Cruella
Elizabeth Anne Grey
Let’s just get one thing straight,
for starters. I love puppies.
They
are so cute and loveable and warm and cuddly. I know, you don’t believe me, but
maybe you will after I explain. Yes, my name is Cruella De Vil. But I’m not
evil like everyone seems to think. I’m actually a very nice person, if you get
to know me. One of my faults is my temper. I’m getting ahead of myself, though.
Let me start at the beginning.
To say that I’ve been misunderstood would be a shocking
understatement.
It
all started with a cold, wet, gray morning on a dirty, abandoned city street.
Even the fog clouding the street was dirty and depressing. My mother promised
me in a stiff, nasal tone that I would be happier with other children to play
with in this brick place. All I wanted was to go back to the safety of the
shabby, dark rooms where Mabel (my mother) lived with two of her loud friends.
Mabel
told me I could have a bed all to myself and clean clothes every morning here.
I longed to go back to the dank building I called home, wrapped in the dirty
fur coat I played with every day. The coat doubled as a bed when Mabel came
home drunk and locked me out of her bedroom.
Inside
a very white room, with desks and chairs in it and a chalkboard covering one wall,
a short skinny woman looked me up and down, disgust settling on the wrinkles of
her face like the muddy puddles running into the street corners between the
cobblestones outside. She turned to Mabel.
“What is she wearing?”
“It’s
one of my old dresses,” Mabel answered, staring down at the woman defiantly and
teetering on her heels. “She’s eight. Will you take her?”
“We
take every charity case we can, yes.”
The woman spat out the words as if they were mouthfuls of rotten food. I
cringed. Mabel gave me a quick glare and a chin-up gesture.
The
Woman let out a sharp whistle that hurt my ears. I hung onto Mabel’s hand as
tightly as I could, hoping by some miracle she’d change her mind. Surprisingly,
she didn’t stop me and bore my grip on her hand patiently.
Another
woman, taller and stockier, hurried up to us. She had a pen and a few papers
clutched in hands that shook, as she handed them to The Woman.
“Sign
here. You there” I flinched as her sharp eyes bored into mine, like shards of
glass- “go with her.”
The
stocky woman held out her hand, and I studied her disdainfully. She tried to
smile, but her forehead was stuck in a worried frown. My heart was beating
fast. Fear rose its demonic head inside me. Mabel took a long look at me.
“Hold
on a sec,” she commanded The Woman, and walked me back outside. Hope rose like
a fragile bubble, and I threw my arms around her when she kneeled down on the
filthy stones, getting her faded dress even dirtier. I knew the truth, but I
tried to ignore it. For a tiny moment, she let me bury my head on her shoulder
and breathe deeply of her familiar smell.
She pushed me away and gave me a hard, cold
stare, grasping my shoulders fiercely.
“Listen,
you.” Mabel never could remember names. “You gotta be good here, ya’know. My
own mom dumped me at one of these places when I was even younger than you.” She
glanced down, grimacing to herself. “It was awful, but I survived.” She faced
me, and gave me a chin-up gesture.
“Life
ain’t always fair. It’s a game, kid. You gotta learn how to play it to survive.
Got me?” Her voice had hardened and her eyes were empty and blank, and I was
suddenly terrified. She stood up again abruptly, brushing at the wet, dark
stains on her dress. Taking my hand without even looking at me, she marched
back up the steps with me in tow and signed the papers three minutes later.
Dodging
the grasp of both women, I ran to the grimy window and watched her walk away,
back straight, tripping and stumbling on her heels. I never saw Mabel again.
Orphanages are living hell.
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