All her Godmother’s magic could not save her now. Cinderella stumbled down the palace stairs, tears streaming down her face. She lost a slipper, but she did not slow. Her breath came wet and frantic as she ran, the chimes of the palace clock ringing in her ears.

Her coach was waiting, and she saw to her dismay that the inevitable transformation had already begun. She flung her body through the open door and slammed it shut behind her. The handle came off in her fingers, a gnarled stem in her hand, her gown stuck to the seat’s orange flesh. The horses, tails thickened and lengthened into grotesque pink ropes, strained against their harnesses as they charged into the night.

Cinderella knew their haste was in vain. Her once fair skin was gray and sloughing off, revealing patches of rotting flesh and pure white bone. She cried harder, thinking of the horror on the Prince’s face when the bells began to toll.

Remembering the glass slipper, she looked down and sobbed to see that her foot had come off with it.