Monologue Of Cinderella

I know that most of you know the story of my step-sister, Ella. Not Cinderella. Cinderella is the nickname that my sister and I gave to her. Now that I think about it, Cinderella sounds pretty, unless you know what the name really meant.

In the stories, no matter what variation you read, there’s the snobby sister, a cruel stepmother, and the poor, helpless, girl who gets to marry the prince of her dreams.

I’m not the bossy and mean sister the stories portrayed me as.

You are going to see my side of the story. My story.

The name’s Sapphire, by the way.

I remember the time when I, along with my twin sister Evelyn, had to move into the countryside where our mom’s husband lived. It was a huge mansion, with a large, cultivated garden in

My sister refused to enter; she said that she didn’t want to get mud on her shoes and her dress; she stood there on the porch, admiring the view.

Inside the house, there was a living room the size of a small house. There were leather reclining sofas around the fireplace and images of Cinderella with her dad and mom placed on the top shelf. Below the pictures there were books, large and small in ascending

It wasn’t as big as I wanted it to be, but it was decent. There were a king-sized bed and a long cabinet with a circular mirror. After some extreme make-over, like painting the room bright blue, replacing the carpet with laminated wood, and hanging up paintings of myself, I was proud to call this room my own.

Oh, I forgot. How could I not mention Ella and her dad, Nicholas? After all, I lived with them in the same house. My new dad was a strong, firm man. His hair was laced with gray hair, neatly combed to the side. He has short stubble; his blue eyes were always dim and tired and creased a lot whenever he smiles. He worked a lot, so I never saw him until dinner. However, my dad was weak-willed, so Mom dominated him to get everything her own way. He cowered over Mom’s wrath.

Also living with us was my dad’s daughter, Ella. Ella gave out an air of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the way she talked to the farm animals like she knew what they were saying. Perhaps it was because she always wore a plain blue gown, or when she happily did all of the housework when my mom fiercely shouted at her. She was too innocent; she held on to a belief that everything in life would work out if she kept working hard and was nice to