He bluntly blocked my way through the back-garden and I was forced to a halt. Back-lit by crisp garden lanterns, a devilish grin slowly crept across his face as he loomed over me with menacing proximity. His beard reminded me of barbed wire lodged in medieval torture devices.

“But why?” the man whispered, simultaneously sweet and serpent-like. “Why are you here?”

So here’s my story in short, as I told him verbatim.

I was born in the kilns of the king. Silver off-blue crystalline, clearly cut crystal-clear. Men and women gaped in my appearance with wonderstruck faces and star-filled eyes, they always do. Yes it’s me! Princess Abigail’s glass slippers.

I’ll admit I’m a bit too dreamy and overly enamoured by the princess. Abigail’s dress was always a pristine purple of the sky’s tint just when then sun sinks defiantly beneath the horizon. The flowery bodice was draped with silky, meticulous tinsel and ornamented with décor of vintage wild roses. Even when her silky satin skirt does not flow, twirl, pirouette nor swirl, I fantasize. I fantasize her swift steps on the soft garden floor, waltzing with her prince. I fantasize her spry strolls around the palace with her dog Daisy, their heart-warming echo of laughter and joy (even echoing through my glassy heart).

It all started at a deluxe ballroom dance party, the clock stroke twelve. Being delicately danced and tapped upon, I noticed my surrounding princes and princesses gradually blur into blobs of colour, silver-gilded furniture and golden ribbons flash, trail then vanish. Something is happening, I don’t know what it is, but I can sense Abby’s anxiety. She seems to be in a quick sprint. I was forcefully jiggled and jolted about until...

All stopped as fast as all had happened. I was sent flying across the air, and then landing rock-hard on the carpet, with a few desperate rolls to and fro. Where’s Abby?

Abby lost me. An angelic, heavenly invitation calls me. Now I’m the one who would, and must find princess Abigail.

Tippy, tappy, tippy, tappy. As a beloved pair of glass slippers all I can do to locomote was by scooting my heel forward. I tried to speed up my scooting and wiggling, dodging legs of all kinds (chairs or tables or human), escaping out of tangling threats of log dresses and ridiculously-long hair.

‘Sorry!’

Ouch! Once again I was lunged into the air violently like a unwilling cannonball, unfortunately wasting two metres of effort but otherwise unharmed. I gritted my teeth in mild fury: what obnoxious pair of high heels! But no, a valorous warrior like me would never shy away from itty-bitty drawbacks like these. Then, I bravely continued my journey until you decided to rudely interrupt my quest.

“That’s it? You like your itty-bitty drawbacks?” The man screeched in belittling disbelief. An ugly toad he was. “Well, just so you know, you are going to come with me. I’ll simply beat you up, dust you dirty, and show you to princess Abigail all battered up. Then what I do is taking out a new pair of prettier and glassier high-heels and her heart would all be mines.”

Then the screeching escalated into a monstrous roar. “She will be forever charmed by my chivalry. SHE WILL BE MINE!!” The man hollered with a voice as nauseating as my grandfather’s toenail fragments.

Fire and fury burned. My inner titan exhaled its wrath. Mind more present then ever. My eyebrows clenched as the man’s fists descended, gradually occupying the whole of my vision...

As I was slammed down hard on the garden floor, grooving the garden with violence and desperation, there was also a sense of levitation, stronger and more powerful, I was gravity-defyingly rebounded up, up and up! Rocketing straight up his face! That abysmal imbecile! Straight up your nose!

He struck left, I darted right He smacked right, I dashed left. He rammed right again, I deliberately swooped right as well and stuck my heel up. Pray for his now-deformed knuckles. And then the last strike. By scooting my glass heel inchmeal, I managed to delightfully press on his exposed little toe. That expression of his was priceless. Red with pain, squirmed eyes, and his mouth said everything.

But I have not expected his last attack. As convenient as it could have been, I was sent - once more - whooshing through the air out of the gate, out of the palace, out of princess Abigail’s heart forever. Engulfed with desperate sorrow, I looked up to the sky to restrain my tears, and, for the last time, imprint the post-dusk tint of the sky into the deepest part of my heart. Abigail’s dress. You’ll not be forgotten.

I slammed into something again, but this time, soft, particularly smooth, especially shiny, reflecting the dim stars and wispy clouds. It was a warm shade of purple with embedded silver streaks of silk, fabric floaty and light as if in the clouds. A dried rosette sewn just beneath the collar, spreading wafts of aromatic perfume. And there was an exceptionally charming complexion grinning down on me. She’s here. Abigail’s here.

It doesn’t always do, but here, I’m quite confident that it was totally a happily ever after.