Glaucio Pedroso's diary

La Vie En Rose
“La vie en rose.”

FOR A MAJORITY OF MY EARTHLY CAREER, I’ve long held onto that specific French phrase.

I heard my mother—the women who rose me right—say it once. The context of her saying is has since slipped my mind. Still, the phrase itself has always stuck to me.

La vie en rose. To see life in pink. In other terms, it also means “to see through rose-colored glasses”.

For some time, I’ve done a great deal of reflecting on the way I’ve applied such a phrase to my own life. Truthfully, I’ve inflicted mortal wounds to my entire being because of this phrase. I will wonder to myself, “How could a simple French phrase do such a thing?” Perhaps you’re also thinking the same, exact thought. If you are, it’s rather easy to grasp how such a simple phrase can do so much harm.

I was on the cusp of turning eleven when I received the very last letter written by my father. My father, whose visage is a splitting image of my own. The letter was brief. I could identify the odd nature of his writing, which seemed more frantic and rushed than how he usually wrote. His handwriting was sloppy—sloppier than normal. I remember what he wrote to me, in his frantic syntax and sloppy handwriting:

''“My ship nears close to the port of [Reinos] das Rosas each day. I can see the outline of your great-uncle’s palace. However, I implore you to keep this a secret from your mother and great-uncle. Expect my presence very soon.”''

Upon reading that snippet from the letter, I read it over again. Then I read it over twenty more times. Soon the numbers increased tenfold, and I’ve read it approximately fifty times. I kept the letter on my person for the remainder of that day. I held it close to my heart when I settled for bed that night. The following morning, I rose early and found myself rushing to the large gates separating the palace from the rest of the Reinos das Rosas. I waited for him—my father—to walk through those gates, and catch sight of me—his son.

He didn’t arrive that day. Nor did he arrive the next day. The days dragged along, and he still hadn’t arrived.

And still I waited—in the same location—every day. Like a loyal dog.

I didn’t know this at the time, but I decided—on my own volition—to put on my own set of “rose-colored glasses”. Those glasses, once adorned, made me think that my waiting was worth something.

In the end, however, my waiting meant nothing.

Absolutely.

Fucking.

Nothing.

In the end, my father never returned. He never once set foot on the palace grounds. He never wrote another letter to my mom, or to my great-uncle, or to me.

Asshole.

I was twelve years old when I discarded the rose-colored glasses. I let go of the phrase “la vie en rose” as well. I had discarded the glasses for good. I let go of the phrase for good.

Or so I thought.

I am now fourteen years old. I go by the name “Glaucio”—an homage to my father, and his bluish-grey eyes—and I will soon find myself in an unfamiliar place. The place is Ever After High, a school known for educating the children of fairy tales. I am the child of a fairy tale, the woman who raised me—my mother, whose presence I’ve dearly missed in my life. Starting tomorrow, I attend the school as a student.

The outside world is full of unknown horrors and atrocities. However, I want to persevere through my four years at Ever After High. I will persevere through my four years at the school. I simply cannot let these “unknown horrors and atrocities” stand in my way.

And in order to allow my perseverance to bloom, I must don the rose-colored glasses once again. I must allow myself to see la vie en rose.

Chapter One
TBA