The home that once illuminated under the sunlight--that once sheltered her mother's radiant smile--reduced itself to a darkened shadow of its past, housing nothing more than the small girl who clung to her storybooks with weary hands.
Her thin finger pressed against the binding of one of these very same novels, carefully slipping it back onto the shelf on which it could once more sleep, until boredom would once more creep into the young medusa's mind.
The soft curls brushed against the back of her dress as she briskly turned on her heels, her eyes glancing over towards the window before she immediately peeled them away once more, fixating her attention on the broom that stood against the wall instead. After curling her fingers around it, she sucked her lower lip in--the handle that towered over her swaying in the air whilst she anxiously tried to rid the wooden floor of pesky dust.
Nearly all of the stories verbalized the same ideas: a lone maiden would be saved from her despair by a kindhearted prince.
With a disheartened sigh, she shook her head--hoping to rid the cliche thought out of her mind--before setting the cleaning tool back where she'd snatched it from.
It would only be befitting if the place she was born wound up to be the very same place she died.
Rubbing her irritated eyes with the ball of her hand, Mary collapsed to her knees--paying little mind to the harshness of the solid floor against her legs.
Without someone else to care for the home, the frivolous chores fell upon the shoulders of the small girl, though her work could hardly compare to her preceder.
Her ears perked at the sound of a knock, her posture instantly straightening itself as though she'd be scolded for slouching, even if for only a second. Had it been her imagination?
Blinking, she scrambled back up onto her own two feet--startled once it echoed for the second time.
The 154-centimetre-tall girl absentmindedly extended her hand outward--the tips of her toes shuffle forward--before she froze in her place once more. A third thud.
The familiar face she'd longed to reappear could never be the one that stood behind the oak door. Rather, it was most likely just a determined animal, hoping to find shelter in what appeared to be an abandoned building.
Squinting her eyelids shut, as if preparing for the fourth, found themselves quickly unwrinkling themselves, half-way disappointed to find the creature must have already given up.
The sunlight that flooded into the room forced Mary to shield her pupils behind her hand--her arm risen up as her head simultaneously turned away. The silhouette of a young man mirrored itself in the shade that painted itself onto the planks of the floor, and as soon as her large orbs finally adjusted to the unfamiliar shine, she found herself hiding behind her bookshelf to the best of her ability--her pale hair and right eye peeking out from behind it.
The intruder's locks were the complete opposite of her own, inked a deep, raven colour. His attire seemed little different--black--almost seamlessly blending in amongst itself.
There was no mistaking it: this was hardly one of her stories.
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