She was my guardian angel of sorts. Someone that I could turn to for help or advice. I was willing to do anything for her. When I think about it now, I realize that to her, I was nothing short of a glorified slave.

I clung to her every word-everything she said seemed to be the gospel to me. Even before I met her, I had heard a lot about her. Most people had to say good things about her.

She’s very brilliant,” said one. “A rare combination of beauty and brains,” said another.

“I have never seen a more artistic person,” said a third.

Being younger than she was and having similar interests, it was only natural that I warmed up to her. I was delighted when she took me under her wing. Having always been a bit of a misfit, I was glad that she had decided to include me in everything that she did. She promised to help me out with my artwork. Now Art was something that I was very passionate about, but I always felt like I wasn’t good enough. To me, Art was a way of self-expression. All my angst, agony and joy, would be translated on the pieces of canvas. Even in my most intense and passionate moments, it was my art that I turned to. No person could ever take its place, or so I thought. I was wrong.

I was willing to do anything for her. If she asked me to do something, I’d do it without question. Before I knew it, she was controlling my mind. My heart. My soul. Everything that I loved her with. She was in complete power. It was always about her-what she wanted and how she wanted it. And I didn’t have the heart to say no to anything she said. Because even my wretched heart belonged to her now.

Before my college entrance examinations, she helped me out tremendously. Extremely unsure and jittery about whether I would get into the college of my dreams, I turned to her for support. She was extremely encouraging and I was relieved. In her, I had found a friend-a friend that was for keeps. Only, she was a friend I looked up to. She was someone I aspired to be. We were not equals, by any stretch of the imagination. We were not equals, by any stretch of my imagination. She was someone I idolized. She was someone I idealized. “There is no such thing as ideal, my school teachers, and later, my professors would keep repeating to me. And yet, in my heart of hearts, I suppose I wanted to believe that there was in fact such a thing as an ideal being. This ideal being was possibly a myth that I had created for myself, after years and years of reading fairytales and conjuring fantastic ideas in my head. And I had given my fluid ideas a concrete shape, for I was badly in need of a Fairy Godmother.

She was perfect. She was best suited to the role. She understood my tumultuous relationship with my brother and the alienation that I felt from familial surroundings.

I got into the college of my dreams. Only, they were not my dreams, they were hers. I saw everything through her eyes-the exuberance in her voice when she spoke at length about her days in college, the glint in her eyes when she proudly proclaimed that it was the best place to be, in the whole world. I believed everything she said. After all, there was no reason not to. I trusted her completely.

On the first day of college, I felt terribly lonely. She had promised to show me around. I didn’t, for a moment, think that I’d be ill-at-ease. After all, she’d always taken care of me. I suppose I’d taken her unwavering loyalty to me for granted.

As I looked across me, I saw a collage-an unfinished jagged canvas of unfamiliar people. I felt alienated, for the hundredth time in my life. Desperately, I tried to look around for her. There she was. She looked me straight in the eye and as I smiled at her, she gave me a cold, blank stare. That one stare would have been enough for me to have been devastated. But that wasn’t enough for her. She ignored me pointedly.

She had misjudged me. I was not the friend that would praise her to the skies, not the confidante that would be her yes-person. I had made the grave mistake of pointing out her flaws to her. And that was the point of no return.

College was more difficult than I’d ever envisaged. Apart from me, everyone seemed to have come in armed with a thorough understanding of what was expected of them.

Despite being the shy, quiet person that I was, making friends had never been a problem before. Everyone seemed to have a plan-a sort of vision for the future. I was clueless. I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted to go back to school again.

She couldn’t care less. As I wept bitter tears, she went from strength to strength. “She’s a wonderful person,” said one “And so kind hearted,” said another “Such a delight,” said a third.

I quietly stood and wondered if anybody else would go through the same kind of disillusionment. Or was she so adept at it that her mask would never slip of her face?

As I stood there and watched her, anger welled up within me.

Slowly, I found out that there were others that had been meted similar treatment. But like me, none of them had the courage to come out and say to the world that hidden behind the face of an angel was someone who cared for no one but herself. Like me, they were afraid that no one would believe them.

I’m afraid that’s the end of my fairytale. But at least its done one thing for me. Next time I read about the Good Queen and The Wicked Witch, I won’t look upon the Wicked Witch as harshly as I would have otherwise. It’s wiser to not believe everything that the Good Queen has to say.

(This is purely fiction,based loosely on an account recounted by a friend and combined with my own experiences from here and there)