FitzWilliam Darcy. Prince Charming. The lot of handsome gentlemanly protagonists. Why are they such fiction? And by such fiction I mean fiction of the most damaging kind. At least for me.
My mother lied to me. My beautiful fine-boned mother with green slanty witch eyes and long fingers told me these stories, read them to me in the cradle. It wasn't her fault, I don't think she knew when she was weaving them into me.
But I know she knows now. I see the shadows of regret clouding her eyes when she looks at me. I see her replay in her mind my beauty fading, my body expanding. That she loves me with quiet sadness cracks my heart. Just another brittle chip. Chip chip crack crack cracks, like a windshield of an old American car.
The cruelty of indifference is never explained to children.
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