It was not heavy. That was the cruelest part. A metal collar would have weighed her down, reminded her of its presence with every sore muscle and aching joint. But the glass collar was light as a whisper. She would forget it was there—until she turned her head too fast and felt the sharp lip of the clasp graze her throat. Until she tried to lift her chin at the dinner table and heard the faint ting as it struck the wooden back of her chair. Until she cried, and the tears slid down the smooth curve of the glass, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone like rainwater in a gutter.
Cinderella took a breath so deep her ribs ached. Then she let her godmother dress her in starlight and silence. cinderella’s glass collar
The godmother touched the collar gently. “The same thing that made it. Intention. Specifically, your intention. You must choose to be free. Not wish it. Not hope for it. Choose it, even if it costs you everything.” It was not heavy
So Cinderella raised her hands—rough, red, honest hands—and wrapped them around her own throat. Around the glass. She did not hesitate. She squeezed. But the glass collar was light as a whisper
The night of the ball, her fairy godmother appeared in a swirl of lavender light. She waved her wand over the mice, the pumpkin, the torn dress. But when she reached for Cinderella’s throat, her magic faltered.
Her stepmother felt it three miles away. The key around her neck grew hot, then cold, then crumbled to rust.