Anastasia was curt, cordial, and aware of predetermined social boundaries to an almost extraordinary degree. With her rosy cheeks, girlish ankles and slender, knobby wrists, little boys flocked to her with a rheumy, specific sort of gaze evoked by only the most intensive fever, or the most intensive desire. With her impeccable manners, practiced curtsy and experienced palate, they sought to tease her.

Anastasia thought little of boorish boys with brackish grins and misplaced teeth, and would run home after class to seek solace in her mother’s arms and the softness of buttered toast against her gums. She shared everything with her mother, from colouring books to playground tales to sacred feminine secrets. Her mother was comfort and, when Anastasia was tightly bundled in her lap, a fist and a half in the fur of the family cat, she was home.

One day, Anastasia fell prey to a particularly violent bout of bullying and, after finding herself bottoms-up in a puddle of mud, scrambled toward the forest and promised to disappear forever.

Brushing dead leaves from her flaxen curls and minding the brambles with tentative toes, she surveyed her surroundings with the vibrant curiousity of an explorer with no obligation to punctuality or restraint. The forest was hers, and she was a child of discovery, and no boys were here to laugh when she leaned so extensively that the trees saw a flash of her underpants.

It was only when the sun was setting and her stomach began to growl with nascent discomfort did Anastasia make her first true discovery. In the future, she would grant every bit of credit to her clumsy left foot, but at the moment, success was hers, and she forgot every other meaning of the word.

Lying on the ground was the hand of God, manifesting itself in the form of a humble fingered citron. For a moment Anastasia was blinded by righteousness, her heart swollen with the prospect of grace and forgiveness: and not two moments afterward, she wove the hand of God into her pride and joy, her marvelous spiral curls, and lead the path back home.

Her mother and father were frightened at first: alarmed by the angry red scratches on Anastasia’s coltish legs, offended by the bruises peppering her fair skin. The distasteful state of her muddy Sunday dress went unnoticed, or uncared for; the Banks family had an infinite flow of money, and only one Anastasia.

The girl marched right past them, because she had more important things to do. She was far more knowledgeable than her simple, mortal mother, and had no time to listen to silly fairy tales with impossible and fanciful ideologies. She was an adult, unaffected by such tactless drivel.

Anastasia’s mother and father mourned the loss of their spirited daughter, and saw her only at suppertime and in between bathroom trips. One night Anastasia’s mother broke down upon their favourite reading chair and wept, lamenting the loss of her daughter’s cherubic face cradled between her palms. Anastasia would no longer settle for such frivolities, as she was channeling the Lord and had little time to spend with her human parents. The warm milk and toast that her mother dutifully prepared lay forgotten on the table.

Anastasia skipped to school, sometimes whistling a tune and always praising her good fortune. The boys no longer teased her, because she would summon the wrath of heaven lest any cold remark tempt her to shed a tear. The boys no longer wanted her, because her remarkably good manners, pleasant demeanor and innocent, prepubescent stride had all but disappeared. In fact, the only curiousity regarding little Anastasia was perhaps where her happiness had gone.

When she looked at the other children, they would look away. They could not stand the sight of an Anastasia without the brightness in her eyes that had once been considered infallible. It was like discovering one of life’s great truths - something to swear by in times of great need - had been a falsehood from the very beginning.

Some began to doubt a cheerful Anastasia had ever existed.

And Anastasia rejoiced, Anastasia perfected, Anastasia refined, and soon Anastasia grew bored. No one would play with her, and her good friend Lilly wouldn’t even respond to a gentle ‘hello.’

Anastasia became lonely.

Her mother would still prepare Anastasia’s favourite snack, brick toast with honey butter and milk so pleasant that she would imagine her stomach smiling with every sip. The snack used to warm her from head to toe as she shared every bite with her adoring mother, but eating alone offered a certain misery. The brick toast was chalky in her mouth, and the milk was curdled from hours of neglect. Anastasia pushed her chair from the table and sadly walked to her room.

The next morning was intended, by God’s divine plan, to be a bright and eventful Sunday; but as Anastasia awoke from restless bouts of dreaming and resumed her honourably bequeathed position, her dreary mood inspired several pregnant rain clouds to advance from the north.

Tip-toeing through the mood in her best mary-janes, Anastasia headed toward the forest. She minded the brambles, and several times had to brush wet leaves from her hair. She searched with the vibrant devotion of a trained archaeologist, searching desperately for the remnants of her former self. She had picked her bones clean, but marrow remained, and Anastasia knew it was hers to reclaim.

When she had found a suitable spot, nestled in green fronds spattered with fat dollops of rainwater, she fell to her knees and began to brush out the tangled mess that had become of her perfect curls. With each frenzied stroke, a finger of god was freed, and soon Anastasia held the hand in her palms, fingertips pointing to the sky in mock damnation.

She set the cursed thing in her predetermined spot, then ran home as fast as she possibly could.

Anastasia’s mother and father could not have been more surprised when their lively daughter - formerly spirited away, now returned by the grace of God - leaped into bed with them. She proceeded to rouse both of her loving parents from lazy oversleep with butterfly kisses on each cheek, and soon Anastasia’s mother pulled her into her arms, cupped her angelic face between both upturned palms, and wept so sweetly that the rest of the family followed in suite.

Breakfast was prepared, and Anastasia realised that this was the best brick toast with honey butter and warm milk she had ever had, and each bite was even better than the last. She was tightly bundled in her mother’s lap, her cheeks full with sweet indulgences, a fist and a half in the fur of the family cat.

Anastasia was home.