Prince Charming is supposed to save the princess.
That's how it always goes in stories.
When the fair maiden is buried in utter wretchedness, at her very lowest point, the hero swoops in gallantly and saves the day.
And then together, they live happily ever after.
The end.
But that doesn't happen in real life.
In real life, there are no wealthy princes pining for the commoner girl they fell in love with as a child or gentle noblemen who fell at first sight for a flower seller on the streets.
When the damsel is in distress, nobody comes to save her. Instead of a flowery life filled with love and happiness, she wallows in misery until the day she dies an early death.
I know because I've seen it firsthand.
As a powerless little girl, I watched as the world's most beautiful flower wilted and faded away. I could do nothing but stand outside the thick stone walls that separated us as she lay abandoned and dying.
Where was Prince Charming when she was buried in utter wretchedness? Why did no hero swoop in to save her when she was at her lowest?
Because, as I've already said before, that doesn't happen in real life.
My name is Opaline, or the Scandal Maker, as you may have heard. It's because of the profession I've taken up of crafting devious revenge schemes against all those wealthy princes and handsome noblemen.
They say that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?
Oh, you better believe it.
With my help, hundreds of mistreated young ladies (and even some older ladies; justice doesn't discriminate) have successfully ruined a pathetic man's reputation.
The pay for my work is nothing to scoff at, but the best part of my job is watching those men's stupid little faces as their whole life crumbles down around them. In a world where women have no more civil rights than a bookcase, these scandals became a sort of victory for me and my own kind—a way to fight back against our oppressors, using their own stuffy rules against them.
Yes, the life of the kingdom's number one gossip girl is incredibly fulfilling. But, unfortunately, that's not where my story starts. Before I was Opaline, the infamous Scandal Maker, I was simply Opal Hayes, the poor Baron's daughter.
Together with my parents and older sister, I lived a simple but joyful life. My father worked hard as the only man in the house to provide for three women, a situation deemed despicable by the misogynistic society around us.
In spite of it all, however, our humble home was always filled with laughter and fresh bread. Together, we were happy… or at least, that's how I remember it being.
That happiness lasted for the first eight years of my life, until the unthinkable happened.
It was a sunny autumn day, full of promise and warmth, when we heard the news. My sister, Marigold (who I think was around sixteen years old), and I were trotting giddily back from the market, carrying a sack of fresh-picked apples.
My father had received a small bonus that month at the docks where he worked, so my family decided to celebrate with a juicy, delectable treat. I adored the sweet flavor of apples back then, though after that day, I could no longer stomach even looking at them.
We saw the smoke while we were still five streets away from ours.
We heard the screaming when we were three streets away.
And when we nervously rushed to the end of our beloved little Brookse Street, all we could see were smoldering piles of debris.
The news sources were divided on what actually happened. Some said it was an accidental fire that swept viciously through the wooden houses. Others insisted that a bomb had been planted by loan sharks or other unsavory characters.
By the end of it, however, only one thing was known for certain.
The two sole survivors of Brookse Street were Mari and Opal Hayes.
Every single other resident had either been devoured by flames or disappeared elsewhere without a trace.
For quite a while, my sister entertained my own imaginings that our parents were in the latter half of that group—that they had noticed the bomb and gone into hiding to protect us.
And that soon, they would come back for us.
"Have you been at Brookse again?" I recall Mari scolding me one day when I returned with a coating of soot over my entire body.
"I have to keep looking!" I had childishly insisted, crossing my arms. "Mom and Dad might have left a message for us! A way to find them!"
It was a story that Mari had put up with dozens of times, but on that particular day, she finally snapped.
"Enough, Opal!" she shouted, slamming her fists against the rickety table, sending the mice running with terrified squeaks.
"Mom and Dad are gone, okay?" she growled through clenched teeth. "They aren't coming back, and there is no way to find them. So why don't you just grow up?!"
I remember tears welling up in my eyes and yelling back to my sister that our parents would be so disappointed in her. After that, I ran out of the house, back to my beloved Brookse Street, and slept in a pile of ash where our house once stood.
It was only later that I realized how sharp those words of mine had been.
Mari, who was doing her utmost to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, already knew how disappointed our parents would be if they could see our shabby living conditions.
After the fire, Mari tried her best to find some way to make money, but it was almost impossible for a woman to work a proper job without the backing of a male guardian. As a result, my once beautiful and carefree sister began to slave away at odd and strenuous jobs every day, doing everything she could to earn even a few coins.
Looking back, I always wondered why she never asked me to go with her. There were certainly things an eight-year-old could have done to ease part of her burden and keep me out of trouble at the same time.
The only answer I could settle on is that Mari, my dearest, most precious sister, was trying to protect that tiny bit of magic left in my life. Before the world crushed my spirit the way it had crushed hers, she wanted me to enjoy my childhood.
All the same though, reality came for me too.
The morning I finally returned to my sister, now covered in a second layer of soot, I lost the only important thing left in my life.
Mari was gone.