Cinderella

The clock strikes twelve.

Cinderella starts to run. She runs like her life depends on it; which it pretty much does. Blood that’s not hers is congealed on her hands, the stench of murder is all about her.

One shoe left behind as evidence on the crime scene.

Another shoe ditched somewhere in the dark alleys. Only an inconvenience.

“If I’m back home in time, no one will notice”, she thinks of the perfect alibi.

On and on she runs, her feet getting cuts and scrapes and bloodied with every step. 

She’s escaping miles and miles. Yet her mind is lodged at one place. The shoe on the stairwell, left behind, next to the corpse, as one leaves a paper towel next to an emptied dinner plate- casual, careless, reckless. 

They’ll find me. She thinks. There has to be a way to escape it. They’ll find me and they’ll make me try the shoe. 

There’s only one solution, she decides.

She goes into the kitchen, and picks the butcher’s knife and proceeds to sterilize it. Then, on into the bathroom. She picks up the phone, “Hello, 911? You’re about to have an emergency. Best to keep a wheelchair ready”.

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