If she had to look at her one more time, she would scream. If she had to hear her ageless voice tell her 'no' again, her heart would shatter. She couldn't bare it anymore.

"Rapunzel," the voice of her supposed mother called from the window. Maybe, today of all days, on her 18th birthday, she'd let her leave the tower. She'd told herself this every birthday for the last 8 years. It was no use, she'd never escape. She'd die here. Alone.

"Coming mother." Her hardened bare feet shuffled forward on the cobblestone floor. One hand warm, full of her hair, the other clammy, both palms calloused from climbing on the walls and rafters, slowly going mad. She threw her hair out the window and over an iron bar that helped keep it from pulling the strands out of her skull as her mother climbed.

She knew how long it took for her mother to climb up. She knew from the countless times she's waited before. Mother was already yammering about how lucky Rapunzel was to not have to leave the tower, breathing heavily as she climbed up her braids. The cold knife in Rapunzels hand chilled the sweat and steeled her nerves. She lifted the knife, holding her hair at the base of her neck with one hand, she slashed upward with the sharp blade, the taut hair separating with a sound more like ripping than cutting.

Her mother screamed her name one last time, and then never made a sound again.

She sighed with relief. She would finally get to feel the warm, spring air on her face. She gazed out at the trees and smiled. Today she would feel the grass against her skin, even if it was only for a split second, it would be worth it.

Her eyes were open, her lips curled into a large smile as the wind whipped past, and the ground flooded up to embrace her. Dying in a warm, grass coffin was better than living in a cold, stone mausoleum.