Toxic Tales

Blood Red

I'm sure you've heard this story before—well, one side of it, at least. But what you heard is not the truth. A lot more happened that never made it into the story books, and that's why I'm so glad you're here. It's time for my side of the story to be heard.

The way it's been told, I'm the enemy. I'm the one everyone hates, the cold, callous villain who will stop at nothing.

Hate to break it to you, but I'm not so bad.

Let me start at the beginning.

It was a long time ago. I worked in the King and Queen's palace as a chambermaid and lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty. We became very close, she and I; we'd spent our adolescent years together, growing up in the palace back when she was the princess. Despite the difference in our social status, we got along wonderfully. My mother worked in the palace, too. When she died, I took her place and became the princess's hand maid. I kept the position after she was crowned Queen.

I would be lying if I didn't admit to feeling some jealousy. Yes, the Queen was a dear friend and a lovely woman, but I couldn't help hoping that someday I would live in wealth and opulence, barely having to lift a finger. I'd worked hard all my life. My mother and I were impoverished when my father left us. When she obtained a position in the palace, it was a godsend. The servants' quarters weren't exactly royal bedchambers, but they were far more comfortable than the old shack with the leaky roof and drafty walls. I was content, but never truly happy.

I expressed these feelings once to my mother. She slapped my face.

"We are the lucky ones, living and working here," she scolded me harshly as I cried. "There is no point wishing we had another life. This is reality. Get your head out of the clouds and get back to work."

I did as I was instructed and pushed the dreams of riches and royalty into the corners of my mind; if they ever made themselves known again, I'd silence them quickly. It became a habit.

Life went on. The Queen and I were inseparable. My jealousy was not helped when she married the King—easily the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes on—but I forced myself to ignore it and be happy for them.

The King was as lovely and kind as he was handsome. He treated me with respect and friendship, and showered his Queen with more love and affection than any woman could hope for. She never stopped talking about how dear he was to her and how much she loved him. Before long, I'd fallen for him myself. Many nights I'd spend awake, weeping bitterly and praying that the happiness I felt I deserved would soon come to me. I didn't want anything to happen to my friend, of course, but the darkest part of my soul secretly hoped and wished for something foul to befall her, leaving the path to the King wide open for me.

I scolded myself for these thoughts. How horrible does someone have to be to wish such things upon their closest friend?

Time passed. One morning, the Queen ran to me with tears of joy in her eyes. "My dear friend, we have been blessed! I am with child!"

I found myself genuinely delighted at this news. Having a little prince or princess to care for would be just wonderful.

When the day arrived, I held the Queen's left hand while she delivered the child. The King was at her right. I had never seen such happiness in a man's eyes before. The midwife handed me the child, and as I gently washed and dried her and wrapped her in a warm blanket, I lovingly whispered, "Welcome to the world, little princess."

The Queen named the baby "Snow White" to commemorate the soft snow that had been falling when she was born. I was the child's godmother. I grew to love her as though she were my own daughter, and I like to think that she looked at me as she did her own mother.

With her jet black hair and startlingly pale skin, the name Snow White was very
appropriate for her. As she grew, so did her active imagination. Without many other small children to play with, she invented imaginary friends—seven, to be exact. She requested that seven place settings be added to the table during mealtimes; her doting parents welcomed this behavior and indulged it. I didn't think it very wise to encourage these habits, but I also didn't think it was my place to help parent the girl in these matters. Her mother and father were more than capable of handling things.

At least, that's what I thought at first.