my • sweet • angel

"You're broken," her fathers words were like violin strings snapping, "You're cursed,"

Cursed from the moment she reached for those Jasmine flowers. Her hands were torn into brown and white patches like birthmarks. She was merged with an alleycat. The witch would laugh, cursing her not to her new form, but to social isolation.

She is a strong willed girl, keeping to herself quietly. She occupies her time with piano, violin and sewing. Her father, not wishing to lose his dignity, claimed she was simply dressing up. He fashioned her gloves as cat paws. The walls were so lonely when one is the only one walking them.