We were perfect, once.

Do you know what happens to gold when it tarnishes? You polish it.

Do you know what happens to silver when it rusts? You clean it.

Do you know what happens to flesh when it sags, hair when it falls, skin when it wrinkles?

You live with it.

Ten years. Ten years we were rusting, and cleaned. Ten years we were tarnishing and polished.

Ten years we were perfect.

We ate without growing fat. We laughed without growing tired. We danced without slowing down.

And now the spell is broken, and we are returned to this, this that passes for a life. Being a handmaiden to a spoiled brat and his bitch.

I ruled the castle, once! I was the master of ceremonies, ruler of all I surveyed. I did not age. I did not weaken.

I did not burn.

And yet they tell me I am free. That I have my life back.

They try to tell me this is better.

Do you think this is better? Do you think knowing you will grow old and die, slowly and painfully, is better than an everlasting life of golden perfection?

Try and convince me that I am better off now that the last petal has fallen. Try to make me see that this short life on the outside is somehow better than my eternal life on the inside.

Please, try.

Be my guest.