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"She had hair black as ebony, lips red as the rose, and skin as white as snow. Everyone in the village called her 'Snow White.'" The man read to his daughter, who was sat with her legs crossed and brown eyes wide with wonder.
The story was well worth the itchy sequinned material that was scratching at her shoulders, arms, waist and, well, everywhere else. She hoped that someday, if she tried hard enough, she could become a princess. Yes, she was dressed like one (well, only sort of; she felt more like a warped, cheap Halloween version).
There were still princesses, right? Real princesses?
"Would you stop reading her that nonsense, Dawson?" Mena moaned, finally having finished her makeup and strutting into the room, putting her earrings on. "We're going to be late for the pageant."
At her father's feet, Winter Anderson blinked false eyelashes up at him.
"Do I have to?" she asked in a voice just above a whisper.
Dawson caught a glimpse of his young wife, all curves, makeup and pure, blind wrath. She wasn't someone to mess with, and he was sure -- so sure -- that she had his darling daughter's best interests at heart.
(But, if she did, we wouldn't have this story, now would we?)
"'Fraid so, bug. You know how much this means to her." he answered.
Too much, Winter wanted to say, but knew (even at the age of six) that her step-mother wasn't to be messed with. So, she begrudgingly got up, shook the dreams of princesses and far away kingdoms from her meticulously curled hair, and marched out the door.
Maybe someday I can find out how the story ends, she thought as she watched her father wave goodbye.
ミ ━━━━
She hated these pageants. The grandiose nature of it all was something that little Winter loathed completely, even if she couldn't describe it as such.
Mena wasn't emotionally prepared to be a mother, which was apparent to everyone who was around her for more than five minutes (except, of course, Dawson). She had never bothered growing up herself, it seemed, and, being a woman of only twenty-five, she was quite convinced that she was the be all, end all. No one else -- especially not Winter -- mattered to her.
