A Twisted Idea
Oh gods; this is exactly what the title says it is. A twisted version of an idea my friend had about someone reading a fairytale about a kind and gentle wandering witch then was pulled into the past to fulfill her role as the iwitch.
My take has been through a shredder, then a meat grinder, then run over by a semi, melted down, and moulded into a Maya doing yoga. (Oh, bad image, bad image.)
Ahem; I’ll start.
Dry lips crackled into a wry smile as she tossed her head back and let loose a sound that scratched and scraped, a mockery of a laugh of joy.
Wasn’t heroines supposed to be wise and kind and good? Then why was she pins and needles? She instead was cracked and ragged and sharp, like a porcelin doll broken too many times in too many places and fixed with too clumsy hands. The story didn’t say that the heroine will suffer, say the weight of death pressed ever heavier on her shoulders.
It didn’t say that someone wise and good and kind would have her happiness taken and fed to scrabbling poor. She heard every unspoken, irrisponsible word.
“Please, Lady Witch, help us” “Please Lady Witch, make the pain your own.”
It drove her insane. How dare they? How could they simply ask for her help when her own eyes are blackened and her blood runs thick? When her bones tremble and her mind is unable to smile?
Why? In fairytales, the heroine always wins, and forever she will smile after the evil is vanquished. It didn’t speak of the green bile that permeates the air, it doesn’t speak of rotting corpses that used to be courage in a human shell, eaten soft by maggots and eyes ripped by birds. It never says that the brave heroine will die of a sickness of the mind.
The fairytale doesn’t care if she’s happy, so she doesn’t smile. The tale cares not for her sadness, so she sheds no tears. The story rejects her and places an indestuctable warrior in her place.
But for a moment, she shoves away the heroine and she is her again, and the child on the inside of a carefully built shell hurt, it hurt, and it screamed and screamed in her dreams; Crying, pounding at the walls, ripping its fingers on the rippled brick.
It screeched, it clawed…
Then it sputtered and died.