Written in an extreme bout of insomnia, and heaping adult cynicism upon something I used to love as a kid. Please, please forgive me. :)
The Downside of Being Pragmatic
Chapter 1: Caught Between Rock Bottom and Someplace Lower Than That
It had been a year since she had last spoken to her father.
It had been a week since she had heard that he may be, in fact, quite ill.
And fittingly, it had been only yesterday that Gaston had broken the news -quite ill had taken a turn for the worse to quite dead.
And it was only a minute ago that she had arrived at the ramshackle house she used to call home, hesitating at the threshold as she anxiously played with the doorknob, toying over whether or not she should actually go inside.
Belle took a deep breath, and opened the door to find the place to be an even filthier mess than she had expected. Gizmos and gadgets aplenty occupied every single inch of available table and counter space, whozits and whatzits galore littered the floor. Upon closer examination, Belle realized one whozit in particular was an incredibly old, incredibly used chamberpot, and she quickly danced around it with disdain, heading for her bedroom.
This had thankfully remained undisturbed- her father had at least accorded her that dignity. Slinging a battered duffel she had brought with her from town on the equally worn bed, she scrounged underneath her mattress, and came up with a little bit of money, more than enough to buy food for a week or so. She really didn't known why she'd need it where she was going, but better safe than sorry.
There was nothing but a few books full of fairytales in her bookshelf, and she wouldn't be needing them. It would only depress her. Instead she made a move for her wardrobe—which was crammed full of her usual blue dress, white apron ensemble, but if she dug further, there were a few more coins, and more importantly, a coat that had a reasonable chance of getting her to the castle not completely frostbitten from head to toe.
Last, but not least, she kneeled close to the side of her bed, flipped over the seemingly innocent rug, and pried up a loose floorboard, revealing the mirror. He promised her it could show her anything she wished to see, but she hadn't really wished for anything much these days.
But times had changed, and if she didn't make her decision now it would be made for her in the most permanent way possible. Belle gently picked up the mirror, and asked it, for the first time, a favor.
"Show me the Beast."
The mirror flashed green in her hands, and images began to rapidly flash across its surface. What she saw didn't surprise her, indeed she had expected it. The Beast was not a paragon of mental stability, even in his good days. God, what was she doing?
"Mirror, off!" she said, and the mirror did not obey. She shook it a bit. Still nothing, the peepshow just kept on going. Frustrated, she shoved the mirror in the bag along with the money, and took one last, long look around her bedroom. Tears should have come, but they didn't, and so it was with a decided lack of fanfare that Belle left her childhood home forever.
Almost.
Her father's machine, the vicious looking, rickety thing that only cut wood and that was it- was still out in the front yard, collecting rust and being as useless as ever. Belle couldn't help but wonder if any of this would have happened if it hadn't been for this thing. It took all of a minute for Belle to finish thinking and reach the conclusion that, yes, this machine was the sole reason for all of the horrendous things that had happened in the past year, terrible happenings that showed no signs of letting up at any time in the foreseeable future.
Screw running through the hills and singing as her last hurrah at the homestead, Belle preferred to finish things with a little revenge.
By the time the townsfolk got out to the dead inventor's cottage a few hours later, the blaze had moved from machine to stable to house- and because of an inopportune breeze and a few kegs of gunpowder the old kook kept in his basement, it took almost 30 men the entire night and the better part of the next day to put the raging inferno out.
The inventor's daughter stayed only long enough to appreciate her handiwork, and she and the horse were far, far away before the first explosion from the tiny cottage claimed the life of the baker.
It was really better that she didn't know, because in truth she loved his tray like always. Maybe even more than the books she always borrowed.
The second explosion offed the librarian.
Belle, in a blissful state of ignorance of the havoc she had wrought, scratched her ear in response.
After several hours hard riding, one year of abject suffering, and a lifetime of innocence down the drain, she was almost back.