Scarlet's Path.

Can you guess what fairy tale I twisted?

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The warm summer breeze blew around my face, whipping my blonde curls in my face. Some of it sticking in my cherry lip gloss, tainting the ends of it pink. I smelled the tantalizing fragrance of grilled meat, drifting from my neighbors yard. I pulled a strand of grass from the yard and twisted it around my finger, as I fantasized of eating a delicious hotdog. Of sitting around a table with my family, and laughing, and having fun. Of loving each other and loving life. Oh what a dream.

Of course it was never to be true, I would never be happy. It is a fact I have long come to terms with. I will forever be stuck, like a piece of gum, when it finds its way onto the bottom of your shoe. I will be gummed, to my own personal shoe. In this case, it would be a two bedroom shack. The worst house, on a beautiful street, in a tiny town.

I guess I should mention a bit about me. My name is Scarlet Genevieve Reynolds. I am 14 years old, I think. I know my birthday is August 29, 1999. But I don't really know what year or date it is today. That sounds strange, but there is not way I would know. I don't own any electronics, nor do I leave the house. I am 14, but I never been to school. Or the grocery. I have heard of sports and games, but never played them. I never really had any toys growing up. I never have had much of anything.

I can only remember leaving this house I call prison three times, since my mother died when I was three. Three was when my life began to waste away. It was the year my mother died. They year my father remarried my wicked stepmom. She, my real mother, drank herself to death. My father says she was an amazing woman, who loved us very much. She just couldn't handle the pressure of life. We were broke. I still hate her for it. We were broke, but she scraped up enough money to buy enough drinks to give her alcohol poisoning. Money that could've bought us of food.

Sometimes I just sit and think about food. Mostly candy, which I haven't had since I was 7. I think about pastas with cheese and garlic bread and rich tomato sauce. I think of potatoes, baked and drenched in butter. I think about steak, fresh off the grill, perfectly marinated. I think about lollipops and gumdrops. A land of candy, far from here. A land where the trees are made of candy canes and the lakes are filled with chocolate milk. It sounds splendid.

I have a lot of time to dream and think. Considering there is nothing to do around here. Cordelia, the definition of evil stepmother, forbids me to leave the house. Why? I do not know. I believe her insides are so broke. So dark and corrupted, that they cannot be fixed. She is the Grinch in the form of a woman. Once, I asked for a second piece of pizza, and she locked my in a closet for an hour. She said I should be grateful she gave me one.

She sounds like a hideous old witch, but she's actually not. She is hideous on the inside, but I cannot bring myself to confess the same about her outward appearance. She is tall, skinny, jet black hair, emerald green eyes. She used to be a very successful model, but then none of the agents would put up with her anymore. Then she resorted to sucking up all the money my father makes. He is a architect, so he makes a decent amount. He is gone for weeks at a time though, and while he is gone, Cordelia spends all the money on shoes and purses, locking us in the basement.

Why doesn't my father step in? Why does he allow it to happen? I never have understood the answer myself. I guess, in his own way, he is trying to protect us. He doesn't want to world o tear us down, like it did to my mother. Or maybe he really does hate us, and wants to watch us suffer. But the conclusion I find most reasonable is that he is simply oblivious. He loves Cordelia so much, and craves normalcy so much, that he is willing to overlook anything, just to get it, to get her. His mind has put up a barrier, filtering out the bad things and only letting in the ones that help his perfect life, with his perfect wife.

The neighbors don't even know we exist. Same for the police man that rounds our block every morning at 5:00 AM, I know because that is the one hour she lets me upstairs. in the wee hours of the morning. I also know that the owner of the sandwich shop two blocks from here, the preacher at the local church she goes to every Sunday, and the principal of the district school, do not know we are trapped in this hellhole.

When I say "we", I do not mean the voices in my head, (I don't have any, mind you). And I do not mean the endless book characters I call my family and friends. I don't even mean the thousands of roaches, spiders, and other creepy crawleys who inhabit the same home as me. No, I mean my twin brother, Skylar.

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