she feeds on those dreams, and such a power is greater than life or death.
All that, and you still refuse to tell me about the Lost Seven. Remember them, Wilhelm? The ones you portrayed as dwarves? Her alliances, hiding somewhere in the dusty pages of every fairy tale that has ever been written. I need to know who they are, Wilhelm, or it will be the end of us.
I admit that I am no angel. It would be foolish to pretend that I am. To be honest – and honesty is not my fairest charm – I have danced with mischievous faeries too close to the dark side of Neverland. I ushered young butterflies to the deceiving light of fire. I have slaughtered and slithered, tortured and burned, laced and suffocated, combed and killed, poisoned and ripped out hearts, and then sat on my throne watching my young beautiful victims lying dead on the floor of my castle, biting on blood-apples topped with chocolate syrup and fresh milk.
But you know what? I am not even half the darkness that she is made of, or the wickedly lovely and beautiful evil that she is.
Since you keep refusing to tell me of the Lost Seven, you left me no choice but to show you what my majesty can do:
I found your brother Jacob today, hiding in the cottage in the forest where she once lived. It’s as if he was addicted to the scent of death she had left on the bed sheets. When he refused to tell me who the Lost Seven are, I poisoned him as if I were the Grimm Reaper.
As I sat on his bed, watching him die, I decided to tell him a bedtime story – a deadtime story to be precise. I told him the true story about her. This is why I am writing you this diary, Wilhelm, to tell you what I already told your brother.
I will tell you the things about her that no one has ever known. So dear Wilhelm, let me bleed on these pages with my quill pen, made of feathers as black as crows, as I am writing on paper as white as a dove, with ink that is as red as blood that belongs to your brother …
I want to tell you about the time I stopped breast-feeding her, the day when I realized what she really was in the winter of 1797.
I was sitting in my bed in my royal chamber, in the castle we call the Schloss, at the top of a hill overlooking the Kingdom of Sorrow, the kingdom of which I was its queen, and she was to become the most beautiful princess.
It was one of the coldest winters. The snow fell intensively, burying the lovely purple poppy fields and covering it with a shroud of a thick layer of dark white snow. Somehow, the white of the snow that year did not reflect sunlight or shadows. It lay grisly over the contour-lined land like a dead girl’s white coat made of the fur of dead polar bears, like a white wavy carpet that was in no way magical. The curves of the land made the snow look like there was a beautiful gigantic dead girl buried underneath it. Little did I know that the time would come that this buried girl could only be Snow White or me, that the world wouldn’t be spacious enough for both of us.
Peasants went broke because they couldn’t seed the earth, and animals were no longer to be found, all except the crows of course. Those damn crows pecked at each other out of hunger, fluttering high in the bruise-colored sky as their blood spattered all over the snow like red rain next to the black corpses of their own kind. It was a black, white and red winter, the wicked colors that doomed my life.
Looking through the huge rectangular window overlooking the dark Black Forest, I accidentally pricked my thumb while Snow White lay nestled in my arms. I don’t know how I hurt myself that day but I sure know that I was distracted by her beauty and innocent smile. Those lovely doe eyes of hers were gleaming above her chubby cheeks that curved like ocean waves whenever she smiled at me, like a rhythmic sonata so enchanting that the singer’s voice caused the instruments to bend, reform and curve with mirth and ecstasy, bringing dead wood instruments to life.
I don’t know
All that, and you still refuse to tell me about the Lost Seven. Remember them, Wilhelm? The ones you portrayed as dwarves? Her alliances, hiding somewhere in the dusty pages of every fairy tale that has ever been written. I need to know who they are, Wilhelm, or it will be the end of us.
I admit that I am no angel. It would be foolish to pretend that I am. To be honest – and honesty is not my fairest charm – I have danced with mischievous faeries too close to the dark side of Neverland. I ushered young butterflies to the deceiving light of fire. I have slaughtered and slithered, tortured and burned, laced and suffocated, combed and killed, poisoned and ripped out hearts, and then sat on my throne watching my young beautiful victims lying dead on the floor of my castle, biting on blood-apples topped with chocolate syrup and fresh milk.
But you know what? I am not even half the darkness that she is made of, or the wickedly lovely and beautiful evil that she is.
Since you keep refusing to tell me of the Lost Seven, you left me no choice but to show you what my majesty can do:
I found your brother Jacob today, hiding in the cottage in the forest where she once lived. It’s as if he was addicted to the scent of death she had left on the bed sheets. When he refused to tell me who the Lost Seven are, I poisoned him as if I were the Grimm Reaper.
As I sat on his bed, watching him die, I decided to tell him a bedtime story – a deadtime story to be precise. I told him the true story about her. This is why I am writing you this diary, Wilhelm, to tell you what I already told your brother.
I will tell you the things about her that no one has ever known. So dear Wilhelm, let me bleed on these pages with my quill pen, made of feathers as black as crows, as I am writing on paper as white as a dove, with ink that is as red as blood that belongs to your brother …
I want to tell you about the time I stopped breast-feeding her, the day when I realized what she really was in the winter of 1797.
I was sitting in my bed in my royal chamber, in the castle we call the Schloss, at the top of a hill overlooking the Kingdom of Sorrow, the kingdom of which I was its queen, and she was to become the most beautiful princess.
It was one of the coldest winters. The snow fell intensively, burying the lovely purple poppy fields and covering it with a shroud of a thick layer of dark white snow. Somehow, the white of the snow that year did not reflect sunlight or shadows. It lay grisly over the contour-lined land like a dead girl’s white coat made of the fur of dead polar bears, like a white wavy carpet that was in no way magical. The curves of the land made the snow look like there was a beautiful gigantic dead girl buried underneath it. Little did I know that the time would come that this buried girl could only be Snow White or me, that the world wouldn’t be spacious enough for both of us.
Peasants went broke because they couldn’t seed the earth, and animals were no longer to be found, all except the crows of course. Those damn crows pecked at each other out of hunger, fluttering high in the bruise-colored sky as their blood spattered all over the snow like red rain next to the black corpses of their own kind. It was a black, white and red winter, the wicked colors that doomed my life.
Looking through the huge rectangular window overlooking the dark Black Forest, I accidentally pricked my thumb while Snow White lay nestled in my arms. I don’t know how I hurt myself that day but I sure know that I was distracted by her beauty and innocent smile. Those lovely doe eyes of hers were gleaming above her chubby cheeks that curved like ocean waves whenever she smiled at me, like a rhythmic sonata so enchanting that the singer’s voice caused the instruments to bend, reform and curve with mirth and ecstasy, bringing dead wood instruments to life.
I don’t know
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