SNOW. Here is the first chapter-like piece of Snow, my modernized version of Snow White. Instead of left in the forest to be murdered, our lovely Snow is taken to a mental hospital where she has been falsely diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder by her vain mother and ignorant Doctor Demyan. There she meets seven other females, names based on famous women murderers/victims, instantly befriends them and so begins her life at Jezebel Institute. Hope you enjoy, updates soon.
-Janet69.
Everything was white.
Crystalline trees stood naked of their leaves as snow piled on their robust branches, the tough bark peeling. The dead grass covering the earth was buried beneath snow, the iciness it exuded freezing it from living.
I breathed the thick, cold air as deep as my lungs could endure. I closed my eyes, wiping the white landscape from my vision, changing it to black. The rushed sound of my warm blood pounded boisterously in my ears, nearly trembling my eardrums. I liked the sound my lungs made, the noise of air deflating and expanding.
I felt the prickling of my dark hair whipping against my numb cheeks, the winter air surpassing my skin and temporarily removing all sense of touch. It didn't hurt once one got attuned to it. I let the breath back out, my stomach compressing to get it all out. It would come out in a misty stain of air, swirling in front of my face and dissipating once the cold devoured its warmth. I could picture it quite clearly; I'd seen it time after time.
I lifted a finger from where it rested on my knee, and I could hear all the bones creaking under my flesh. I had sat motionless for a long time, waiting for the snow to pile down. I drew in another drag of air, the bitterness piercing my insides. Slowly, I repeated this process throughout each of my ten fingers, the antiquated noise satisfying me.
Cautiously opening my eyes, the tips of my lashes tickled the skin surrounding them. My tongue slid over my lips, hurting as blood congealed from touching the air. The wetness left on my lips stung with an absinthian numbness.
My black hair and eyes were the darkest things nestled in the snowy terrain, my skin the pallid colour of milk, smoothed and unblemished from years worth of toil. 'Beauty' and 'perfection' were peculiar words to describe it, though often heard. A thin-strapped sundress clung to my tiny body, the whiteness matching nicely with the snow. Most of it had become damp and stuck to the flesh beneath it.
"Snow!" The tone of her voice was bitter and filled with malice as she spoke. I titled my head slightly, just enough to get her in my line of vision. She stood at the doorway, her hands clutched tightly on her hips. An agitated look creased her face, rendering her older than she was.
"Yes?" My voice sounded feeble, the warm breath slipping delicately from between my teeth. I wasn't sure she even heard me, or even bothered to expect a response. Every word I spoke never held a syllable of importance. Her dark eyes glared at me, her sharp face silently screaming my return inside.
I stood from the vast, snow-covered yard, white powder sprinkling from my dress. My stockings had gotten entirely wet, and the toes snug inside them were pinking with algid. I let myself skip lightly through the snow, barely minding the pain my benumbed limbs felt.
"Stop that, and get in the fucking house." Her words were sneered terribly, the sound of talking forced through clenched teeth. She never pulled her glare from me, only turning to skulk back into the depths of the house and wait for my arrival. I found no point in responding, the things I said often went in one of her ears and out the other. I bounded lightly up the porch steps, the creaking wood a terrible pleasure to my ears. I wanted to sit some more in the beguiling snow and listen. The explanation of this desired oddity I could not figure out, it was just something drilled into my heart. My stiffened palm found the door's handle, the chipping grey paint flaking off on my palm. I wiped it off on my dress, some of the pieces sticking to the wet fabric instead of falling to the floor. I peeled the wet stockings from my legs, the fabric sticking to some places as I tugged them off.
I balled the stockings in my palms, melted snow running between my fingers onto the floor. I took a step, my bare foot sticking to the wooden floor, beginning to desiccate. Entering a small room with just another step, she flowed into my line of vision like venom spilling into a lethal puddle. Instead of attending to the smoothness of her face, she situated herself cross-legged on the small blue sofa. Sitting in the chair next to hers was a man, stout glasses perched on his nose, and focused on the words he wrote using a fat pen in his well-built fingers, a clipboard fastened in the other.
"This is Dr. Demyan, he'll be joining us for a brief period of time this evening. Unexpected, I realize, but you'll catch on quickly." Her voice sounded strangely pleasant, as did the anomalous smile brimming on her face. He looked up from his papers, his vacant face neither angry nor pleased. Her hands folded neatly on her lap, her incisive eyes taunting my confusion.
"Hello, Snow." His voice was thickly sudden as he spoke, his hands taking on the fashion my mothers were. "I'm here to have a little discussion with you, if you don't mind. Please, sit." A hand unfastened itself from the clasp it had been held in his lap, motioning a palm towards the couch where my mother maliciously sat. I hesitantly let myself tumble awkwardly on the cushions, feeling ineptly naked in my thin white dress. Normally I hardly promoted white in my wardrobe, but today I wanted to match the snow drifting from the grey clouds overhead. The stockings meant to trap the heat emanated from my skeletal legs were crushed beneath my tightening fingers, water dripping warily from my dampened knuckles.
I had seated myself on the opposite end of the furniture, separating myself from the two of them as far as I could manage. Cynicism was rapidly building within my chest, taking its deepest affect in the knot in my stomach and spreading itself with alacrity greater than a disease. My fingers would not break the cramping hold, the nails cutting deep in my soft white palms with colour draining instantly.
Doctor Demyan's eyes skittered over his clipboard, absorbing annotations to barrage me with. My mother was seated serenely opposing me, her deceitful eyes held intently on my face, waiting for the reaction due to the iniquity he would say.
"Snow, can you tell me if you've experienced intense bouts of anger, depression, and/or anxiety?" He now looked up at me, rehearsed compassion in the stern creases of his brow. I rolled the three seemingly purposeless symptoms in my mind, trying to relate them to anything I'd recently done.
"No," I bitterly replied, my voice subtle compared to his. I brought my knees together, keeping the white dress fastened to them. I wanted to ask why he was asking me these things, but the question stuck tightly in my throat. A sigh of disbelief whistled through his nose as he held his glance for a moment, then returned to his notes.
"No unwarranted anger? Why is there an excessive amount of black around your eyes?" He pulled his glasses away from his face, having to squint a little to examine my facial features. I fell into a deeper perplexity, my eyes slightly narrowed inquisitively.
"It's makeup, it's what I wear everyday." I replied, feeling overwhelming emotions taking a hold of me. It was like I was conversing with idiots, simple-minded morons who need the most intricate explanations until comprehension finally took hold.
"You wear it every single day, it's so macabre," She chimed in, raising he slender eyebrows as her remark spilled jovially wicked off her tongue. She herself had a fair amount of eyeliner, always trying to perfect her withering beauty. Her lips sat amply when she didn't speak; the French tipped nails resting delicately on her soft cheek.
"Do you find yourself suffering episodes of impulsive aggression, self-injury, and drug or alcohol abuse?" Demyan's voice pulled my locked sight from her, influentially turning it towards him instead. I paused again, only to stare crossly at the man.
"No," I could hear the fluster in my voice, causing it to slightly squeak here and there. My hands still clenched firmly in my lap, the muscles refusing to ease. Tension was only building around every question he proposed to me, gradually locking my limbs in place.
"Look at her nails, they're so dark too." My mother squealed another comment, and I whipped my head to glare at her. Her hands kept fretting, unable to settle in a comfortable spot, the words needed to be ampliphied by her gestures. I immediately stood, my jaw settling securely as the anger tore furiously throughout me.
"What's wrong with you two?" I nearly screamed, biting my lip to keep the rancorous words down. I breathed heavily, sucking all the air in to soothe the anger. "I use makeup and nailpolish, so suddenly I'm so evil? Look, my fingernails are black, I must hate the whole fucking world." The rage pouring from my chest was rapid, and I felt myself secretly enjoying it vaguely.
"You severely display numerous symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder, Snow, whether you realize this or not I cannot fully determine, nor do I imagine you do. In any event, that's why I'm here, why your mother called me. You'll be taken to the Jezebel Institute tonight." He let it all out in a huff of air, moistening his lips when he finished speaking.
I stared at him as though I'd been heavily sedated, the mandate seemingly drugging my will to protest. My tongue felt heavy enough to dislocate my jaw as my breathing slowed. I had to struggle with the jagged breath I took, the cold facts ineptly sinking in.
"Wait, what?" Words finally broke free, unmasking the previous confusion once more. I hadn't moved a step, my feet still situated where I originally stood, yet I felt as if I had displaced myself several times. The added noise of her voice only threw me further from where I wanted to be, and it only made me want to scream.
"Snow, dear, you're fucking crazy."