This is a fairy tale. And I don’t mean what we think of as a contemporary fairy tale, with prince charming and a happily ever after. I mean the bloody, gory, brutal tales of old. Something that makes the Grimm Brothers’ stories look like Disney movies with their cute, happy endings.
Read on, if you like tales that are twisted and retold.
The first person who kissed me was supposed to be my true love. The last man I would marry. That’s how the curse works. But I did not have to kiss a man to consummate a marriage, and that was how I kept my curse a secret. You would think after my fifth husband vanished, there would be more concern by now.
There wasn’t.
It was a balmy night, and the heat from the candles felt suffocating as I waited for the filthy pig across from me to finish his meal.
“This tastes of rot. You kept the meat too long before you cooked it.”
The complaint was a common one, though he wouldn’t realize his error for another two and a half hours.
“And dinner is late tonight. What is it you do all day, you useless harlot?”
I smiled.
“I spend the day taking care of our home and my body for you, my love.”
“I’ll bet you said that to the five men before me. But I won’t be disappearing.”
His tone was the same as usual. He always sounded as though he were on the verge of wrapping his meaty hands around my delicate neck. Fingers thick as sausages left bruises peppered across my flesh each night as he ravaged my body, taking his pleasure.
“I certainly hope not.” That would ruin all of my fun.
*
I had to cut his legs into three parts to carry them comfortably. His eyes were frozen in a silent scream, the sound trapped inside by paralysis. I was pleased he remained conscious for that part, given how much poison I coated his beef with. He suffocated slower than I expected after his heart stopped beating and his lungs stopped working. I grinned as blood splattered my face and arms like macabre raindrops. This punishment was particularly satisfying, after enduring his repulsive touch for so long.
“It’s a shame all this meat will go to waste,” I said with a sigh, carving bits of flesh from the body of my sixth husband. “Poisoned meat can’t be reused. I might have to rethink this method. Still, I’ve yet to be trapped by the likes of a man such as you.” The floor of the ‘closet’ grew sticky with pools of red as I worked, the liquid so dark it appeared black in the flickering torchlight.
*
It had been more than a year since a man lived in my manor, though I’d turned down the last three attempts at courtship. This man, however, took a different approach than the rest. He was the first to court me wearing a mask. And the first who did not try to kiss me.
“You have my full attention, Master…?” I let the question hang.
“You may call me Lon the Cunning.”
“Well, Master Cunning, it has been an age since I’ve been courted with such care.”
“A Lady as distinguished as yourself deserves far more than I can give.”
Something about this most recent suitor felt familiar, though I could not put a finger on why that was. Perhaps if I could see his face, I might have a better idea.
“Is that why you hide your face? Are you afraid I am shallow?”
“No. I believe one should not see the face of their husband or wife until the marriage has been sealed.”
An antiquated tradition, perhaps, but one that had not died out within our region.
“An interesting sentiment, to be sure,” I rephrased my thought to a more socially acceptable response, “though you are courting me, and I am not, myself, masked.”
“Nor do you need one, milady, as I would know your face and your voice even in my sleep.”
Cunning indeed. Thus far, he lived up to his name.
“You intend to ask for my hand, then?”
A long silence stretched between us as he held out his hand in silent question. I peered at it, covered by an expensive-looking glove. He stood statue-still, waiting on me. The room around us seemed to hold its collective breath, awaiting my answer with as much anticipation as Master Cunning did. I considered the idea of a seventh husband. I grew tired of punishing them when they took what was mine despite my warnings.
Surprising myself, I placed my hand in his. Perhaps the seventh time would be the charm.
*
Our wedding took place six moons prior. His mask remained in place, and the sheets of our marital bed remained cold. I hid my confusion, returning to my solo chambers each night, though my curiosity burned. By now, I had killed all six previous husbands for taking what I was unwilling to give. Lon the Cunning had been a perfect gentleman. He only touched me when offered, heeding my warnings about my body and my home. He had not so much as looked at the closet on the ground floor after the first day in my home, when I forbade him entrance to the room.
The mirror on my vanity refracted the morning light streaming in through the window, illuminating my robin’s egg blue ringlets as I ran a brush through them. Even now, I wasn’t sure what to make of the strange man sleeping on the other side of the hall each night.
“Good morning, wife.”
I turned to see my door slightly ajar, enough for him to speak to me, but not see me. Preserving my privacy in the event I was indecent.
“Good morning, husband. Will you be joining me this day?”
“I will not. Perhaps tomorrow.”
The same response as always.
*
My day drifted by in peace, and hummed to myself in the late afternoon warmth of the kitchen as I prepared tonight’s supper. The sound of footsteps startled me. Master Cunning stood in the threshold with an unreadable expression on his masked face.
“Would you care to dance?”
The question was as startling as his appearance. For the first time, I hesitated, unsure what to do. He held out his hand, patient as the day he asked for mine.
“Alright.” I gave him my hand.
He drew me close, and a shiver of discomfort slipped down my spine. This was far different from any of my six husbands before. None had asked me to dance. Or spared a thought for my wants. Or feelings. Or desires. His fingers were gentle as he tucked a stray blue curl behind my ear. Grey eyes bore into mine, and I tried to look away, but I could not.
Lon the Cunning struck like a viper. His mouth pressed to mine, more of a violation than the six who had come before him, using my body for their own pleasure. Panic coursed through me, though the pressure of his kiss had already vanished.
“What have you done?” I gasped, hand flying to my tingling lips.
“I have freed you with true love’s kiss.”
“There is no such thing,” I hissed.
My heart clenched as I felt the curse heat my bloodstream like the white fire in the sky during a storm. Pain engulfing me, and I collapsed at his feet. He removed the mask to reveal the brother of my latest husband.
“You will never marry again. I have finally gotten revenge for what you did to my brother, and the five men before him.”
“Do you know what they took from me?”
“Why do you think I have not touched you? I have no desire to wind up in the closet of the ground floor with your last six husbands.”
All I’d wanted was to find true love. I don’t know how he learned my secret, but the curse had come to pass. He was my true love, but I was not his.
If you are familiar with older fairy tales, you might notice the twisting of Bluebeard here within this story. I wrote this for one of my classes this spring, and I had a little too much fun twisting the original tale while I did the assignment.
Fun fact, there are actually three versions of this story: 1) The version you see above, which is the story in full. 2) A 659 word flash fiction version that I had to turn in as the final copy for class. Because it had to be a maximum of 2 pages double-spaced, which personally I consider to be an exercise in torture. And 3) A happily-ever-after version that was spawned from the original idea.
At 0400 randomly one morning during the first week of February, I had this idea come to me:
“The first person who kissed me was supposed to be my true love. The man I would marry. That’s how the curse works. I had many men try to force themselves on me, but one charmed me. The problem? He was masked. And I have no clue who I kissed.”
I instantaneously loved it and knew I wanted to write it, but it was a Cinderella retelling idea if I’d ever heard one. Our teacher had made a comment about it being one of the most common retellings, so I knew I didn’t want to do that for class. I wanted to stretch my writing muscles. But the original idea really, really called to me.
After finishing the version in class, and inspired by the upcoming romantic holiday, I wrote a twist on the OG 4 a.m. inspiration. I incorporated the idea that came to me, of course, with a throwback from a Valentine’s Day thread from last year. Hopefully you read this one when it drops, as well, and enjoy the spice that comes with it. Until next time!
xo
Grace
