Chapter 1: The Perfect Girl No More

Author's Note: Listen to Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls while reading this chapter and in the marked "→" part listen to Washing Machine Heart by Mitski

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Chapter 1: The Perfect Girl No More

"God, if you're listening, I have just one question. Of all the Disney princesses, why Cinderella?"

They gripped my arms like iron shackles and kept on pulling me backward, step by step. My feet dragged along the floor, crouched low in a desperate attempt to slow them down, but their strength overpowered me; their grip was too strong, and their movement was relentless, almost their nails piercing deeply into my arms.

My legs strained against the pull, but all I could do was dig my heels into the ground, hoping for just one moment to resist or one word to stop this.

"Why couldn't I have been Moana? Someone with a supportive family, with people who believed in me. Why did I have to fight every single day just to prove my own worth, only for no one to acknowledge me—despite all these years of effort?"

My eyes locked on my mothers, searching and pleading for her help—a sign or a movement, at least. Anything that indicated she was on my side, but she didn't move or even speak. She just stood there—her face frozen in that tight mask of conflict I'd never seen before: conflict. 

For as long as I could remember, she'd always been resolute—her expressions were always firm and unyielding. But now, in this moment, the frigid curse was broken, throwing off her mask. 

Her eyes darted between me and the hands pulling me away. Her lips frantically parted like she wanted to say something but didn't know how. And for the first time, I saw it—she cared, truly, deeply cared.

But it was too late. 

"I'm my own fan, my own believer. So why couldn't you have made me a side character—left alone, free to chase my dreams without resistance? Why did you have to mix in the worst twist of Cinderella's pathetic life of servitude, trapping me in a story I never wanted to be part of?"

Each step they dragged me back felt heavier, like the ground itself was pulling me further from her. My chest felt like someone had planted a boot on it, pressing down harshly and relentlessly. My throat tightened, trembling with the intensity of a cry that clawed its way upward but refused to escape. The sounds around me shifted into a deep, muffled hum, like hearing the world through thick headphones—present but distant, as though it belonged to someone else. And yet, none of it mattered. My gaze was anchored to her, my mother.

I wanted to hate her. 

She had never understood my dream, never supported it. Always a quiet, dismissive nod whenever I dared to bring it up. 

Yet … she was my mother. 

She was supposed to fight for me, wasn't she? She was supposed to stop them or even pull me back, but she never did. Her hands stayed limp at her sides, and her voice never came.

However, her eyes looked at me like they were torn apart, like she wanted to reach for me but couldn't. 

A tear slipped down my cheek, and another followed ensuite, warm, unrelenting, and silent. The weight of my mother's betrayal sank deeper with every step back. I wanted to scream at her, beg her, and demand why she wouldn't fight for me, but I couldn't force the words out. My body felt numb even as their hands bruised my arms with their tight grip.

I tried to hold her gaze, to make her see me, but even that connection started to wave as the distance grew between us. My mother's figure began to blur through the veil of tears. But I could still see it—the conflicted emotions in its glory, raw and unguarded. If it were any other moment, I would have cared, but in this moment, it didn't matter anymore. 

I was swallowed whole by an ocean of ink, my body weightless yet sinking, drowning its endless depths. The darkness coiled around me like serpents, slithering into every crevice, staining my skin, seeping into my lungs until every breath felt like suffocation. I had no choice but to surrender, to let the shadows script my fate in ink I could never erase. 

Bound by unseen chains, I would become a puppet of the dark, forced to dance to its unyielding rhythm—my own voice drowned beneath the heavy silence of obedience.

The muffled sounds grew louder, like they were closing in, but I couldn't focus on them. All I could feel was the ache, sharp and deep, slicing through me as they took me away. 

One step farther. Then another. And another. With each step, it felt like a piece of me was breaking off, crumbling into the void between me and my mother. 

When I finally blinked, she was gone—vanished like a fleeting ghost, leaving me all alone to fend off the monsters. They closed in with their claws disguised as hands and grip unyielding as a rusted bolt as they dragged me forward. Heartless and unrelenting, they knew nothing of consent, only the satisfaction of marching me toward my doom. 

They threw me into a room—a prison in my grandparents' house. The heavy door clicked shut behind me with their illusion of freedom. 

My gaze darted toward the window—my only hope to be met with cold, unforgiving steel that framed it. The metal bars crisscrossed like a woven net, trapping me inside, making sure no one could climb in—or out. 

There was no way out, no way to scream for help. Just me, trapped in this suffocating space like a bird with clipped wings, waiting for the day they would sell me off like an object, as if my life belonged to them.

I sank to the floor, my back pressed against the door as if it could somehow hold me together. Rivulets of tears spilled from my eyes as the weight of fate settled over me like a suffocating fog. 

I wanted to scream, to curse them for what they were doing—but I knew better. I had learned, over time, that screaming only made me their punching bag, their outlet for frustration.

A shiver ran through me, goosebumps prickling my skin as I wrapped my arms around myself and curled into a ball, as if making myself smaller could somehow make me disappear.

My family never cared about my opinion. All they wanted was a wedding—any wedding—since there wasn't one happening anytime soon. I was too old, too independent, too free simply because I worked abroad, unlike them. And in their eyes, that meant I was too rich.

So they did this out of spite, out of envy.

They wanted me to live the same life they did—the same misery, the same poverty—by marrying me off to a man who would force me to stay at home—just because he is a doctor—just because he came from a so-called "good family".

Bullshit. 

A good family doesn't make a good man, and he was the proof of that; he criticized everything I did. I rejected him—loud and clear, right in front of them, yet my uncle's wife decided to fan the flames, filling their heads with high hopes and twisted logic, convincing everyone that he was somehow the right choice.

The worst part? He had already proposed to my cousin before me, and she refused him—but no one blamed her for it, and no one forced her.

But now, because I was too "free-spirited", they were tossing their unwanted trash at me, expecting me to take it—as if my consent was an inconvenience. 

To make it more disgusting, he didn't care who he married, as long as it was someone from this damn household. He was probably eyeing some inheritance, like a vulture circling carcass.

Joke's on him—there was nothing to inherit. My grandfather had already distributed his wealth while he was alive, giving it away to other families. By the time he died, he left nothing for my grandmother, my mother, and her siblings—not a single dime.

The house? A crumbling relic, untouched by proper maintenance for over seventy years. Any so-called "fixing" was nothing more than a fever dream—fleeting, half-baked attempts that did nothing to stop its slow decay. 

Holes in the walls gaped like open wounds. Chipped paint peeled away in jagged strips, revealing the sickly, brittle concrete beneath. The breeze carried the scent of damp rot, a reminder that time had already won this battle. Even the outdoor Besser blocks, the ones lining the entrance, had started breaking apart, little by little, like teeth slowly falling out of an old, dying man. The windows? Their shattered glass had been "repaired" with nothing but cheap tape, barely holding them together, barely keeping out the biting cold.

No one in their right mind would buy it.

Moreover, the so-called "land" he owned? A useless patch of dirt, wedged between two houses with no direct road leading to it. You'd have to trespass through someone else's property just to reach it. And even if a fool managed to get there, what would they find? Dying crops and shriveling plants. 

It was a barren wasteland that couldn't even grow hope, let alone anything worth selling. 

The nightmare didn't end yet. 

Even the small, crumbling house that sat in the middle of it all was barely holding itself together. Inside, the stench of dampness and decay clung to the air, seeping into the walls like an infection. At the far end, behind a flimsy, creaking door, stood the so-called "bathroom"—no modern plumbing—just an old squat toilet. Who in their right mind would live like this? Who would willingly squat over that?

→

"They are coming again tomorrow morning. You need to marry in the name of religion," my uncle's wife spoke through the door, her voice dripping with forced righteousness.

A slow, crawling silence stretched between us.

Then I giggled.

Soft. Sweet. Perfect. 

Like a girl who had just heard something delightful. 

Like the girl my mother and society had forced me to be.

Then I giggled again—a little louder.

And then again.

And again.

Until it spiraled into laughter—light, airy, and harmless.

Or at least, that's what she thought.

I clutched my stomach, rocking slightly as the giggles turned into grasps.

Then nothing.

Stillness. 

A terrible, aching stillness. Pure. Deafening. Suffocating. 

The kind that makes the air feel thick, like it's curdling—like it's waiting for something awful to happen.

My head knocked back against the door, once, twice—each thud sending a strange, rhythmic comfort through me.

Behind the door, I heard a small shuffle, a breath catching—a tiny, fragile sound.

Good.

"In the name of religion?" I murmured, my voice lilting like I was savoring the words and in the gentlest, most polite tone.

It was barely above a whisper. Soft. Innocent. Perfect.

I ran a hand through my hair, fisting a chunk and tugging hard until sharp little sparks of pain shot through my scalp. It helped ground me, kept me from slipping too far.

She thought she could fool me. 

She thought I didn't see through the filth of her hypocrisy. 

Me?

I knew religion better than she ever could. 

I knew that stalling the distribution of inheritance for two years, stealing what was never hers, was a sin. That pocketing money meant for others was a sin. That lying, manipulating, and trapping me like a caged animal was a sin.

But somehow, she had convinced herself that forcing me into marriage against my will was sacred.

I grinned, wide—too wide. My lips stretched so far I swore they would tear.

Maybe they should.

Wouldn't that be something? To smile so hard it bled?

My fingers twitched, itching to scratch at my arms, to dig deep, and to carve out the frustration burning inside me. 

But no, no! She'd like that, wouldn't she? To see me crumble? To make me weak? 

I could feel her relaxing, just slightly—she recognized this voice: the proper voice.

Then just as she began to breathe—

I let out a slow sigh—then pressed my forehead against the door, close enough for her to feel me. 

I smacked my palm against the door. Hard. 

She gasped and stumbled back. 

Perfecto. Gotcha, Auntie. 

My voice dropped into a whisper, almost childlike yet so, so softly. "Tell me something, Auntie … are you sure that's why you're doing this?"

I tilted my head with my smile curling like a cat's tail—a game, a puzzle. Let's see if she could put it together before she broke apart.

A breath. A pase. A telltale crack in her certainty.

"I-I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice faltering.

I sighed, disappointed that her aunt turned out to be stupid and not a worthy opponent. 

I shook my head slowly. 

"Y-You always were g-good," her aunt fumbled. "A-Abroad, isn't it? They–they have brainwashed you. W-What is freedom they always speak of? T-Tradition is th-the w-way of life. You are from here but not from abroad."

I traced gentle, slow circles against the wood with my fingertips.

"You thought I'd always be polite, didn't you?" I asked curiously. "You thought I'd always smile—always obey. Always be … what do you call it 'perfect'?"

I let out a breathy chuckle—light, sweet, and polite.

The kind of laugh she was used to.

Then I twisted it. My smile widened—as wide as a Cheshire smile.

My voice dropped: cold, sharp, and almost bored.

"But you never stopped to think, Auntie …" I murmured, tilting my head. "What if I was just pretending? Just like you?"

The air changed.

Her aunt whimpered. Actually whimpered.

I smirked. Oh, Auntie, you were the one who made me like this. Now, you're afraid, aren't you?

I sighed happily, stepping away from the door.

"Does God forgive thieves? Or is that privilege for you?" I mused.

Silence. 

Another breath. Sharp this time. The kind that meant fear.

Perfect.

But then she snapped, "Y-You ungrateful little—"

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through, clinging to rage like it was her last defense. "I'm older than you! You shouldn't speak to me in that way! I will call your mom," she spat, her words trembling with something dangerously close to hysteria. "The disrespect!"

I grinned. "Oh, Auntie …"

"I mean … religion is such a fragile thing, isn't it?" I let the words hang as my knuckles rapped against the door—once, twice—each knock like a ticking clock, slow and patient. "So many rules. So many things that are … sins."

A choked breath. 

I smiled. 

She was listening. She was afraid.

I dragged my nails down the wood—slow and agonizing, just enough to make the sound slither into her ears—just like a predator clawing to get out.

"Like stealing," I whispered, "and lying."

A loud thud. 

She had stumbled back.

"N-No, listen—" her voice cracked. 

There it was: the stammering and the doubt. 

"This–this was not my doing—"

I let out a sharp, mocking gasp.

Then I asked sweetly, politely, like I was asking about the weather, "Oh, Auntie … is it greed or pride that's got you in its claws? Or maybe both?"

I let the words drip slow, deliberate, curling into the cracks of her certainty like smoke.

She didn't answer, but silence had its own language, and right now, it was screaming.

Then a sharp, frantic shuffle. 

She was scared. 

Amazing. 

"That's not true!" She barked, voice rising. "I–I was–I was just—it was your uncle—your uncle was the one handling everything!"

Oh, she was already breaking.

I giggled, slow and syrupy. "Ah, yes. There it is."

"What?" She snapped.

"The blame," I said simply. "Shifting it. Redirecting it. Classic."

A pause. Then a furious hiss, "It was his idea!"

A smile unfurled on my lips, languid and poisonous—the kind that drips honey while hiding the sting of a dagger.

"Does God only care whose idea it was?"

Silence—a deep, hollow kind of silence.

I leaned forward, my breath just a whisper against the door.

"Auntie," I murmured, "you do know there is hell, don't you?"

Another inhale: ragged and uncertain.

"You—"

"You must," I pressed, "because you're always talking about sin, about righteousness." I let my voice drop, rich with something dark. "But what happens when you're the sinner?"

She didn't answer. 

I smiled.

"You know, Auntie …" I let my fingers drag down the wood, slow and lazy, "some people say hellfire is just a metaphor."

A pause. 

"But … I don't think so." I let the words seep into her, like smoke curling through cracks. "I think it's real. I think it burns, hotter than anything you could ever imagine."

I tilted my head, listening to her breath: shallow and uneven.

"Do you know what happens to thieves in the afterlife, Auntie?"

I could feel it—her fear thick in the air. 

"Flesh melting, bones cracking, and it never stops."

A choked sound. 

I giggled—static and sharp, like a voice note corrupted with glitches, skipping over syllables in ways that weren't quite natural.

"Can you feel the fire already?"

She let out a strangled noise, somewhere rage and terror.

"Y-You're insane," she spat, voice shaking.

I sighed. "Maybe."

Then I softly said, "Good night, Auntie."

I sank into the mattress, the ghost of a smile on my lips while she stood alone—trapped in the inferno of her own making—whispering sins she could never wash away and the flames licking at her conscience. 

I sighed as if the weight of the world had lifted—because no one would believe her, not against me.

Not against the perfect girl I spent years becoming.

I turned my head slightly, catching my reflection on the shiny wooden surface. The girl stared back—polite, obedient, and sweet. The girl they had all shaped, the mask they had all trusted.

A doll crafted with careful hands, lips always curled into a demure smile.

But deep beneath the glass, something else stared back.

Not broken. Not defeated. Waiting.

Because this wasn't the end. 

I would not be the one caged.

They would, and I would be the one holding the key.