Midnight. Princesses are sleeping soundly but I'm having a ball. I may not have glass slippers but my black stilettos gaze up at me, shameless. Still beautiful. Still a pair. I would never leave a shoe behind. Silly Cinders. I re-apply a thick layer of liquid eyeliner and lean forward to seal my reflection with a big double-decker-red kiss. Christian Dior is my dark angel tonight, his Midnight Poison sinks gloriously into my flesh. My eyes are black as coal. I smile coyly to myself before draining my glass and letting it smash in the sink. Slinking across the dancefloor I grab two champagne flutes. I take a sip from one and grimace. I never did like champagne. I drink it slowly, my eyes taking in the blur of figures spiralling around me. Putting down my empty glass, I eye the other sceptically. Reaching into my purse, I add a drop of my own personal favourite antidote, almost as an afterthought. Almost. Smiling at the idea of something so unusually subtle, I stir it carefully with my finger. Personally, I've always been more of a Romano Ricci Juliette Has a Gun kinda girl, but I'm warming to this new, nonchalant deceit. I slowly extract my finger and run it across my lips. Closing my eyes I resist the urge to taste it. Well we all like a bit of danger in our lives. Don't we. I stop teasing myself and open my eyes. I slowly make my way over to the bar. Winking at the tanned pelt behind it I hoist my antidote over the bar and let it shatter to the floor. Who can resist a bit of theatrics? Smoke rises and begins to fill the room. I hear someone cough. Deep breaths, sweetheart. Laughing, I scuttle off into the shadows. Cinderella is at home, all alone, fast asleep. Poor thing. She's about to miss the fireworks. It's time to find my Prince.
Try waving your wand now bitch.
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