her own blood. unsuitable for anything but the incinerator.

the princess blinks, as if seeing the work of her hands for the first time, and then lifts her head. did she hear footsteps in the hall? is one of the maids finally coming?

she waits. and hours pass, without a sound; the light fades from her eyes.

eventually, the princess rises to her feet. the sun went down some time ago; it is now dark, and cold. she moves to her writing desk and lights the lamp, with the stiff motions of a marionette. one finger teases open the diary. the blood gets onto the edges of the pages despite her care.

with no trace of humanity in her expression, she writes.

posts reduced by forty percent. one group deleted. left six other groups.

“it’s still not enough,” the princess murmurs aloud. “it still hurts.”

no one hears.