Once upon a time, there was a little girl who thought that the world is a beautiful place.
She thought that it was made up of pretty, little things. Wherever she’d look, she’d see pretty flowers, smell the red and pink roses, and feel the cold breeze caressing her face. She’d hear the humming of the birds and close her eyes and revel in their sweet, sweet symphony.
She’d walked barefooted upon the soft grass, her pristine white dress billowing about as the wind gently blew. Her golden hair tangled upon itself, and she has to sweep it away from her face with a tinkling laugh. She’s happy, she’s comfortable, and the world is a beautiful place.
She lived in her own bubble of comfort, enjoying her pretty life. Her eyes are closed, smiling sweetly, arms wrapped around her feathery pillow, sighing contentedly.
The world is a beautiful place.
Or so she thought.
When the girl awoke, her dress was white no more. It was stained with mud and blood. The crown of roses she’d set upon her head has become thorns, cutting her, piercing her pretty skin. She can no longer hear the symphony of the singing birds for the air is filled with the wails of the damned.
She hugged herself as she tried to fight the angry lashes of the winds. The grass, before so soft, are now sharp under her feet, and the girl who once thought that the world is a beautiful place, sank down on her knees, tears streaming in her face.
She thought wrong.