Her slipper won’t fit. Her slipper won’t fit. THAT STUPID GLASS SHOE CANNOT FIT HER MANGY FEET. She’s locked in the attic—where she rightly belongs. Her slipper won’t fit. She won’t get out of those deadbolts. I know it. She’s with those disgusting mice. She’s locked away. She’s gone. I disposed of her raggedly hair and sooty body ever so humanely.
I have to control the narrative.
Anastasia and Drizella need everything there is in this disruptive world. They need it more than that blonde with a broom. We will be poverty-ridden without the prince. Where will we get our food? How will the farm carry on? The shoe has to fit those manly girls of mine. Either will do. Why can’t Anastasia have smaller feet? What is wrong with Drizella and her nails-on-a-chalkboard laugh? Why are they so bulky? Why is Cinderella so beautiful? I hate her delicate features. Those blue eyes! I hate her perfect waltz. She is not taking this from us. Never.
I have to control the narrative.