She would sit in her dark tower, all alone, only mice for company. The dust spread itself out like a thick grey carpet. The cobwebs sparkled in the corners when rare sun or moonlight would come through the window. She liked it this way, maybe. She didn't always say so, but maybe she sort of liked it. At least it would do until her prince would come.

She did not know what he would look like, only that he would be perfect, perfect beyond anything and sweep her off her feet, rescue her.

She would sit in the shadows, dressed in her rags of black and red or whatever color caught the attention of everyone else. She thought she was ignored, but everyone saw her anyway, up in her dark tower. She wore her leather, she wore her spikes and chains, lace hot pink and punk 80's flare. She didn't know if she liked that. Maybe. Even though the chains tied her down and the spikes rose out like the thorns over Sleeping Beauty's castle–without roses.

She wore the make-up the evil enchantress gave her–or none at all. Hide yourself from the world, or rebel against it. It didn't matter, as long as it was neat and cool. The evil enchantress had given her a mirror, clear, crystal, and broken like the cobwebs–some spiders lurked there. She'd sneer into it, her face a mask just for the world, even when there was no make-up or jewels. She preferred it that way.

Someday a prince would take her away. She didn't know whom he would be, but that didn't matter. Anyone would do, if he were perfect with a white horse. She'd ride in that saddle, arms around him, and everyone would see through the spell the evil enchantress put over her.

Though no one else could see the evil enchantress.

Maybe she had made that part up. Scare the world, impress the world. Keep them all at bay while she hid in her dark tower.

There she had her iPod, her dark music, or whatever else was cool/not cool. She would blast it in her ears or from her tower to keep them all away. All but her prince, whomever he was, whenever he would come. He would be her hero, her champion, the one who would give her all the glory.

She had helped the evil enchantress build this tower, stone by stone, behind the briars she had planted. Only a true hero of dreams could cut his way through that. She had done that on purpose. He would prove herself to her, to show the world how desired and wonderful she was though all other statements she had brushed aside with a scowl and a finger.

She had run away from all the other princesses, the ones who were all the same, to the evil enchantresses who were all the same but in a different way–the jewels they wore, the songs the sung. Other than that, the princesses and the evil enchantresses were probably all the same. But she pretended not to notice, built the spell up around herself, the spells she could throw at anyone who came near.

Except for him, whomever he was.

Except princes never tried. Not when they saw the briars, not when they saw the fireballs and curses.

Maybe she was the evil enchantress herself. Sometimes she saw that when she looked in the mirror, but she pretended not to notice. The mirror was there, foggy and cracked. It had broken when she had run away, no longer to be a princess.

She had spent so much time trying not to be a princess that she forgot to become herself.

Maybe the prince, when he came, wouldn't care.

She still didn't know who he was. After all, it wasn't about the prince, it was all about her.

So she sat there, in her dark tower, surrounded by her spells and her chains and her spikes like thorns but without the roses.

No prince would bother coming through there.

The End.