PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the middle of December, on the highest hill of Rosewood, the Prestigious All Girls School for the Careless Parents rises. The magnificent building catches the light as if it were made from mirrors. The reception area is made of marble. The corridors are covered in paintings of the prestigious ex-alumni. Whenever the walls run out of space, the tutors simply toss away the ugliest ones in favor of much better, younger looking ones.

Only the children of the wealthiest attend there. You see, intelligence isn’t what traps the girls inside. It’s their parents, who are too poor of love as to love their daughters much, but, for the price of building them a reputation? They are too rich to care. An institute that promises expertise in all skills a woman needs is a great option, to say the least.

The traditional Christmas ball comes along with the winter and heavy snowing. It is a rare time when people sit at each table with their children, sorted out by family. Since last year, the kids have meticulously  prepared to delight the attendees with their singing. When the time comes, all the girls stand in line on the stairs. They are dressed in their costumes, their angelic faces matching their attires. They sing Holy Night and officially begin the celebration.

Laughing, the parents keep their smiles unnaturally wide. As for the children, they glance at each other and lock eyes for a split second, an almost imperceptible grin coming from their mouths. “Keep drinking, my dears, keep drinking” some think. Until it happens: once all the folks are asleep, the little monsters break hell loose.

First they cut up the twelve tier cake into symmetrical triangle portions. No one takes a bite until everyone has a piece, but when they do, they use their fingers as cutlery. All prime and proper in their little dirty white gowns, they hang off candy canes from the Christmas tree, they innocently dip them in burning chocolate and draw whiskers on the cook’s face. Miss Ally had been too good to them, but who are they to spare? They stuff her mouth with a big bright red apple and touch up her matching lipstick to make her look pretty. Afterwards, their lungs filled with hysteria, they go outdoors and play: they toss snowballs at each other and they build snowmen, competing who see which one can build the fattest.

At the end of the night, their parents still unconscious next door, the girls huddle up like newborn dogs in front of the fire to warm themselves up and they fall asleep, as the spoiled, never loved, flawed to the core pretty little things from Rosewood.