Cinderella sat in the doctor’s office waiting. The nurse had been in to take her blood pressure, and her weight; all normal, nothing remarkable to worry the palace doctor. Well that was good. She flipped through a copy of an old People magazine but it seemed it was a shoe issue. Really, she thought with a pang, every magazine seemed to be a shoe issue. Cinderella liked the gladiator sandals though, they looked well, peasantish – the very opposite of the glass slippers. She put the magazine back in the rack and clambered onto the table, a difficult task without feet. She made it to the metal tray then paused to catch her breath.
March, April, May, June, July....Cinderella counted. No the specimen jar thingy was not for her! Yay.
Was she due for pap smear? God, she hoped not. She counted the months. No. Good, today they’d just be talking about her mental state and also, she thought sadly, her feet. “Knock knock,” said the doctor as he came in the room. Why did he always do this? Actually say knock knock. He sat down on a stool opposite the reclining bed thingy.
Cinderella missed the talking mice like she missed her feet. Which is to say a ridiculous amount.
“Cinderella,” he said, “so good to see you again. Are we pregnant?”
Oh christ. This again. ”Well I don’t know if you’re pregnant, but I’m not.” She’d meant it to be a joke, but he looked offended. He frowned and looked at her chart, then at her feet. “I uh, heard about your accident with the dog. I can imagine you’re quite distressed about it all.”
“No gladiator sandals for me this summer!”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“And my understanding from the prince is that you’re uh, hearing voices? Talking… let’s see here,” he flipped through the pages of her file, “mice is it? Talking mice?”
“Well that was a long time ago. Now I just talk to the pool boy. Or flip him off sometimes. He doesn’t really talk back.”
“I see. Well there are certainly pills for your talking mice problem.”
“You mean to make them come back?”
“Uh no. I thought you wanted to get rid of them.”
“Well they don’t talk to me anymore. They lived at Lady Tremaine’s house with my stepsisters. This was a long time ago…the mice made me a dress? The stepsisters ripped it? They were total bitches? You know this.”
“Right, right. Okay. Well as long as you’re not currently hearing voices, perhaps it was a response to stress.”
Jesus. He wasn’t listening. “Like I said, I’m not hearing them anymore.”
“Perhaps you are stressed about something. Is something upsetting you?”
Oh fuck it, she thought. “Well I have no feet. That’s upsetting. And did you see my hand?” She waved it at him and he recoiled.
“There’s no reason to be hostile,” he said.
“I’m not flipping you off, the dog ate all the other fingers on that hand. Listen, I feel fine. Maybe we can talk about my feet though. Is there a long donor list for new feet?”
“Well the list is quite extensive at the moment. The palace dog has been teething. But I’m sure we’ll get some new feet in shortly, though they may be a bit large.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “The tiny feet were a pain.”
“Alright, then.” He made some notes on his papers and stood up. ”I’ll call in a prescription to the Target pharmacy,” he winked at her “to keep the mice away.”
If she had feet, she thought, she’d kick him in the nuts.
“Awesome,” she said, because really what else was there to say.
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Dude, that hand looks scary.
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interesting…
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