The first day feels like it had been weeks ago. But it was only two days ago.
I can still feel the fragments of fright that had sped through my veins, alarming my nerves. Like stains of paint after creating a monstrosity.
The second day had been worse. Gretel had still had hope. She still believed Vater would return. Still believed his footsteps would echo through the forest, the sounds of his worried voice bouncing off the disturbed trees. I had lost all my hope throughout the 24 hours before. Sand cascading down an hourglass. Hope turning into hatred.
Maybe Vater doesn't deserve to be blamed. Maybe it was an honest mistake. But if he was looking for us, he should look harder. The way Gretel's hands shook, the way water had filled her pale blue eyes, her feet stumbling, her smile masking her worry; it killed me. No, he deserved to be blamed.
The third day, or today, is a mess.
Gretel's hands still tremble, but she doesn't fake herself anymore. She's lost her hope. I guess it's my fault for snapping at her. But I couldn't stand hearing her bittersweet stories of finding Mutter and Vater.
"Papa would apologize over and over, practically begging for forgiveness, like the fool had done to the queen in that one story!" she had claimed, her little accent on the verge and end of each word. "Mama would be mad at Papa, but cry of joy when she saw us! Just like the mama duck in that other story."
I rolled my eyes, now and then. Those darned stories. Mutter and Vater had made one up each night before bed. Gretel had fallen in love and began writing her own. My parents were always proud of the obvious and sugared fiction. They thought she would become an author.
I never understood. Who would want to read of feigned content and happy endings? Those don't exist in the real world.
False hope. Letting a tiger think it will be saved and not skinned.
It sounds more evil than real life.
Now, Gretel stays quiet. I stay quiet. And it is silent. Until I hear the crack of wood and turn to see that Gretel tripped.
I wait a second, watching as she sits up but does not stand up.
"Let's go," I growl. She doesn't even glance at me. A sulking flower.
"I... I can't go on, Hansel," she whispered as tears refilled again. They've been doing that a lot these past 3 days.
My glare stays steady until I really can't are to watch her cry. My harshness deflates. Bones breaking to dust. I bend down and watch her curl into herself, knees to her chest, arms hugging her legs, head facing away.
"Gretel-" she cut me off. Surprising.
"Papa's not going to find us. Is he?" I don't respond.
Of course, he's not going to find us. She's old enough to finally realize that life isn't some land of magic. It's a balloon. A delicate balloon, yet surrounded with spikes. You're told to make sure it doesn't pop, because if it dies, so do you. People have so many theories of how to take care of it and how to not let it pop but every once in a while, you're going to prick your finger on it. You're going to have to run after it when you accidentally let go. Sometimes, it's going to pop on its own. Sometimes, somebody else will pop it.
Gretel sighs and the puling begins.
I don't know what to do. I've never been good with other people's emotions.
The other village kids and their parents would call me mean and inconsiderate. I was only telling the truth. Just facts.
I looked around, thinking of what I could do.
Maybe tell her a story? No, mine would end badly. Gretel doesn't like bad endings.
My eyes jump from the dirt to the browning grass, to the giant wood, to the gingerbread mailbox, to the clouds. Wait.
I fling my head back down and see something impossible only a few feet behind Gretel. How hadn't I seen it before? We just passed from over there.
A mailbox. Made of gingerbread and... frosting... and gumdrops? Am I seeing things?
"Gre... Gretel?" I murmur.
"What? What could you, of all people, possibly say to make me feel better?" she barked.
I only blinked and pointed to the strange object. She turned back and immediately stood, running over to it. I became hesitant.
Yes, it was brightly coloured and, quite honestly, looked delicious but its sparkling exterior had a dark interior. A thunderstorm for an aura. My vision flinched for a millisecond but it was enough to catch a rotting and mouldy mailbox that Gretel now eats from.
"Gretel, I don't... I don't think that's such a good idea," I stammer, slowly approaching both her and the thing. She licks her frosting-covered finger and her face squints together in delight.
"This. Is. Amazing!" She quickly picks off each candy and throws one in her mouth. "It's so good! You must try one, Hansel!"
She trots over and holds out her gummy-filled hand.
My whole brain screams at me to not take it. It's not good. It's not safe. But my stomach disagrees and I and I carefully choose a green gumdrop.
As my teeth bit into it, a sweet lime flavour bursts in my mouth and I just have to close my eyes. My saliva mixes and the jelly liquidates, sloshing around in my mouth.
"Oh my... Hansel... Hansel, look!"
Gretel's touch breaks me from the spell when she shakes my arm. My eyes open and the taste disappears down my throat.
I look toward where she's pointing, as she did for me and my heart begins to thump with worry. The fright fragments that I had mentioned before, swim in my blood flow again.
A house sits in the forest beside us. A cottage, really. Appearing out of the brown and mush. A hovel glitches in front of me. And candy is decorated everywhere. Its walls are all gingerbread, the outlines are lined with frosting, and multi-coloured candy glimmers like emeralds and amethysts.
Gretel squeals and sprints forward, digging in, but I suddenly feel very heavy.
Very... corpulent? I only ate one tiny thing.
This is too much. I can no longer trust my vision, as it changes everything I'm supposed to be viewing.
A gum rooftop, slimy black ink. Steady build, drooping and fungus. A quaint door, broken and smashed.
This isn't right and I know it.
It's a villain dressed as a superhero. A princess who's truly a witch. A saviour who will become a killer.
Just like in that one story.
~Author's Note~
This is another little story I was supposed to write for school, which is why I didn't finish it. If you didn't guess already, it's a Hansel and Gretel retelling from Hansel's point of view. I also want to explain my reasoning for Hansel calling his parents by the German Mother and Father. The story, which you might already know, was originally told in German or whatever- I chose to make Hansel call his parents Mutter and Vater were because even though Hansel is shown to have some sort of temper or disliking to his father, doesn't mean that he didn't still have respect for him. I don't know, I just thought it was a good idea. 7:)
