#8 Make the Slipper Fit
Apr 16th, 2008 by doing better
Even if we have big, ugly feet, it is good practice to cut off our ugly big toe to fit into the dainty glass slipper. If we fail to do this, we risk losing the prince (who will not consider marrying any but the most beautiful, servile girl with the smallest feet) and missing out on a life of luxury in the palace, with the common people watching our every move and admiring our glorious existence.
As we follow the prince to his carriage, limping with our mutilated foot crammed into the glass slipper, of course we worry that someone will notice our bloody footprints. There is something shameful about bloodstains, which inevitably remind people of menstruation.
There will be a horrified outcry as soon as anyone spots the blood and pulls off our shoe. The game will be up. “Off with her head!” the dishonored prince will shout.
Instead we sit in the carriage and make small talk with the prince, who seems to think we are someone else.
“You were so lovely last night,” he says.
It is best to say nothing. We are terrified to speak in case we say the wrong thing.
“How splendid that you keep your own counsel,” says the prince. “I hate those girls who chatter on about nothing.”
The carriage bumps over the cobblestones, and we think of how we shall have to cut up our other foot. The prince will undoubtedly have a whole armada of tiny slippers made for us. The glass slipper has filled with blood, and the blood has spilled onto the floor of the carriage.
“I hope you are happy to be married tonight?” asks the prince. “I have had every tailor in the kingdom sewing your wedding dress since dawn. I remembered that you were a size zero.”
We nod faintly and stare out the window of the carriage, catching a last glimpse of the free world.
When we arrive at the palace, we limp up the grand steps. Our carved-up foot is slippery with blood. Before, we could hardly cram it into the slipper; now we can hardly keep the shoe on.
“But darling!” exclaims the prince. “Is that blood on your foot?”
“It’s nothing,” we say in desperation, speaking for the first time. “A blister from the dancing. You are such a fine dancer.”
“My precious dear,” he says. “You must stay quiet and rest in your room. I’ll tuck you away where no one else can see you.”
“The glass slipper,” we say. “It is not the most comfortable shoe.”
He frowns. “Oh, but it brought us together! You must be sure to wear it always.”
In our pink and silver bedroom, fit for a princess, we wrap our foot in a bandage to contain the blood. To our horror, the bandaged foot does not fit into the slipper. We have no choice but to saw off our little toe with a silver letter opener.
We don’t know what to do with the little toe. We fear the servants will find it in the silver wastebasket, so we swallow it. Now the slipper fits.
We sit at the window and watch the square below as evening settles. People gather with their families in a vast crowd like a fair, with singing and dancing and games. As darkness falls they light candles and turn their faces to the palace, waiting to behold our ascension.