She was untouched, pure, chaste; sheltered from all the ugly sides of life that would stain and dirty all her pretty little dresses.

 

White.

The colour of innocence and purity.

 

As far as she could remember, she had been showered with love and praise all her life.

From how pretty her curls looked, to how her eyes sparkled, how her skin glowed, how her smile shone, how graceful she was on her feet, how demurely she presented herself, how polite and respectful she was to everyone…

 

White sugar.

So sweet.

Too sweet.

 

She herself knew very well she wasn’t all that beautiful.

On the outside, yes, the hair salons and skincare products and those ‘How to be a proper lady’ classes did a good job, creating for her an image befitting her social status.

On the inside though, she knew she wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. She could be selfish sometimes, childish too, the spoilt girl inside her struggling to be heard and be given authority and space.

But every single time, her parents still gave in to her. They praised her. Sheltered her. Pampered her.

 

Lies.

All lies.

White lies.

 

She was their only child, a precious treasure valued more than anything else in the world… to the extent of setting her aside like an object they did not dare to even touch.

The mansion was where she spent all of her time. Even schooling would be done within the house, in fear of the young lady being exposed to the rowdy, unbecoming attitudes of the lower class, in fear of accidentally hurting her. Breaking me.

She would only see the outside when there were events of utmost importance to her family such as large-scale company dinners and influential social gatherings.

An 'outside' that consisted of those richly decorated rooms, lavish banquet halls, and more sickening liars that added to my misery.

She would be brought out - countless guards following - to showcase her beauty, her grace, her manners.

It was as if she was made for display, made to be a priceless object so and precious and fragile that it could only be admired by sight, and nothing else.

Or it would shatter into a million pieces.

 

A pretty little doll, held captive in its little plastic box.

 

Spring, and she would gaze longingly at the blooming wave of flowers. She craved the touch of a soft petal, the rhythm of raindrops on her skin, a song from the birds. All she had were elegant paintings and carefully selected instrumentals, but Nature was so much more beautiful.

So beautiful, so far out of reach.

Summer, and she would be filled with desire for the rush of real heat on her skin, not just the sunlight filtered by those narrow glass windows. If only she could just break the glass and bask in the beauty and glaring heat of the sun, not caring for once whether her fair skin would be damaged or not.

If only.

Autumn, and she would have the uncontrollable urge to play with the warm, earth coloured leaves. She would smile secretly to herself as she imagined how crisp they would sound beneath her feet, but all too soon it would be dimmed by the reality of her situation. All she could do was to simply and yet painfully admire the beautiful rain of falling leaves from behind her glass windows.

So close, yet so far.

Winter, and she would desire so desperately for space. Not even the slightest slip-up would be tolerated in the cold, unforgiving season. Meals had to be hot and nutritious, clothing had to be generously thick, and she had to be tightly tucked up in her pre-heated bed every night so even the slightest of colds would not get to her.

Heated on the outside, icy on the inside.

 

Sometimes, when she was sure her parents had gone to bed, she would tear the thick blankets away from her little frame, shuffling into a sitting position to roll up the blinds. She would press her palms and the tip of her nose to the window, her breaths fogging up the cold glass by just a little. The soft chill that settled onto her body in place of the heavy layers of heat draped around her was always strangely comforting.

She felt at home in the cold, because it matched perfectly with what was inside of her.

As she stared at the falling snow, she shivered, feeling as if she was one of them.

 

A cold, white, fragile snowflake.

 

 

---

 

 

He was a scruffy-looking young man, but even through his grungy street attire he held a gentle charisma. She had no idea how such a person had infiltrated the mansion without alerting a single guard, but he did. Her light footsteps failed to serve as a warning to him, and she just so happened to catch him in the act.

His ears flamed, from the embarrassment of being caught, and also from the sight of the lady whose beauty seemed to match no other.

The stolen items were hastily dropped  from shaky hands, and he made way to flee.

 

“Wait.”

 

He stopped in his tracks, drawn in by that single word.

She did not know what she was doing, pressing the dropped goods back into his hands.

But it felt good.

 

“This... But...”

“It's fine. You must have a reason for doing this. My parents probably won't notice anyway. Take it as my commendation for making it past those guards."

“... That was a piece of cake. They're a bunch of idiots. I think your parents should focus on internal security more than surface intimidation.”

“Yes. They’re idiots too.”

 

The two shared a smile. Her first, real smile in a long time. She felt warm.

A feeling gentler than what was always forced on her, yet stronger than anything she had ever felt before.

 

It was a nice feeling.

 

He disappeared with the items, but that was not the last time she saw him. He visited her when her both parents were out for meetings.

Rare and risky chances, and he took all of them.

But he never stole any valuable items while he was there.

What he took with each trip to the mansion, was a small part of the young girl's heart.

 

She had started to talk to him. Converse with him. Spilling out all the fragments of ice within her soul to this stranger she barely knew.

 

His name was Lee Howon. He was a thief. He was a burglar. He was shabby and poor. He belonged to the lower class.

She could tell he was intelligent, but he had to give up education to support his family.

His skill in thieving, in stealth and agility, was honed by dancing. He was passionate in dancing ever since he was a child.

But again, the lack of money hindered his dreams.

He used to dance on the streets for some spare cash, but even that he abandoned, in fear of attracting unwanted attention from any previous theft victims.

 

He was from the outside, the unknown, and that fascinated her.

Just as she fascinated him.

 

Whenever she shared her story, he was struck with shock, disgust and most of all, the chill that emanated from the depths of her words.

The girl that stood in front of him was not a person.

She was a life-sized doll chiseled from a block of pure ice.

 

“This... This is immoral. I'm a bad guy, but this is ridiculous.”

“No. This is my parents' love.”

“Love? What kind of love is this?”

“They just want the best for me... I guess. They want me to be properly groomed and taken care of.

They don't want me to be... Broken.”

“Are you happy, being whole?”

 

Silence filled the air, punctured only slightly by the light sound of their breathing.

 

“Maybe... Just maybe... Being broken isn't a bad thing.”

 

He took her hand, and gently placed it over his chest.

 

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

 

"This... This is a heart. It beats. It beats for my father. It beats for my mother. It beats for my brothers. And... It beats for you too."

 

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

 

“Being whole means being the perfect little Barbie doll. Flawless. Sought after. Cared for.

Breaking that doll life means breaking ties with your dear comfort zone. Being broken means a rough journey, and a tough life.

 

But being broken can also mean freedom. Life.

All this time you haven't been really living, and I want you to.

A life where you are not controlled, not restricted, and especially not objectified.

It'll be hard, but I just want you to live. I want you to be free. I want your heart to beat.

I want your heart to beat for yourself, and beat for love.”

 

She was stunned. She let go of the breath she had been holding. Something trickled down her cheek.

 

Tears?

 

He leaned forward. She wept and sobbed and cried ungainly in his secure embrace, but he did not seem to mind.

She let free everything that she had held within her all the years of her life in her tears. Her warm, flowing tears.

 

 

Left the family.

 

Left the comfort zone.

 

Ran.

 

Danced.

 

Leapt.

 

Stumbled.

 

Fell.

 

Through the stinging thorns and prickly bushes.

 

Face first into the earthy dirt and mud.

 

Cut and torn, wounds fresh and red and bleeding.

 

A hand.

 

A coarse, rough, but gentle hand.

 

Hers were rough too, now.

 

The two hands met.

 

She got up.

 

She laughed.

 

Loved.

 

Lived.

 

 

 

 

They say one kind word can warm three winter months.

What a certain young man did, was to warm my entire existence.

 

Flames at white fabric until it curled up into a ball of grey and black ash.

 

The sugar burnt into a dark, sizzling mess of bitter flavor.

 

The hard truth burned into her skin in place of smooth, icy lies.

 

The doll cracked from the heat, marked and scarred.

 

The snowflake melted.

 

 

And I was happy.