An Adult Fairy Tale

Come sit down; I’ll tell you a tale,

A tale of adventure, a tale of suspense.

A tale so scary, it will make you go pale.

My name is Miranda, and I am a prince.

Okay no, I’m not a Prince, but I was trying to rhyme. Oh well here goes I’ll stop with the rhythm and get on with my story.

So I’m not a Prince or even a Princess, not in real life, just in my head.
I got up late around midday, as I normally do after a night at work. I poured myself a bowl of choco-pops, I know a moment on the lips a lifetime on the hips, but I need the sugar to get me going that and my large mug of coffee, I need my coffee.

After breakfast I dash into town, new lipstick, mascara, oh I love that skirt, yes it's short, but it’s perfect for work.
Laden with bags I struggle back to my flat, just two hours till work. I run a bath,  pouring in my favourite bubble bath, I watch as the bubble rise, it takes me back to a life before, an innocent lost.

I sink into the hot water closing my eyes; I’m away with the fairies, a princess in distress, along comes my knight, killing dragons and ogres, before taking my hand and leading me off to the sunset.
Bring, Bring……. Bloody phone, brings me back to reality, I jump out of the bath, grabbing a towel, I fumble with the door handle, I reach the phone just as it stops. An unknown number, another customer lost.
Back to the bathroom, dry myself off. Now sat in the kitchen time for my fix, not alcohol or drugs, just more coffee.
I flip through my notepad, three more to go, shouldn’t take long, then I can go free, the first two were hard, then it got easier almost routine.
I take a deep breath, they made me what I am, and it's’ time to repay.
Into the bedroom, I pull on my clothes, like a shield it protects me.
I pin up my hair, put on my makeup, my war paint.
Locking my flat, I drop my keys in my bag. Jump into a taxi, and I’m on the road again.
I sit at the bar, sipping my drink, that’s when I spot him, older than I remember but that’s him.
I jump up, run to him embrace him choking on the bile as it rises with disgust, he smells the same. “Mr Rogers” I squeal in delight “Robert, you do remember me?” I glance at his wife, horror on her face, she knew. His colleagues looked confused, just what I wanted. I haven’t got long, I reach into my pocket and thrust the envelopes into the hands, before dashing off.
From the safety of the reception, I watch as they open and look in horror at the photos, the pictures of Mr Roger’s and I when I was a child, a child of just 10. They read my handwritten note. ‘The monsters that made me destroyed me. It’s time to repay.'