It is morning again, and Milky awakes with the sun shining through her silver curtains. She frowns gently and looks around her room, adorned with silver and gold. She rises from her pink sheets and slides on her slippers. She knew in the back of her head that the painter was arriving today, and she could not be more against the fact. Milky was preparing herself for a day of standing still and looking pretty. Surely, she had no trouble with the second point, but the first she most definitely did. She stepped out of her room, pressing the creaky door open with her pale fingers. Normally, her butler would wake her, but today she woke up early all on her own. It is because of that that she is proud of herself this morning. As she began her descent down the stairs, she could hear her mother and father speaking to each other.

“She’s a disgrace.” Her father growled, only for her mother to respond:

“Quiet dear, you might wake her.” Milky frowned, hearing the same conversation nearly every day.

“Good morning father. Mother.” She said quietly once she made it into the dining room where they sat. They had already begun breakfast. (Maybe she wasn’t up early after all). Her father’s head snapped toward her while her mother’s neck twisted in her direction, a trick Milky always found a little unsettling. Her father’s ears twitched and he barked loudly in the direction of the kitchen.

“Get my daughter some food! Quickly please!” Only for a gentle response from her mother. (“Quiet dear”) Her mother’s tail swished in silent anger as she watched the servants scuttle across the floor in a mild panic. Milky’s mother refocused her attention to Milky’s face and frowned deeply.

“Dear, your face. Go put on makeup and get dressed. I hate to see you like this.”

Milky nodded and began to walk the stairs. When she reached her room, she began applying powder to her face. She attempted to cover the dark scar above her nose, but she seemed unable to do so and continued to apply powder everywhere else. She touched pigments to her cheeks, lips, and eyes, then attempted mascara. Yet again, she smeared the black liquid over her under eye and frowned, the dark streaks contrasting awfully against her pale skin. She had decided long ago that she liked that look, especially bright colours complimenting her pasty complexion. She smiled at the mirror, only to hate the look of a grin on her lips. She frowned. That was much better, she decided. She could hear her parents arguing downstairs. She knew that if she brought it up more yelling would ensue. So instead of mentioning it, she called John. She lifted the banana off her desk and brought it to her ear. It rang for a moment until Charles picked up.

“Charles hi!” she chirped, (only for him to reply with:)

“Shut up loser. It’s John you really want to talk to and I know that.” Milky stayed quiet and waited for him to pass John the banana.

“So? Can you pass the phone over?” She asked gently. Charles hissed angrily into the banana.

“He died last year Milky. God. Stop asking.”

“Oh okay.” Milky set the banana back onto her desk, making sure to have hung up. Once she did so, she picked it up again and dialled John.

“Hi, John!” She said cheerily, hoping to elicit an answer.

“Sorry. He was rude.” John muttered, in reference to Charles’ earlier behaviour. “Being the heir to the throne he gets cranky I- I- I suppose.” John was nervous, as always. Milky told him to cheer up but he never listened. She was one to talk, but her facade near her friends was always up, and she believed that was how it was supposed to be.

“I thought I’d see how you were doing ‘s all,” Milky said, hoping to spark conversation. It didn’t and ended up just sparking silence. She hung up. John and Charles have been far from her since he ‘died’, though she doesn’t understand why people keep telling her that. If he were dead, why did they just talk? She considered calling again but decided against it for some breakfast. She knew her mother would hiss at her disgusting appearance, but she didn’t care. It made sense that her mother hated her being so underdressed- she was a princess after all.

Milky spent most of her time in her room. She did have a brother, of course, but he never spoke to her since they were young. Maybe he’s just ‘dead’ too. Milky would muse whenever he ignored her. His name is Cassiel- she should mention. He was named after an angel, but everyone calls him a devil because of his red eyes. Cassiel is much older than Milky, by a whole three years. He was nineteen, an adult. Milky was sixteen, but she felt much younger. It was hard to believe she was too old to marry. Her mother expected her to be wed by thirteen, but no one had offered for her hand. So here she stays. She looks up to Cassiel. He was married, she believed, but she couldn’t bother to know about his personal life, as he never spoke to her in the least.

Milky, like her mother, was a lady. That was almost where the resemblance stopped, aside from the colour of her eyes. Milky had yellow eyes and heard that her mother had yellow eyes too, back in the day. Milky couldn’t remember her mother’s current eye colour. She believed it to be white… “Because of old age,” she had told her.

Cassiel was not mean like their Father. Milky knew he cried at night. Her Father would never cry and would bite anyone who did, she was sure. However, her Father had red eyes just like Cassiel’s (his too had faded to white, she believed. She never dared to look him in the eyes). Cassiel was the angel of solitude, as her father had put it, (wanting a strong son she was sure) but instead, he became the angel of tears. He was a crybaby, just like Milky, and didn’t want to be King. Milky wanted to be Queen. She wanted to rule everyone. She deserved it, after all, for working so hard. She talked all day and night to current leaders, proposing the idea of marriage to anyone who walked by. (No one accepted.)

Milky sighed. It had been a long morning (she decided) and didn’t want to have to do anything else that day. She began to prune herself, brushing her grey hair in the mirror. She looked herself in the eyes and was confused by the yellow colour there. Everyone she knew had white eyes. Even John, even Charles. Her mother told it was old age and she believed her. White must be a common eye colour. She sighed, continuing to brush her hair. She set down her brush and began to put clips to hold her bangs in place. “Why is everyone I know different than me? Stupid hair and stupid body.” She despised it, really. She set her hands down onto her desk and pushed herself up.

It was time for the painter to arrive, she knew. Her mother said they’d arrive by noon. Alas, Milky decided, that it was noon. She heard a knocking on her door and a creaking as her mother entered her room. “It is time for your portrait, darling.”

End of Part One