The ingénue rejects her role at last. Her face hurts from keeping her eyes open so wide all the time. It's giving her wrinkles. Her complexion is bleached from paling with shock at any suggestion of the evil fermenting beneath the rotting trapdoor. She is perpetually horrified; she is never horrified. What's the use? She's seen it all. With her eyes so round, how could she possibly avoid it? She sees you, the ingénue, and she doesn't believe you.

Honestly, she is petulant and short-of-breath from her heart's incessant sighing. Her bosom has been heaving since its first entrance, and honestly, she is… exhausted. She's unsure of how it happened exactly, but lately, she hasn't been able to deliver her lines without the taste of irony lingering on her crimson lips. The Fall of the Curtain, she titles this new era with a grim set of her virtuous brow. She looks forward to new period costumes. She's tired of fitting into the glass slippers. They rub and chafe. They crack and display blood and blisters with the candor of windows. There's no hiding what fairy tales truly stand on:

perilous glass stiletto heels and the rusty-hinged trapdoor that suspends disbelief. So she spits out a girlish squeak. She covers her mouth with an alabaster hand and manages a final gasp of incredulity. And she jumps.