Tell Me What You See
Jenn’s grandmother read all of Grimm’s Fairy Tales to her when she was a child. Jenn sat on her blanketed lap in the den, rapt, as she recounted in her raspy, weatherworn voice folklore both foul and fair. They were timeless stories that would endure, grandmother said, long after they were both in the grave. The reason why, she continued, turning a page with cigarette-stained fingers, was because each of them had an inkling of truth hiding just beneath the surface.
Of all the stories in that musty old tome, the one that Jenn loved the best was Snow White. It burrowed its way into her dreams. She wondered why a queen would need to ask a magic mirror who was the fairest of them all. Wasn’t she happy enough being a queen? The lessons were coded into her at an early age: insecurity led to envy, envy led to distrust, followed by all-encompassing rage.
“Love yourself, munchkin,” grandmother warned. “The rest are wolves. And we know what they do.”
When she got older, she found herself in a loveless, increasingly abusive relationship. Some lessons don’t stick, even if you remember all the words. She didn’t know why they stayed together, other than the odd comfort of familiarity and fear of the unknown. While he never raised a hand to her, his words had a way of leaving marks deep beneath the surface.
