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❝ What if Cinderella had an attitude problem and Snow White just liked the idea of strangers and poisons too much?
What if the Little Mermaid always enjoyed human company more than her own kind's and Sleeping Beauty just liked her solitude more than human touch?
What if the only rabbit hole Alice ever fell down was a terrible mistake with an awful substance, never discussed as such?
What if they locked Wendy away for hallucinating about Neverland and a boy who never grew up?
What if fairytales aren't as innocent as they sound and even princesses aren't perfect?
What if I told you that your damage doesn't define you and the way you survive is no one else's damned business? ❞
QUESTION THE FAIRYTALE | 𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐀 𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐋
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a maelstrom, that was what she was. malevolent, conniving, masks upon masks upon masks. she wore no truth, she spoke none of reality, everything a fabrication and mistrust. she had an iron glare, sword-like fangs, canines sharper than wolves and vampires alike, this woman is beyond redemption, a satire of lost souls and chrysanthemums. the girl wore the metallic scent of ichor as though primroses and hyacinth, unmindful of the disdainful leer given by the deities above, disapproving of her ways, horrified of her schemes. a tap of a finger, one, two, three, shivers crawled from within his skin, clamoring against the malign chill of silver cuffs keeping him victimized. footsteps getting nearer, tut, tut, tut. he could recognize the whistle of the wind, it was almost distant, taunting, a nostalgia of what he's barely even suffered. they sang, crows trilling the coronach of funerals and departure. it pulsated beneath his skull, the lament of the souls trapped to witness another existence become the she-devil's plaything, she's coming, she's here, she's going to kill you. he tried to slip his limbs through the restraints, the terror arising upon the waves of trepidation which ascended like a whole moon's tide, jingling keys prompting him to remain still, frigid, alone. his eyes train on the creaking door, this Mephistopheles incarnate haloed by fire and eternal damnation stepping inside clad by a blood-red dress, lips spilled to a simper so callous, unemotional, so morally depraved. it was her tender voice that kept him tethered to dread, occasional flinches feeding her insanity.
"don't be scared yet, penny boo. . . we're just getting started."
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