Even the happiest ending fairy tales are rooted in nightmares, twisted into more pleasant versions that entertained children and lured them into false pretenses. Fairy tales were stories designed only to plant invasive seeds of unrealistic expectations in little girls' imaginations. Notions that handsome princes existed and fought away the monsters, swept princesses off their feet, and lived happily ever after in reality were simply... lies.
I should know. I lived the life of one daily. On the surface, my life looked like a fairy tale, but every day was a nightmare. And every day got worse, like a time bomb ticking down to explode.
"Mirror, mirror, on my... dresser." I sat down with a sigh and looked at the reflection I altered today. "Who the fuck am I?"
The face of a stereotypical princess, a beautiful, delicate shell masking an empty interior, stared back at me underneath layers of today's experimental makeup. My clear, light blue eyes were tinted with green striations. They clashed with the dark purple cat-eye makeup I attempted, poorly by the uneven smudges at the corners of my eyes. Based on my nose crinkling, this attempt belonged in the 'fail' category.
My eyes shifted in color. Most often they were a clear aquamarine color, but their reflection offered no insight into answering my question. If I looked close enough, the only blemishes on my face were a smattering of a few light freckles on my pale, nearly porcelain-like cheeks.
Plum-colored lips puckered and pursed as I looked over the rest of my body. My skin was pale, waist small, hips and breasts meh, arms and legs stick-like, and my light blonde hair was long and straight. Had I been tall enough and my father permitted me to work, then I would've pursued modeling. But, like everything else in my life, he hadn't permitted such an indulgence.
Every day that I saw this princess' reflection, every day I pretended I altered my appearance to be anyone else, I cursed the day I was born. Every day I saw myself was a reminder that I lived and they died.
My mother. My brother.
I was told that my mother's story was in our family history books as an exceptional, enchanting, strong, and powerful warrior of a woman.
So I've heard.
I'd never known for myself. She died after I was born and lost my brother after.
She had one moment of weakness and lost too much blood during labor with us. Yes, twins. Both of us had our birth cords wrapped around our necks. I was born first but, due to complications, my brother's birth was delayed.
By the end of the day, I survived and he didn't. Not a day in my life passed that I didn't wish our circumstances had been reversed. My father shared the same sentiments based on his cold demeanor to me.
Perhaps my face is a daily reminder to him of what our family's lost.
The single piece of knowledge I had of my brother was his name, Soloman. It translated to King. My father always knew what he was doing, his sharp mind always planning ten steps ahead. On the surface, he was the CEO of the most prominent global pharmaceutical company. He technically retired from that business, stepped aside eight months ago after he ran the entire company's operations for thirty years and focused more on 'the family business.'
He never told me, no one had, but I suspected his secret.
We lived in two worlds. One pretend world was artificial, surface-level projections for the sake of appearances. The other, underlying world revealed the real, truthful world. It was the world my father controlled and thought he had hidden from me.
His world, not mine, was the world I wanted nothing to do with.
My father never shared any details with me, but any idiot could have spotted the signs. He moonlighted as a mafia king. His pharmaceutical company fronted for illegal drug production. And not street-level drugs like cocaine or heroin, his pharmaceutical company manufactured drugs on another level.
Based on our lifestyle and size of his security team, business was good. My father owned eighteen Aston Martins, multiple homes, and we lived in a compounded mansion with heavily guarded security.
I earned my education through private tutors favoring science classes like chemistry, and my father insisted on daily self-defense training. I wasn't sure what my education level was, past high school but not yet through college.
All personnel here were held to a strict schedule, out of fear of my father. They weren't permitted to hold eye contact with either of us and all 'conversations' with him were 'yes, Sir' mumbled or muttered in submission.
Including mine.
Under normal circumstances, I appeared to live the perfect life of a princess. Our expansive mansion sat on perfectly manicured lawns and my closet was the size of a normal teenager's bedroom filled with designer clothing. My canopy bed was lined with the finest linens, private artwork hung on my bedroom walls, and my assigned 'team' included a housekeeper, stylist, private tutors, chef, personal trainer, and twenty-four-seven security guards.
Yet, for all of the people that revolved in and out of my day, I was alone. Other than my laptop, with limited access, I had a vanity mirror that stared back at me.
No glamour existed in this life.
I had no friends, rarely saw my father, and was never permitted to leave the mansion alone. I spent all my personal time alone, trapped within my own imagination. Left to my own devices and filled in the gaping holes my father poked into my life.
Every day of my life was scheduled and regimented. I woke at six a.m., met with my personal trainer, ate breakfast, attended morning lessons, ate lunch, afternoon lessons, self-defense training, showered, ate dinner, enjoyed an hour of 'free time,' then completed shooting lessons before bedtime.
My time was never free in the sense that I left the mansion on my own accord. Within the twelve-foot high perimeter, I was allowed personal reading time in the library, controlled internet access, swimming in the pool, shooting in the range, and walking around the mansion.