What they say is false. I have two sisters, but I was eldest. Yes, my mother died when I was small, sixteen winters gone. And yes, I am Beauty – so Father called me.
He was a merchant, rough and shrewd, wise at barter, and providing for our needs and some of our modest wants.
On the eve of his latest journey he asked each of us what we wished most for gifts. The youngest asked for play-jewelry, quartz and colored glass from the village for her dress-up games. The next, for a pony. And I … I desired but a rose, a living rose to root and tend and grow it in our garden, so the butterflies and bluebirds could gather to it, to gladden our eyes as its perfume would delight the nose.
He looked at me strangely. Briefly I felt a chill, for all the summer sun. But he nodded, and said yes, perhaps, perhaps he would, and I dismissed the odd feeling.
Morrow dawned as it ever does, and he left us busy with our chores. We next saw him a week later, leading a speckled brown pony on a halter behind his cart, and a satchel on the seat beside him.
We greeted him with joy, more joy for his safe return than for the gifts, though my middle sister took the pony most happily. She led it to the stable, made it comfortable, and busied herself with grooming.
Father took my younger sister aside. He dipped his hand into the satchel and like a magician pulled forth a leather bag. From it tumbled jewelry of all sorts, earrings, necklaces, rings, circlets, and I know not what all, all flashing burnished metal and gems sparkling like a waterfall of rainbows.
She cried in delight. Her hands flew out to catch the falling pretties, and Father laughed to see her. He gave her the bag and left her sitting contentedly there on the doorstep, sorting the beautiful tangle, arranging and rearranging each item, arraying herself as a queen.
Then he took my hand.
Father took my hand and smiled, his hand slipping into the satchel once more. “Come, Beauty, let us go within, for the rose I have for you is not yet rooted, and it cannot yet well endure the sun.”
I went in with him gladly, wondering at what marvelous rose he would show me. He led me upstairs to my loft, and sat on my bed, his hand searching carefully in his satchel. I sat beside him, watching, waiting, still wondering.
The chill returned.
Father withdrew his hand. It was empty. Suddenly I was on the bed beneath him, my skirts up about my face, and what he was did below … I could not see, I do not yet know, but a sharp fire stabbed between my thighs, and I cried out, and I wept in pain. Still he held me close, his weight pinning me, his sour breath loud in my ears as I struggled, trying to free myself. “Good,” he said, “Good, my Beauty, very good, you are indeed a flower ready to be plucked.”
Confused, in a haze of pain, I fell silent. Time slowed as if under water. Finally Father’s breathing eased. He raised me up and showed me, the blood on the linen, my maidenhood, my rose.
I stared. “How then shall I root it?” I heard myself ask. “I’ve rooted it for you,” he said with a little laugh, “and I shall root it again and again till it blooms for us. You will see.”
It seemed the night had fallen early, or perhaps the darkness that clouded my sight was a storm blown in from nowhere, though my sisters have said the day remained bright and clear. A red mist tinged the darkness, flowing in from the edges. I saw myself rise, and wash. “You will be hungry, father,” my voice said, almost dreamlike. “Let me prepare you dinner, while you rest.”
Down I went to the kitchen while Father stretched at ease on the stained bed. I gather vegetables and herbs, cutting them up with the large knife. I dumped them into a pot. I half-filled the pot with water. I set it on the stove to bring to a boil.
Then upstairs I went again, bringing a glass of cold cider to ease Father’s thirst.
He slept, and I saw the weariness of travel fading from his countenance. I set the glass down and took up the knife once more. Once across his throat, pressing hard, like the goat I once helped ready for winter’s freezing. His eyes flew open at the first touch, yet he spoke no word, his wind pipe severed, voice gone, drowning. He did gurgle. I remember the gurgling. I remember the blood, spraying and pulsing and spilling like wine on the linens, obscuring my rose, my own beautiful, red rose. I wept, though my hands were steady, and my voice, I am told, remained calm. Then I gutted him.
“I valued that rose above all,” I said as my sisters came in the room, then ran screaming out. I removed his heart when he was properly dead, as I wish he’d had the kindness to do for me. I sliced it up, along with some of the other meat that was unlikely to keep, and added it to the soup now starting to simmer. “I told you, father, that I would make you dinner,” I reminded his memory. “You taught me not to lie, to ever to keep my word.”
Now you sit in judgement as I stand here; perhaps my tale has shocked you, or perhaps you are only sickened. But you are as you are. I am as I am. Nothing will change this. For I am indeed Beauty. And I, Beauty, am also the Beast.
Congratulations to the author Cailin Mistwalker on winning the contest.
Be sure to check our latest Giveaway here: A new Giveaway as well, you might be the winner!
Read the full article
