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Fairytale Twilight: Cinderella

Summary:
Modern retelling of Cinderella, with a Twilight twist. Bella, the adopted daughter of rich singer Rosalie, has been forced to life the hard way - she has to do all sorts of chores for her evil sep-mom and step-sisters. When she hears that the idol of her dreams, the famous pop singer and dancer Edward, is hosting a masked ball to determine his partner, Bella will do anything to get there...


Notes:
So read it, and enjoy! It doesnt take much to review, really - just clicking and typing "wow" or "ew" or "crap". Seriously, please r&r and hope you like it! Luv, Ash


1. When Life Is This Terrible

Rating 3.5/5   Word Count 2779   Review this Chapter

“Bella!!!!” the dully nasal voice rang through the halls.

Everywhere the ragged girl looked, she saw the shiny, gleaming timber surfaces of the kitchen, and the polished plane of the white and tiled floor, or the blinding glittering tops of the walls and utensils hanging from the steel rack. The nasal voice reverberated off the shiny surfaces, and she straightened her back a little after hunching and dragging the floor mop over the already spotless flooring. The room was light and square – the east wall had attached wooden cupboards and a white refrigerator, tall and huge. The cupboards were made of light, smooth kind of wood, with thin cylindrical tube of bronzy steel, gleaming and twinkling. A metre away from it was an island bar, white plastic and perfectly rectangular, not touching any walls but big enough to accommodate a stove on the extreme right and a stow-under dishwasher, and a flat, undisturbed stretch of white on top. From the pale ceiling hung steel racks from which hung all sorts of cutlery and utensils, all spotless and clean. The north wall had a door right in the middle, facing the south wall which was just plain glass, allowing in a huge view of the green forest, and the cheerful rays of much missed sunshine. The west wall was occupied by a large pre-heat oven and an alcohol bar – bottles of all sorts of colours and sizes were stacked on the many planes of wood, and another small island was there, much larger than the other, but decent enough.

“BELLA?!?!” screeched the nasal voice again.

The sound of heels on the floor filled the kitchen, and in teetered an unbelievably ugly woman – she was probably 5’10”, her lame brown hair stiff with hairspray and streaked to death, pulled into a ponytail, her skin was creamy and a little pale, her blue eyes glittering. Her eyes were a tad puffy, her nosy stubby and wrinkled, a huge zit on her pimpled forehead. Her body had been crammed into a size zero startling red dress – her size was really a six, and one could see the flesh stressing against the red knee-length, spaghetti dress. Her thighs too were looking deformed as the figure hugging dress cut into the upper section of her thigh, making the fat peer out a little. To top it all off, she was trying to walk in amazingly tall pencil heels, ribbon stilettos. She showed her teeth as she spoke, they were encased in large braces.

“Bella, I have been calling you for the past ten minutes,” her nasal voice vibrated off the surfaces. Her face contorted disgustingly as she spoke.

“What is it that you want?” asked the ragged girl in a tired voice.

“How many times,” the voice of the ugly girl got louder, “has mom told you to refer to me as MADAM JESSICA!!!!” she screeched.

“Yes, Madam Jessica, what is it?” the ragged girl asked in a tired and weary voice.

“Where is my pot of crème du lait?” Jessica screeched, as if her life had depended on it.

“What crème du lait?” The ragged girl asked, standing straight, putting her weight on her left leg and holding the long mop in her hands. “We have no crème du lait at all! I don’t even know what it is!”

The girl was going to continue when the noise of another set of heels filled the atmosphere, and in walked another girl. Her lips were puckered strictly, lathered with bright pink lipstick. Her nose was wrinkled in disgust and she was, if possible, uglier than the girl in red, her sister. This girl was as tall as her sister, and she was much fatter. Her face was round and her chin pointy, matched with dirty grey eyes surrounded by a year worth of eye-shadow and liner, the lashes stiff with mascara, a flat but large nose, thick eyebrows and blonde hair that was middle parted and flowed to her shoulders – also rigid with a lot of hairspray and dyes. Her voluminous flesh was squeezed into a figure hugging black dress, spaghetti and knee length a well, with a square neck. Her breasts too were straining against the firm material, casing them to bulge unattractively from the top and the material to cut slightly into them, making the top peer like a waist muffin. Her face was immensely freckled and blemished, her large braces visible everytime she opened her mouth an inch. Her legs too were large and the dress was cutting into the thighs the same way Jessica’s were – and her feet were sheathed in ankle-high pencil heel stiletto boots.

The shabby girl rolled her eyes and internally felt like throwing up – all the fashion in the world had gone to waste on these two. Jessica’s red number had been a Marilyn Monroe original, at one of her glittery concerts, and it looked so remarkable when it was on the dummy at the auction market, and when Jessica bought it for five million, and tried it on, I had to keep chewing gum to keep myself from gagging in nausea.

“Bella,” the ugly sister of Jessica’s began in an equally nasal voice. “Where did you keep my black heels?”

“They’re in the laundry with your carpet slippers and Jessica’s blue platforms,” Bella, the ragged girl said in a drained voice.

“Address me as MADAM LAUREN!!!”

“Bella,” Jessica walked over to me, almost tripping. “We are your stepsisters and you will show up respect! Call us Madam Jessica and Madam Lauren, go it?”

Bella bit her tongue to keep from retorting – if she had talked back to her ugly stepsisters, they would go and tell their uglier mother, Bella’s stepmother, and then Bella wouldn’t see sunlight again for about three weeks.

“And you will clean those shoes by tomorrow!!” Lauren’s voice rang through the room, and she turned around and toddled away.

“My crème du lait should be ready by the time I come back, Bella!” Jessica too turned around and reeled away.

Bella sighed and as soon as Jessica left, she closed the door and sat on the clean floor, her back leaning against the wall and the mop lying horizontally beside her on the floor. With exhaustion, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

So this was life for a seventeen year old. Cooking and cleaning and washing and being a domestic help. Bella was much, much more than a domestic help – she was a child adopted by Rosalie Hale, the girls’ mother and Bella’s stepmother. She was practically Rosalie’s own, but Rosalie despised Bella – despise being a very strong word. Rosalie never wanted to keep Bella, but her father had died, with his last wish being that Rosalie should keep Bella and treat her like a human, not a dog, and Rosalie being half in love with her dad and half in love with his money, was bound by the promise. Without anything to do with Bella, and refusing to treat her as her own daughter, Rosalie decided to make Bella work around the house, after the previous maid left because Bella’s dad passed away. And so, there was not one day that Bella got to sit down and watch TV, or go on her computer for an hour, or read her compilation of books. It was a hectic life – making breakfast in the morning, making the beds, serving breakfast, vacuuming the carpet, brooming the floor, mopping the floor, cleaning the utensils, dusting the house, cleaning all the rooms and closet……never a day went by when Bella could relax, and recall being Bella Swan rather than Bella the part domestic help.

Bella had just got to do school until tenth grade, Rosalie refusing to send her to a proper public school and pay for her eleventh and twelfth grade studies. So Bella was homeschooled, one lousy tutor coming to the house she lived in and teaching her subjects, that too giving her knowledge worth ten bucks a class. And thus, Bella had never gone to a proper school, never dated anybody, never had any friends, never seen any cute boys as such and most of all – she had never had a proper education, so she wasn’t too smart. Or so Rosalie thought. Bella was in fact extremely advanced at Physics and Biology – what with all those hours in the garden, weeding and gardening, or those few moments where something physical happened and she started to become fascinated in the law of gravity, the phenomenon of speed and acceleration and so on. Bella started to teach herself, and realized that this was much better than the good-for-nothing tutor that taught her stuff not worth learning. Every minute Bella got on the computer, every second she spent at the TV sneakily, every moment she would drag the trash out and skip and walk across a few streets to dump the trash at the main disposal centre [and has the opportunity to peep into the library or scavenge the day’s newspaper], every moment she had to see something unrelated to cleaning, Bella would snatch the prospect and make the most of it – recording in her mind what the latest discoveries were, and proving to herself whether they were right or not. She had even learned to play Fur Elise and one of Chopin’s tunes and Claire de Lune on the large golden piano downstairs when the stepsisters and Rosalie had gone out.

The ringing of the alarm rang somewhere in Bella’s pockets; she heaved aside her huge custom made belt with notches to hold the different cleaning liquids, the soaps and wipers and sprays and disinfectants. She dug into her pocket and unearthed her planner – the alarm had gone off for 12:30 pm – when she had to call the chauffeur to take Rosalie and her daughters to their weekly mall spree, and resultantly open the door and prepare the fancy prop umbrellas for the trio as they would leave. And of course, who could forget the large fur coat of beige shade that Rosalie would wear while going out anywhere, whether summer or winter.

She scrambled to her feet, immediately; she picked up the mop and pulled the door open. She ran, slipping slightly on the slick floor and almost landing on her bottom – with hurry, she dunked the mop in the cleaning materials stand, where stood various brooms and the bumblebee vacuum.

Taking off the ridiculous belt, she ran to the antique phone at the coffee table by the door and quickly pressed the mobile number for the chauffeur – Emmett Cullen, and rang.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

It had rung only twice when Emmett picked up – Emmett was a nice man. He was heavily built and nice looking, but he was about Rosalie’s age [possibly forty two] and he was, ironically, vying for her attention because he had a HUGE crush on her. He was STILL single, even though his pretty grey eyes and cute dimples and attractive curly hair was remotely sexy. He was, however, afraid of Rosalie’s reaction if he ever told her of his crush on her, she would possibly fire him on the spot, and he very much needed a job. Rosalie probably knew already, as the girls had once heard him talking to his mum about Rosalie, and they had told Rosalie, who fortunately didn’t believe it because she was heavily drunk.

“Emmett McCarty speaking, how may I help you?” the pleasant and maturely joking voice of Emmett rang through the phone.

“That was unusually quick, Em!” Bella smiled, despite herself. Emmett was really nice to her – if it weren’t for the age difference, Emmett would be Bella’s best friend. Emmett was always lethargic and lazy, and he picked up the phone on the tenth or the ninth ring.

“I’m on alert – I had coffee this morning.” There was a smile in his voice.

“Ok, Rosalie alert – you have to be here in five minutes, she’s taking the girls out for a mega shopping spree.”

“Five minutes? No problem.”

“Thanks Em.”

“You take care Bella.”

Smiling, Bella put the phone down and grinned – Emmett was probably at his house, ten miles away, but he would be here early – it was an Emmett thing – he just loved to fight in brawls [and win] and drive fast – it was in his blood, he said.

The three traipsed downstairs, Bella could hardly make out Rosalie in her large and fancy sunhat, her blonde hair tied up. She had already put on a fur coat – maroon in colour and it hid most of what she was wearing underneath – the huge and puffy coat was straight and knee length, just her well shaped legs and her bright pink high wedges were visible, otherwise, the beige and raffia hat just hid most of her face.

Without looking at Bella, Rosalie just pranced past in her lithe catwalk step, and she walked out of her door, followed by her ugly daughters tottering after her, their Gucci handbags slung across their shoulders.

Bella held the door open and they walked past, in a line, their hands outstretched and she handed them their fancy prop umbrellas.

Within five minutes, and a small tantrum when Lauren happened to see a small mustard stain on her umbrella, they were gone, and Bella heaved a sigh of relief.

The day’s necessary work was done, so she went to sit at the large couch.

The way she plopped down was as if she was sitting down after years – the relief that her face showed was inevitable. Her gorgeous chocolate eyes widened and loosened in liberation, her pink lips turned up and her thin brows loosened from their concentrated pucker. Her pale skin wasn’t very attractive – her main flaw, the flaw which Rosalie and her daughters counted on to stop Bella looking attractive to most men. There was hardly any sign of a blemish on Bella – her face looked better than any, framed by her thick mahogany tresses that flowed to her mid-back. She looked skinny in the patchy jeans and the yellow shirt under the dirt splattered, dusty and grimy off-white lacy apron she wore, but sculpted, as the apron’s belt slung around her waist attractively, pushing into her stomach and emphasizing her curves. There was a slight patch of dirt on her cheek, and her hair was a little frizzy, but she had undone herself completely – so she looked like a pretty teenage girl who had engaged herself in some childish fun, and had now come home to rest.

She looked up at the ceiling and revelled in her brief moments of bliss. Rosalie and the girls were out, and she was home alone, finally, and she was having a personal moment – cheering on the inside.

Smiling, she looked at the envelopes on the desk – the mail from the morning, and shuffled them one by one, paying attention to each name the envelope was addressed to.

Rosalie Hale.

Jessica Hale.

Lauren Hale.

Rosalie Hale.

Lauren Hale.

Jessica Hale.

Bella sighed. No one but herself knew the real names of ANY of these girls, and she knew the despicable reasons why her half-family chose to cover their real names. Rosalie Hale’s full name was in fact Renee Rosalie Hale, Jessica’s was Jessica-Pauline Stanley Hale and Lauren’s was Mallory Lauren Hale.

With all these posh names, Bella was disappointed at the foolishness of her of her step mother’s decision to twist her daughters’ names. If Bella were lucky enough to half long and sophisticated names such as those, she would gladly have it. She was just stuck with Isabella Swan. No middle name, no fancy first name, no fancy last name even. Her father, Charlie, had given himself a lot of middle names and supplementary first names to fulfil his second wife’s need for better names. Bella missed her father a lot – she was just two when he died, and the separation wasn’t very painful because she was very young when he did.

Dumping the envelopes elsewhere, Bella walked to the grand flight of stairs and ascended them, hunching ever so slightly, to go and watch some TV or go on her laptop.

And this was one of those happy days for her – when the girls had gone out with their mother. She was suffering the same ragged situation as Cinderella’s, before her life had turned into happy living.

And there was no doubt that karma would soon find Bella. Karma would track and flag her down, and there was nothing Rosalie could do to stop a force she couldn’t see from changing Bella’s life. And when Karma would find her, her fairytale ending would be at her doorstep.

Because every fairytale begins with misery.