Jill and the Beanstalk
the beanstalk was cut in two and began to topple over; the giant fell down and broke his crown, whilst jill died when the beanstalk fell upon her.
The instance she decided to bury herself in books became the instance they rained down upon her. The projectiles fell from the sky, her skin becoming the foundation of an eventual masterpiece of blossomed bruises as they made contact. Her head was futilely shielded by vein-webbed hands, her feet curled underneath her spindly legs. Brown hair fell around her face, masking her terror.
The man was a skyscraper, his beady eyes triumphant. He held the bookshelf up with a single, gigantic hand, the piece of furniture teetering on the brink of destruction, but not quite pushing the limit. The laugh that tore from his throat was the chortle of a beast. The cowering girl was his dinner; he would play with it first.
Given, he was cruel, but not murderous. The bookshelf was replaced, despite its emptiness- the books were scattered around a sobbing angel who didn't know the extent of her good fortune. Then again, nobody knew the extent of good fortune those days, believing their lives to be a plague and writing their wishes away. Her mind was corrupted by the false dreams of others that she believed to be truths; her imagination took her far beyond, and morphed her reality into living hell.
The man brought her to her feet, and she went unwillingly, but the grip on his daughter's sweater proved unyielding. He then slapped her with repressed power, ordering her weakness to vanish, as if that would be cause enough to vanquish it. Quite the opposite effect. The gushing tears left dark trails in their wake, revealing her level of self-esteem, and all the man's purpose was for naught.
"You are not to read while I am speaking to you," had been the command, subsequently disregarded.
And it seemed as though all purpose was for naught, because wishing away the broken bottles wasn't her train ticket to a happy ending, and instead worsened the consequences; her superficial delusions only spurred on the greediness of human nature. She hadn't the slightest idea what torture she was inflicting upon herself. Furthermore, her tears were not caused by pain, but caused by the conclusion that dreams were not fulfilled unless acted upon, and to treasure the world she would have to explore it.
He let her go, eventually- he was missing the weight of a brimming bottle, his interior yearning for amnesia. Evening dawned as he approached the kitchen, and a multitude of bottles began to hit the tiled floor, dispersing shattered fragments of glass alongside the books no one bothered to replace. She, in turn, scurried towards her bedroom and locked the door behind her, occupying her time with gathering her things. As she awaited the giant's snores, she dreamt and wished for a refreshing change, until the time came to journey down her makeshift beanstalk and embrace the freedom below.
She misses the giant now- her forearms coated with scars; her innocence expired; her home a forgotten alleyway.
Needless to say, she can't afford books anymore.