At the end of the world, there she was, inside, locked up.
The tower hold itself up over the trees, it was lost in between gray clouds and white snow. That turret was impossible. How could such a shapeless and demolished thing keep itself standing up?
She that unfortunate girl that was kept captive in the damn tower, had forgotten already the years that she had been accumulating with time, despite, even, of being unanimous witness of change: the body of a girl a few months old, growing up to become a beautiful girl of copper hair and night eyes, black as a no-moon night, as that abandoned and away-from-everything corner. One night, when she was a kid and played with her fingers, something filtered into her blue eyes, something held her up several days with her eyes shut, trembling with fear in a corner, so alone there inside, so naked she didn't notice, there weren't any mirrors, she had never seen herself, but that night her eyes changed their color, they darkened, and she could never unpick that fear from her skin.
May it be enough to say that she had never got out of there, she would never see that real world that, when unfolded, it stayed so far away from the palms of her hands
The world that she knew was a round room that occupied all the diameter of the tower; there was no door to escape through to another place. The windows, deep, and protected by the grids, barely let the light in. There was only one thing similar to a door: a window, huge, the only one that had no bars, the only one that fed her hope, the only one that didn't condemned her; it started soil to root and ended up in the roof, that one that sometimes leaked the rainwater.
The rainy nights she forgot the fear, she whispered to herself, and in between the darkness of the night and some confusing tears, she tumbled to the floor and let the miserable leaks cover her in water kisses and soak her in peace. Those cold drops told her stories of a world outside her tower, higher, colder, closer to the sun she had never seen, the mist, that perpetual mist always surrounding her tower.
Many times she talked to herself, there was no one to listen to her, only the cold and mute rocks, the flaccid and deaf bead Sometimes mom came to keep her company! and to take her food or clothes. She sat with her on her bed and hugged her. That morning mom came earlier than usual:
Let down your hair to me."
She gets up from her bed, and lifts up her braided hair throughout the biggest window.
Mom's flabby and wrinkled body climbed up the tower with more difficulty each time. One morning she brought a doll in between her hands, bald, with hollow eyes, off-color lips and shreds as a dress. Until then she had played with her fingers to be a mother, she also had mimicked with both hands those stories that mom told her. There wasn't anything else, nothing else.
Rappunzel, remembers her small hands and her legs not as large as now, she remembers the dream of having something to play with. She remembers those empty afternoons, when mom told her goodbye with a smile, leaving her alone with that doll that past a few years she had come to hate.
One night, I won't say she looked at the Moon, since she got tired of her a long time ago, she hated it with resignation and submission, the Moon was the only constant in her nights, the only thing that had been with her always. Full of rancor, she would have wanted to poison the celestial body with her sadness, with that dark wish that flooded her thought every night, since quite some time now. They dreamt with her red liquid spilling out, going out through every hole in her body. But the night we are referring to she woke up before dawn, she poked out the window and she looked. There were the perpetual clouds that didn't let her see the world.
She tied the end of her braid to one of many bars and, before being free, she turned that dirty braid around her neck, to be warm and to be hugged.
She threw herself out the window. She flew, for an instant. She extended her arms and she was free.
A burst of laughter was heard throughout all of the woods before her head brutally hit the same tower that had kept her captive; it wouldn't let her get away so easily. The blood sprouted from the lower part of her skull but she was dead already, she didn't breath anymore, she didn't beat anymore. The tower's captive's feet rested a few centimeters from the ground, hanging. Rappunzel could never get to the world.
And that way, the night went on.
No one ever got close to that place. I'm lying There was an old lady that traveled the whole route to the turret every day, that day wouldn't be different.
Rappunzel's body had dripped all night; her lips had become purple, her skin yellowish, her blue and open eyes now blurred. The sound of every drop of blood that fell towards the puddle could be heard throughout all of the forest, given the fact that nothing inhabited that place, not even the girl of the shapeless tower now.
The old woman arrived and watched in amazement Rappunzel's hanged body, but wasn't able to see that strange girl, standing on the floor, hugging Rappunzel's feet. Shaking, terrified and lonely as always.
People tell, that her mortal remains are still there, docile, slaves, the tower still grasping on her, it has made the ivy grow around her body so no one can take her from it.
And there was no prince, nor tears, only silence.