Twisted Endings

Blind Beauty

Papa says
that I am his Beauty,
the light of his world
that I've never seen.

Papa came
and gave me roses.
He says they are crimson,
and I nod, smiling,
even though I don't know what that means.

Papa's hands
have scratches, and
they are sticky and warm.
I asked him what had happened,
and he said that rose thorns pierced him,
but roses don't make that kind of mark.

I like roses, the silky petals,
the closest to velvet
we'll ever get.
It smells sweet,
and makes me happy,
but I know Papa doesn't feel the same.
Even though he says he's fine,
his hands tremble
under the bandages.

Papa stands
and takes my hand,
he pulls me roughly to my feet.
I tighten my grip on the roses,
and the thorns pierce through my skin.
I bump my shin against the table,
but I bite my lip
and keep from crying.

Papa walks
ahead of me.
I have to run to keep up.
I stumble over roots and gravel,
in a frightening place
I've never been before.

Papa keeps
repeating two words,
whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
I want to ask him why,
but I don't want to know the answer.
And then I'm tripping
in the darkness,
branches tangling
in my hair.
I graze my knee,
but I grit my teeth
and keep from crying.

Papa leaves
me all alone,
wrapped in darkness
in the cold.
I can hear the wind,
taking up his cry.
"sorry... I'm sorry... so sorry..."
I wish
I wasn't so blind.
(I cut my fingers on the thorns,
holding on tighter,
to keep from crying.)

I stay
here long,
too long,
until
I can't feel my fingers
and my toes are numb.
Did Papa leave me
because I am
just barely eight?
Because
a blind girl
is only useless?
I want to call him back,
but he is too far away
for my voice
to reach him.
And even if he heard,
would he return?

Footsteps now.
Not my papa.
These are lighter, softer,
unheard if not for fallen leaves.
A voice calls out.
A girl? A woman?
Someone sent by Papa?
"You are the girl," she says.
"Yes," I want to say,
but all I can do is nod.

More footsteps,
coming closer still,
until I can feel
every exhale
on my eyelashes.
"He stole my roses,"
she breathes.
My papa doesn't steal,
is what I thought,
but
I thought he loved me
just this morning
as well.

"I'm sorry,"
I say, as papa said.
"That's what he said,"
she growls.
"I'm sorry,"
I echo,
for what else
can I say?
"She had eyes that sparkled too,"
says the wolf? The monster?
No, a beast
"Who?"
I ask,
because the silence scares me
more than her words,
"A princess stained red
with her own blood,"
she shouts.
"A beauty, a victim,
a murderer,"
she roars.
Her voice grows louder,
and I shrink back.

I am scared,
so scared,
and then
it's fire, burning
in my chest,
blood and life
pouring out.
She class at my eyes.
There is no difference.
I laugh,
at a cowardly father,
at a mad beast,
a dark, dark world,
and two blind eyes.
It hurts,
too much,
so I cry silent tears
and keep from screaming.