i'm the hero of this story, don't need to be saved
Oven Doors
{fairytales - Hansel/Gretel}
She thinks she has a splinter in her left knee; opposite her is her brother, knelt with his elbows on the threadbare patchwork of his quilt. His lips are moving with the effort of remembering his prayers, as though they haven’t been saying the words over and over again every night since they were old enough to speak and to be afraid.
She closes her eyes and interlaces her fingers and instead of her prayers she lists her mistakes, her possible misinterpretations. She tells herself that perhaps things were not so bad, that perhaps she acted rashly. Her nails dig into the backs of her hands and she tells herself that she is a murderess and that perhaps she didn’t even have a cause. That perhaps the witch her mind has created was merely a woman with a cruel smile who found them lost in the forest and dusted their lips with sugar.
Her brother mumbles amen and she follows suit, rising shakily to her feet to peel back the quilt and climb inside. Her sheets are cold and the last thing she hears before she goes to sleep is the clang of the iron door.
She wears her stepmother’s old dresses; the tired remains of finery, bought at the expense of asking a man to part with his children. Her stepmother has no use for them anymore, after all. The lace is cheap and the hems unravel and she hates them but she wears them because waste not, want not.
Her brother’s fingers curl around her wrist, thick and firm. He runs to fat these days, is no longer afraid of food though there were weeks when they despaired he would fade away, pushing away the meagre meals they did have untouched. His face is rounder now, the edge gone from his smile.
A girl laughs, spring flowers woven into her braids; she’s beautiful and her life has been simple and her eyes linger on him, something like an offer in the flicker of her eyelashes. His fingers tighten around her wrist.
He’s always needed her too much.
The nights are hot in August and she thinks their father would’ve preferred keeping their stepmother over them. At least then he’d have someone to sleep beside at night. Instead, their father sighs at them; asks her why she is not married yet, asks him when he will grow up and leave.
They fought to come back here; there won’t be any leaving.
They share a pillow as they try to sleep, moonlight spilt over their faces, in streaks across the warped floorboards. The air is thick, the stumbled words of his night prayers still in the air, night breeze leaking in through the cracks in the window. Her mistakes are heavy on her tongue, her thoughts on the old woman, hazy in her memories though the fear makes her nails curl into her palms. She remembers cages and fireplaces and desperation.
No one ever asked any questions. They wouldn’t have known how to answer anyway.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” he whispers.
She thinks breadcrumbs, she thinks twigs breaking beneath their bare feet, she thinks pebbles worn smooth from the sea so far away they only ever saw it once, for their birthday, a lifetime ago. Before. Before.
“I won’t,” she whispers back.
He falls into sleep; she lies awake and smells burnt sugar on the wind.
People whisper about them, and she ties her braids too tight each morning, weaving ribbons through though she’s making herself beautiful for no one. She’s had offers, though she rejected them quick enough. She doesn’t know what she wants. She’s afraid of wanting.
They were all they needed, two sets of tears reflected on two faces, fingers interlocking through the bars.
She could’ve been wrong but that was not what she thought about when she placed her hands on the thick woollen shawl that covered the woman’s shoulders and pushed. When she swung the door closed and slammed the bolt across and closed her eyes until the screams stopped.
Her brother doesn’t often ask what she thinks about. She wouldn’t tell him, anyway. It isn’t his burden.
Another summer night, filthy moonlight shuddering through the trees. His mouth against her throat, his hands against her breasts, her hair spilling across the pillow and off the edge of the bed. She isn’t alone like this, and her hands curl over his shoulders, breath smudging over wet lips.
His fingers fumble between her legs, messy and ugly and she thinks those might be tears trembling at the corners of her eyes but she doesn’t open them long enough to find out. Their breath is the only sound, shadows sliding across the floor like waving arms, dark unfathomable hands clawing at their skin.
She thinks about moonlight and glowing white stones and his hand sweaty where it clutched hers.
When their mouths connect he tastes sticky-sweet, like molasses, dark and rich. Her tongue slides against his, chasing the unmistakable traces of gingerbread.
The forest is too quiet and the sunlight does not do what the moon did to her shadow. She knows the way; she doesn’t know how she knows the way.
The house is not made of sugar, it does not glow with the ethereal light of greed. Many of the roof tiles are missing and the windows are cracked and there’s ivy spilling down the walls.
The door opens at her touch without a creak; she doesn’t have to push. She feels something exhale, as though the house has been waiting for her.
That’s a thought.
The oven is still locked shut, and she closes her eyes against the shivering memory of a laugh. She might have been right; she might have been wrong. No one asked and no one told.
There’s a key lying on the table and she picks it up, curling her fingers around it. In the next room there’s a cage and the bars haven’t rusted. There’s a pocket handkerchief with an H embroidered in the corner lying on the floor, and a pebble, round and white and small.
She wonders if she’ll be missed as she slides the bolt to lock the front door, shutting out the world.
{fairytales - Hansel/Gretel}
She thinks she has a splinter in her left knee; opposite her is her brother, knelt with his elbows on the threadbare patchwork of his quilt. His lips are moving with the effort of remembering his prayers, as though they haven’t been saying the words over and over again every night since they were old enough to speak and to be afraid.
She closes her eyes and interlaces her fingers and instead of her prayers she lists her mistakes, her possible misinterpretations. She tells herself that perhaps things were not so bad, that perhaps she acted rashly. Her nails dig into the backs of her hands and she tells herself that she is a murderess and that perhaps she didn’t even have a cause. That perhaps the witch her mind has created was merely a woman with a cruel smile who found them lost in the forest and dusted their lips with sugar.
Her brother mumbles amen and she follows suit, rising shakily to her feet to peel back the quilt and climb inside. Her sheets are cold and the last thing she hears before she goes to sleep is the clang of the iron door.
She wears her stepmother’s old dresses; the tired remains of finery, bought at the expense of asking a man to part with his children. Her stepmother has no use for them anymore, after all. The lace is cheap and the hems unravel and she hates them but she wears them because waste not, want not.
Her brother’s fingers curl around her wrist, thick and firm. He runs to fat these days, is no longer afraid of food though there were weeks when they despaired he would fade away, pushing away the meagre meals they did have untouched. His face is rounder now, the edge gone from his smile.
A girl laughs, spring flowers woven into her braids; she’s beautiful and her life has been simple and her eyes linger on him, something like an offer in the flicker of her eyelashes. His fingers tighten around her wrist.
He’s always needed her too much.
The nights are hot in August and she thinks their father would’ve preferred keeping their stepmother over them. At least then he’d have someone to sleep beside at night. Instead, their father sighs at them; asks her why she is not married yet, asks him when he will grow up and leave.
They fought to come back here; there won’t be any leaving.
They share a pillow as they try to sleep, moonlight spilt over their faces, in streaks across the warped floorboards. The air is thick, the stumbled words of his night prayers still in the air, night breeze leaking in through the cracks in the window. Her mistakes are heavy on her tongue, her thoughts on the old woman, hazy in her memories though the fear makes her nails curl into her palms. She remembers cages and fireplaces and desperation.
No one ever asked any questions. They wouldn’t have known how to answer anyway.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” he whispers.
She thinks breadcrumbs, she thinks twigs breaking beneath their bare feet, she thinks pebbles worn smooth from the sea so far away they only ever saw it once, for their birthday, a lifetime ago. Before. Before.
“I won’t,” she whispers back.
He falls into sleep; she lies awake and smells burnt sugar on the wind.
People whisper about them, and she ties her braids too tight each morning, weaving ribbons through though she’s making herself beautiful for no one. She’s had offers, though she rejected them quick enough. She doesn’t know what she wants. She’s afraid of wanting.
They were all they needed, two sets of tears reflected on two faces, fingers interlocking through the bars.
She could’ve been wrong but that was not what she thought about when she placed her hands on the thick woollen shawl that covered the woman’s shoulders and pushed. When she swung the door closed and slammed the bolt across and closed her eyes until the screams stopped.
Her brother doesn’t often ask what she thinks about. She wouldn’t tell him, anyway. It isn’t his burden.
Another summer night, filthy moonlight shuddering through the trees. His mouth against her throat, his hands against her breasts, her hair spilling across the pillow and off the edge of the bed. She isn’t alone like this, and her hands curl over his shoulders, breath smudging over wet lips.
His fingers fumble between her legs, messy and ugly and she thinks those might be tears trembling at the corners of her eyes but she doesn’t open them long enough to find out. Their breath is the only sound, shadows sliding across the floor like waving arms, dark unfathomable hands clawing at their skin.
She thinks about moonlight and glowing white stones and his hand sweaty where it clutched hers.
When their mouths connect he tastes sticky-sweet, like molasses, dark and rich. Her tongue slides against his, chasing the unmistakable traces of gingerbread.
The forest is too quiet and the sunlight does not do what the moon did to her shadow. She knows the way; she doesn’t know how she knows the way.
The house is not made of sugar, it does not glow with the ethereal light of greed. Many of the roof tiles are missing and the windows are cracked and there’s ivy spilling down the walls.
The door opens at her touch without a creak; she doesn’t have to push. She feels something exhale, as though the house has been waiting for her.
That’s a thought.
The oven is still locked shut, and she closes her eyes against the shivering memory of a laugh. She might have been right; she might have been wrong. No one asked and no one told.
There’s a key lying on the table and she picks it up, curling her fingers around it. In the next room there’s a cage and the bars haven’t rusted. There’s a pocket handkerchief with an H embroidered in the corner lying on the floor, and a pebble, round and white and small.
She wonders if she’ll be missed as she slides the bolt to lock the front door, shutting out the world.