A Tale of the Rose

There’s always a story before the once upon a time. Either people don’t care to hear, or they simply don’t know it exists, but what a foolish and diminutive mind they must possess to never think of what occurred before, to never ponder the flawless entanglement of events that leads to the moment where the princess becomes the heroine and the Queen is left to be the majesty of nothing. The tale I speak of is about a princess similar to the one you are acquainted with, but in actuality, they share no resemblance except for their indisputable beauty, raven hair, pale skin, and red lips. The princess was young when she married, no older than fifteen years old. Her husband was known to be a noble and gentle king and for a while, he lived up to that expectation. He loved his young wife; her pale skin reminded him of the doves he hunted. He adorned her with the beauty the world had to offer, gifting her with something new every night before she was taken to his bed. The evening he conceived a son, she was given foreign silk laces that were sewn with the intention of being modeled by only the most beautiful of women. They were blood-red, the same color as her lips.

The Princess received greater tenderness from her husband while her stomach grew round with his heir. A blush dwelled endlessly on her cheeks; a rose plucked from the garden of snow. But one day, while the gallows were being built, a crow landed on her window and she lost the heir. The King was angry, his gentleness replaced with rage. His gifts were replaced with bruises. His erratic love for the Princess was replaced by his passion for mistresses.

After she was with the King, she always found herself at the window watching the chaos of the snowfall blend in with the conformity of the snow in the small courtyard. She imagined a different world in the iced fractals around the window. She saw a girl who was trained to obey the ticking of the clock tower. Other times, there was a girl who was ensnared to follow the path because if she strayed, a monster lingered for her. It was men's way of keeping women in check. Stray and they send the monster, but if they obey, the prince puts them in a prettier prison than the one they lived in. 

The princess knew she was stuck looking in the mirror, destined to eternally cover the harsh blue and purple while hoping, praying, and waiting for a child. Those were her chains. The chains of abuse, duty, and mirrors. Her only chance of liberation was what she glimpsed outside the window, watching the world as if she didn’t dwell in it. She lamented deeply that night. The tears stung the cuts that decorated her face. She remained in the window every night for a month until she got pregnant again, but the noose crept up on her, waiting for the executioner's call for justice that would send her flying through the gallows, leaving her for the crows to pluck out her eyes. 

The abuse started once again, and he found a new mistress. The black and blue marked her pale skin, the despicable contrast made her stomach churn every time she concealed it. But it only took three weeks of staring and wondering through the window for her to get pregnant. She knew this time. She prepared herself for what was to come. Her belly grew round, as did the excitement of the king. He was gentle and loving again, adorning her with the most beautiful and expensive gifts. One night, he dressed her up in an expensive dress, with the blood-red laces on full display. He gave her a comb that was decorated with gemstones and diamonds before pursuing his pride through her. The king brushed her hair that night too, gently working out all the knots. She’d almost forgotten how cruel he could be. Then he dismissed her safely to bed, but the executioner lurked in the shadows of the night. This time he brought the axe, cutting through justice alongside the screeching of the crows. 

The gallows were busy for years to come with the swing of an axe and the flying of the noose. The Princess found herself sitting on the ledge of the window night and day, staring at what she knew would never be hers. But the mirror perfectly reflected what had been decided for her all those years ago.

 The snow was falling again, the perfect harmony disrupted by the vicious breeze that tore through the world. It even tried to shatter the glass but to no avail. The princess, this time, no longer sat at the window, but stood in the courtyard, where she stared at each rose bush that was planted for each child. Six of them, all grown and handsome, standing firm against the resilience of the wind. It did not replace what was lost and beaten to be forgotten. How could she forget that those children never felt the light of life or the warmth of their mother's arms? No, these rose bushes didn’t replace what had been taken. They did not supersede the bruises she suffered or the ache of her despairing heart. She put her right hand on her growing stomach and used her left to pluck a budding rose. With a gasp, she dropped it, staring at the mark it made. Blood pooled where the thorn kissed harshly against her cold, pale skin, and watched three small drops stain the snow. She knew she wouldn’t survive a seventh rose bush. 

The child was born days later. Not an heir, but not a rose bush. The executioner had finally taken a day off. The princess stared down at the girl in her arms and tenderly rubbed her smooth, pale skin. She mourned all her lost children while staring at the little girl's brown eyes that echoed the lives of the lost. But it was never about the Princess. It was about him, the king, and what he needed, what he wanted, what he desired. What about her though? Did no one see her carry four children to term? Did no one see each of the six children she left behind? What about her tear-stained cheeks, the obvious bruises and cuts that even makeup couldn’t hide? Or did they simply choose not to care? They looked at her, but they only saw what she should be, not who she was. Her cage might not be evident like the others before her, but they were just as confining, straining, and asphyxiating. She wanted to be enraged, she wanted to condemn someone, but who is left but only herself to be infuriated at? The Princess remembered the story of a girl who was imprisoned in the ocean, forever living under her father's reign, and when she thought she had taken control, she was being manipulated by more powerful forces. She never would have been free until she was willing to let everything go. She stared down at that little girl in her arms, who was fast asleep and safe. Her hair was black as night, her lips red as blood, and her skin white as snow. The Princess's perfect creation. Her mirror.

The King was hunting doves when the Princess's daughter was born. His absence was not missed, but his new mistress, who was the handmaid of the Queen, took it upon herself to be what the King never was. Her blond hair was sweepingly long, her skin reflecting her youthful age. The Princess pitied her, knowing what it was to be young and dutiful. She handed her daughter to the mistress, who held the little baby for only but a second before handing her back to the Princess. 

“I brought you a gift,” the mistress said, offering the Princess an apple. It was lustrous as if it had been freshly plucked from a tree, but apples didn’t grow in the winter. She handed her daughter to the nurse and took the apple, her fingertips brushing against the presented hand. People always remember that the apple was the woman’s first sin, but they forget that the man had sinned too. Women, from that moment on, were destined to take the blame for the sins of men. 

The Princess took a small bite and swallowed, the contents fitfully taking it’s toll. A cough tore through her body and she took the cup that the nurse offered. In the water, there were little bubbles, reminding her of the time she went to the beach when she was a young girl. She tried to catch the seafoam all day, but her tiny hands were never able to grasp what she so desperately wanted, a true tragedy to a girl no older than six. But now, to a woman of twenty-seven, there were bigger tragedies in the world: abuse at the hands of a husband, the mistresses who sneak in the shadows of the night, and a daughter who has to grow up without the love of a mother. That night, the rose bushes were torn up by the crows, leaving nothing but the thorns behind.

Once Upon a Time, there was a young, beautiful princess. She had a mother who wanted a child who had skin as white as snow, her hair as dark as ebony, and lips red as blood. But you, readers, assume you know the rest of the story. Don’t you know that history is written by the victors? And before you forget, cages can be made of glass.