Fairytale

         “And they lived happily ever after.” She closed the book with one graceful flick, something that I was never able to do without getting all the pages crinkled up. I looked up at her with big expecting eyes, waiting for those two words that would mark the end of our magical journey. She smiled at me fondly. And those very same lips parted to officially conclude our story session.



Ironic really, that the only time we have ever treasured the memories of our happiness is when they are taken away from you.



         “That’s so lame,” a third voice deadpanned; the serene moment that had been so tediously crafted, lay in smithereens on the floor, along with the strewn toys that we had to supposedly clean up—but hey, that’s the mother’s job isn’t it?

         “Is not!” I challenged defiantly, glaring at the going-seven year old boy that was perched on the other bed across the room, or at least, the closest to a glare a three-year-old could muster—which was pretty much a pout more than anything else.

         “Is to,” he replied, “They’re always about fairies and princesses,” he grumbled with apparent distaste at my so-called ‘favorites’



Fairytales aren’t always about little fairies in their medieval dresses, though there are mentions of these pixie people here and there. These fairytales are magical, with the ‘once upon a time’ and the ‘faraway lands’.



         “Ooh!” I squealed excitedly. His arm was caged with one of mine, and I proceed to retrieve the object of my glee with my free hand. “I wanna watch this.”

         He took one look at it and grimaced, “No,” he answered, short and curt.

         “Why not?” I whined, sounding like a child who had been refused of candy, or in my case, the movie.

         “We’re too old for that,” he said. He tried tugging at his arm—I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to free it or pull me away, and I honestly didn’t care.

         I pouted visibly, “No we’re not,” I said, “I’m only five years old. And you’re only eight.”

         “Nine,” he corrected with a scowl, giving one last tug and failing to move me.

         “I wanna watch Cinderella,” I said stubbornly, “I’m going to tell daddy to buy it for me if you won’t.”

         He pulled again, and I stubbornly held my ground. A sound came out of his lips, one that sounded of frustration and defeat, “Well, do you want me to buy it or not?”



The best part of any fairytale isn’t the regal tiaras and gowns the princesses get to where, neither the singing animals, nor the fairy godmother with her pumpkin carriage. What I love most about it is the beautiful ending written in perfect scripts.



         “It’s over,” he announced, getting up from the bed and stretching his limbs as the credit rolled through the screen. I sniffed, and wiped the tears from earlier in the movie.

         “Do you want to watch another one?” I asked.

         “No,” he said a bit to quickly, and slapped a hand to his mouth immediately after. “I got homework to do,” he added to reduce the damage,

         “Oh well,” I waved him off, “I’m going to watch another one.”

         “You’ve already watched all of them,” he said, “And aren’t you too old for that?”

         I looked at him with a frown, “Again with the ‘too old for you’ thing. It’s getting old—haha get it? Getting old.” And I didn’t miss how he rolled his eyes at that one.

         “You’re ten now. Stop acting like a three-year-old,” he said, and received me sticking my tongue out as a reply. But he ignored it and continued, “Those stories are delusional. They don’t happen outside the book, or the movie screen, or the computer screen since there’s you tube…or any type of screen for that matter,” he said, “You get the point.”



They give people false hope and yada yada yada. Well for those of you who agree with him about the flawlessness of fairytales—congratulations, you’ve earned yourself the oscar award for not getting delusion by absurd fantasies that does nothing but makes you see how imperfect your lives are.



         “You’re a hypocrite,” I finally answered. Secretly, I was proud to have finally been able to put my recently discovered word to good use.

         He curve one delicate brow, “And how is that so?”



Arguing with me is one thing, but lying to yourself…well, that’s just sad. Deep down in your little black heart, you know I’m right—you want what you deny—you want to have your own fairy godmother with her magic wand, you want prince charming to sweep you off your feet and live your happily ever after (unless you’re a he, who is most probably straight, than you’d probably want to be the one to sweep your beautiful princess of her feet, or prince in case you aren’t straight.)



         He glared at me… because I’m smart like that and he knows that everything I’ve said until now is nothing but the truth in plain black and white. “No,” he denies stubbornly, “Unlike you, I’m not masochist enough to want what I know I can’t have.”



Of course…at that time I still didn’t know the meaning of masochist. But aren’t we all…you know…masochists. Why can’t you just admit that I, being more awesome than you can ever be, am right—follow my instructions—take a few breaths to calm yourself and think this through. And when you finally stop lying to yourself (which is very unhealthy might I add), you are welcome to bow down at my feet and admit to my awesomeness.



         A few minutes in to our staring contest, he admits defeats, “Fine,” he said reluctantly, “Whatever you say.” I couldn’t help but smirk arrogantly. He always gives in…even if he doesn’t bow down to my feet and all that…he still admit to my awesomeness, in an indirect sort of way. They always do.

         “I would want all that fairytale crap to happen—who doesn’t?” he shrugged trying to make his admission not that much of a big deal. “But it doesn’t mean you would have it,” he said and strode out of the room with his battered pride in tow.



He’s right at that part, Cinderella stories and happy endings don’t happen outside the books, or as he said, ‘any type of screen for that matter’. I’m honestly jealous of you—despite your lack of awesomeness and all—that you have someone like as great and considerate as me to break it all down to you…nicely. I on the other hand, have to learn it the hard way.



         I tried my best to hold back the tears… but it was getting harder by the seconds. A big girl, now at thirteen, does not cry over something as stupid as… this… I looked down at the sheet of paper, my name scribbled in the small section on the top left corner. But of more importance is the red splotch that stood out palpably and Mr. Roland found the need to write a small, ‘you could do better’ comment below it.

         ‘I didn’t even pass the half mark’ I thought disdainfully.

         “There you are!” And at that moment, I already felt a little bit better knowing that someone was there to cheer me up—as cliché as that may sound. When I turned to face him, his body tensed, and his smile did a cartwheel.



Because best friends know you better than yourself, and they would always be there when you need their shoulder to cry on.



         “I’m fine,” I said, faking a grin, “I’ve been through worse.” He didn’t seem at all convince, and I mentally braced myself for the onslaught of questions. But before he was given a chance to do so, Mr. Roland’s gruff voice boomed in my ear, “Ah, there you are,” he approached us—or should I say, the person beside me, since he didn’t once look at me.

         “Yes Mr. Roland?” he asked, immediately forgetting my interrogation. Mr. Roland smiled cheekily at him in reply, “I want to personally congratulate you,” he said. The words personally and congratulate has made it a tiny bit harder for me to maintain the indifference on my face. “You have always been my favorite student. Not once in my teaching years have I met anyone as diligent and bright as you,”

         “You are too kind,” and I knew him well enough to know that he was beaming inside.

         “You aced the test yet again, I don’t think that I would have been exaggerating. This is the fourth full score you got this semester, and this one was pretty difficult too.”

         “It was nothing,” he said, joyously accepting the paper with a smile.

         “It wasn’t nothing,” he said, “Keep up the good work,” and with a last pat in the back, he trotted away.

         “Congrats,” I threw in, “Mom would be happy…again,” he was too immersed in his paper to notice the stiffness of my voice. But I couldn’t blame him, I would have been happy too—heck, I would be jumping off the wall if I ever got a mark as close to that only geniuses can achieve.

         Discreetly, I hid the paper behind my back—deciding against ruining his happy moment.



The truth of it is you secretly want to be like the person you call your rival—that’s why you hate them so much, because they have something you want but can’t have. At least, that’s what they say.



It wasn’t raining. It wasn’t dark and glum like I thought it would be…like how it was supposed to be. The sun hung high in the untainted azure sky, feeding of its mellow energy to the trees and flowers that bloom in the summer heat. The laughter of children had all but faded in the coming of their afternoon nap, but the birds had already compensated for that.

         It was strange…seeing how despite everything that had happened, nothing changed.

         Why isn’t it the end of the world?

         

Because it damn well felt like it…



         Numb…that was the only thing I felt that day—or the lack thereof. I felt detached, as if choir of moans and distressed wails had not reached my ear. But it had…though drowned out by the louder agonized thoughts that flooded my dead senses; ‘He’s a liar,’ the voice boomed in my head, ‘A liar. A big fat liar with his pants on fire,’ and the voice tempted me to glare menacingly at the subject of my misery, ‘they were nothing but empty promises.’

         ‘And a thief.’ The voice added, ‘ Yes. The world’s most notorious thief, you’ve even surpassed Robin Hood, the prince of thieves himself.’

After all, what he stole is far more precious than any Leonardo’s Mona Lisa. What did the philosopher say about hope? That it was the only thing left to hold on to when everything else went kapeesh?



That was two years ago… It felt like a lifetime when you’re not having fun…



I got over my emo-phase with a scar free wrist, accepted that it was still a three years early before the apocalypse (since rumors say that the world ends at two thousand twelve) and moved on—or at least try to survive for the next three years.

But there are still some things that will never stay the same…





         My brother died in a car accident when I was fifteen.







Ever since that day, I never let my mother tell me another fairytale.