Little Red Riding Hood

Fairy tales, myths, legends and just stories are in our everyday life. They creep into our minds, haunt our dreams, and scare us. They keep us out of the woods, and away from the creepy people, it keeps us scared to keep us safe.

I on the other hand am the complete opposite of a normal person. I wish for nightmares because they are so real and scary but just a story to me. I know they can’t hurt me and I am happy with that but they are in my mind. In the deepest darkest corners they lurk. The sleep in the day and come out at night. Just like the creatures in fairytales and legends.

People fear them yet I welcome.

My life was confusing in these times. Nobody listened to children, even though I was not a child. I lived for adventure yet I loved to stay and read stories. My imagination was wild and the only way to tame it was to let me go. To run, to hide, to seek. I was like a little girl in one of my tales.

Like Hansel and Gretel. I purposely once got lost so I could follow the little trail of bread crumbs back because I could not find the house of sweets. I loved sweetness, though it is very rare in my village to come across something so sugary. I get by.

But something that happened to me; was not like in my books. It was not like in my dreams. It was deadly. It was worse than nightmares’ worse than the ones you wake up screaming from, or crying from, or sweating and shaking from. It was worse than making a decision that could change your life forever. It was worse than choosing which sibling you liked better.

It was a life or death situation that only I could conquer. So I shall tell you my story. The story that still haunts me to this day. The story that I have nightmares about. The story that makes me wake up in the night screaming, crying, shaking, sweating. The worst dream you could possibly think of.

And to tell you the end; I have to tell you the beginning.

I woke from my slumber. The light shone dully into the room. Probably 7 in the morning. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stared at the place I called home. The skin rugs and fury beds and blankets. The feather filled pillows and the wood. So much wood. The whole village was made from wood because we had so much of it, and so little of everything else. My whole town was surrounded by dense forest and woods. Mist that circled the trunks and that not even a bird would come out of alive.

Only the strongest and the wildest of our men went into those woods to search, to cut, to chop, to hunt, and to kill. Nothing weaker ever came out alive. Some stories from past generations told us that children that went in there perished before they even took their next step. Never to be seen again. But these were only stories, myths, and old wives tales. Or were they? But they were enough to keep us indoors and safe.

No one wandered alone; no one dared go into the forest. At least not without a father or older brother. Someone with sword or knife skills.

We weren’t a very big village because travelers didn’t really like to go through the forest. Only occasionally do lost travelers or visitors arrive. But they never really leave for the fear of seeing what they saw before.

I hopped out of my lumpy but weirdly comfortable bed. My sleeping gown hung loosely around m body giving me lots of space to move around. This was good in my case because I was a bit of a wrestler in bed. Not what you think really. I sleep walk, talk, and struggle. Sometimes I have fights with my pillow. Embarrassing sometimes when I have my window open and the neighbours can hear. Though I just ignore the snickers and stares.