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.
She danced until dawn, and the collar never crossed her mind. cinderella’s glass collar
She was outside, face tilted to the sun, turning her head slowly from side to side, just because she could. So Cinderella raised her hands—rough
And so the collar was made. It was a delicate band of blown glass, cool as a winter stream, that fastened at the back with a tiny silver lock for which only her stepmother held the key. Each morning, Cinderella rose before dawn, and each morning, her stepmother clicked the collar shut around her neck. face tilted to the sun