The Princess and the Witch
When Matilda Wolfwood invited Leah Clearwater to her house for movies one weekend, she had no idea that Leah had not had a particularly good week. Friends since childhood, Matilda knew Leah well. When Leah was anything other than spirited, her shoulders squared and her eyes flickering with that insane passion and stubborness that made her Henry Clearwater's daughter, she knew that something was wrong. When she saw her standing in the doorway with her copper skin and hair deprived of warmth and life, her eyes horribly bloodshot and weary, she knew that something was terribly wrong. Leah was never the ebullient sort. Quite the opposite. She was a rock. A witty, no-nonsense rock. To see her such a mess was extremely rare but she had seen it once before. After three very bad romance movies, and two bottles of whiskey (which were drunk almost exclusively by Leah and who had begun to down a third), Matilda finally asked the question that she was sure to bring on a long night of tirades and excessive curses to the tribe gods despite Leah's admitted agnosticism.
"Sam?" Matilda asked.
"No. Not Sam."
"No?" Matilda was shocked by this. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly." Leah took a long, hard gulp of whiskey before peevishly tossing the bottle to the side. She burped, the scent of alcohol heavy on her breath. Matlida, who was just about the prissiest La Push girl Leah knew, looked particularly perturbed by this. Not that Leah really gave a shit. She didn't really give a shit about anything that much anymore. She stretched herself out on the couch and tinkered with the silver bracelet on her wrist. It was the last birthday gift that she had ever gotten from her father. Just days before he walked in on her on that awful day- the day when he saw her change for the first time and died from the resulting heart attack. She squeezed her eyes and felt the familiar dull ache in her stomach and chest.
Guilt.
At first, it had stung like a mother. It was sharp and biting, unmerciful. It was a pain that was a thousand times worse than when Sam left her. The look on her father's face when he saw her writhing on her bedroom floor, mewling pitifully in agony as the muscles in her body stretched and tore to accomadate her twisting bones... The sickening snapping sounds as the muzzle erupted from her face, watching her grow so quickly and grotesquely that her spring dress was torn to shreds...The hair that began to carpet her now naked canine body...Yes. She remembered the pain with perfect clarity, cursing every deity she could name in her heated, increasingly sluggish animal brain. And when the pain stopped, when she could finally right herself and balance on her four legs (words could not describe how utterly alien it felt), she looked into Harry's horrified face. His jaw was slack, his eyes wide, a plethora of emotions alternating every two seconds on his face.
Fear. Anger. Shock. Worry. Fear. Anger. Worry. Shock.
("Daddy!") Ruff! ("Daddy...Help me...I...I-I don't know what's...I'm so scared, I-) grrrrrrrrrr. Ruff. Huruff.
Fear. Anger. Shock. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.
("WHY WON'T YOU SAY SOMETHING?) ARRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. HORROR.
And then she heard it, a wet popping sound followed by a quickening pulse. At first, she did not know what she was hearing. She heard so much now. She could hear rabits digging running around in the backyard. She could hear the sound of a boiling pot on the stove--could smell the vapor as if she were downstairs hovering over it. So much bombarded her at once. It overwhelmed her.
It all became clear when Harry's eyes bulged and he pawed frantically at his chest, gasping for air. He collapsed to the floor in a graceless and the Leah-wolf could do nothing but stand there as his pulsed got slower and slower and slower....
("Daddy?") Whine.
Slower...Slower...
("Daddy? Why?") Whistle. Whine.
Slower...Slower...
Stop.
She'd never forget it. The look of terror on his face, the residual pain and tears lingering in his unseeing eyes. All because of her...No. Not her. It wasn't her fault. If that damned vampire, that Alice, hadn't come back to check up on Bella Swan...If that bitch Bella hadn't decided that she wanted to go cliff diving without a safety chord...
Bella.
It was always fucking Bella.
Bella was the reason Leah spent a day and a half curled up besides her father's corpse, weeping and whining, unable to go and get help. Bella was the reason that Sam and the others found her shivering and naked when she changed back, sobbing into her father's chest and clinging to his body, wild with rage and despair as she tried in vain to shake him awake.
"Get me another bottle," Leah ordered.
"You've had enough," Matilda said. Her voice was absolute. Even when Leah gave her a glare worth a thousand deaths, Matilda sat erect and stone-faced in her seat.
"It's not like its going to kill me," Leah laughed. It was harsh and sour to even her own ears. "I'm not even buzzed yet. Cut an immortal hussy some slack."
"You've had three. No more."
"Damn it, Deda." Matilda blinked, shocked. Leah furrowed her eyebrows and shook her head. Hold the phone. Nostalgia to the extreme. She hadn't called Matilda "Deda" since they were little girls playing in the sandbox in first grade. Freudian slip no doubt. That was the only time Leah could remember there being no drama in her life.
"God, you haven't called me that in ages." Matilda smiled, some happy childhood reverie playing behind her sleepy hazel eyes no doubt. "Those were the days."
"Were they ever." Leah sat up and sat cross-legged on of the pillows. "Do you remember when we were little girls and we used to believe in fairytales? You know, when we believed in princes on white horses and princesses in towers and all that shit?" Matilda nodded, uncertain of where she was Leah was headed. "It's funny how much of that translates into real life."
"What?"
"The archetypes. Especially for women. The way I see it, the world sees three types of girls. You have the beautiful Princess; the maiden that everybody loves. You have the Peasant; the one nobody really cares about 'cause she's not considered special. And then you have the Witch. The Bitch. The Shrew. The Whore. The witty intellect who always uses her powers for bad instead of good. The woman who won't tolerate kissing the ass of the Prince, or doing what other people tell her." Leah cracked her neck. "Princesses, those damsels in distress, those morons who believe in twu wuv, the ones who never have to work to be of any value and have value just because they exist even though they do absolutely NOTHING...Ha! If you ask me, there are too many damn Princesses. There are too many Peasants, too. They all do nothing but somehow become a nuissance to the Witch. Witches wouldn't be Witches if it weren't for Princesses."
Leah set her jaw. She knew quite a few Princesses. She had to see them everyday. She had to help babysit one, and that was enough to make her vomit.
Yes. Princesses were nuissances. And if Leah had her way, she'd give them all a poison apple so that they could all drop dead at once. That'd be beautiful. What weak-minded fool could resist the forbidden fruit? Snow White was proof that there none who could. Bella Swan proved it to.
Bella Swan.
It was alway fucking Bella. Or Emily. Or what Renesmee would grow up to be...
Matilda shook her head. "I'm missing a metaphor aren't I?"
"Yep."
"You're not going to tell me what the metaphor's for, are you?" There was an irritated resignation in her voice that made Leah's smile a genuine one, if not still a little bitter. When the Pack fucked her over or called her names, she could always depend on Matilda. There was no bullshit in the air about her. And she also didn't bitch when she didn't get her way. Leah loved her for it.
"That depends. Get that decanter of cherry brandy you got last Christmas. If it's real powerful, I might just sing."
Matilda feigned disgust. "I hope not." They laughed. Matilda, having seen the slight relief on her friends face, decided that a little cherry brander couldn't hurt and fetched it from the cellar. She poured them each a glass, sliding Leah's cup over to her like the bartenders in the many Westerns they watched together during the course of their friendship.
"I propose a toast," Leah declared. She lifted her glass, her smile brilliant. The Clearwater heat was back, if not just a little. "To Witches."
"To Witches."
They downed their shots. As the brandy burned down Leah throat, a tiny flame went off in her belly. Something purer than pride or anger or sadness. Something useful that would make her in the future.
Oh yes. To Witches.
Down with Princesses.