Inside the stone castle, a woman's cries rang through the cold halls. Sat in a pink blanket-y lump atop her canopied bed, Cerise let her mascara run down her rosy cheeks, snot drip onto her upper lip, and thick saliva form strings as she wailed. She wasn’t regularly pretty, so when her husband-to-be, the prince, walked into her tissue-strewn room and caught sight of her state of hysteria, he was appalled by her already plain face, now pitiful. She wiped her irritated eyes in an attempt to process what had just occurred, but her thinking was promptly interrupted.

"What a mess, Cerise! Do you even care what people may think?!" the prince chided.

She mustered a whisper of a response, "Sorry."

"Whatever could have caused this?" he asked, displeased.

The evening flooded back into her head. Cerise stood behind a marble column, face pressed up against the smooth surface, eyes watching the prince. Her mind was telling her that he was better than this. But she was beyond convincing when his lips met those of another woman, her sister.

Her mind returned to her girlish room, the lump in her throat growing heavier as the seconds ticked by.

Finally, she choked out, "Am I not good enough for you?"