I was in love once. In truth it was not so long ago, but when I look at the man who shares my bed, the stranger who I must call my husband, that love seems to me a mere shadow or half remembered dream, lost to the recesses of my own mind. Nevertheless I cling to the hope that one day my love will burn in my heart as brightly as it did then, as it did Once Upon a Time.
Oh, but how cruel I seem; It is not that I have no care or feelings for my husband. He is a good man and he treats me well. He has always loved me; right from the moment we first met he has loved me. But it's not…he isn't…
Let me return to the beginning.
I have always been known as 'The Beautiful One'. Even as a babe I was the prized child, the Rosebud of my family, the little jewel. And yes, I suppose am beautiful, but this not mere vanity, this is simple fact. With my long, thick curls, bright, wandering eyes and pearly skin I fast became my Father's favourite, and that is vanity on his part, not mine. It was in his arrogance that he named me Beauty, and cherished me so dearly that he forgot his other children, my sisters, because I was fairer than they. He saw our dead Mother in me, whose own beauty was greater than even the Elfin Queen herself, and my sisters despised me for this. So they tormented me, forced me to do their work, to blister my hands and scab my knees and mark my face with dirt. They thought that this would make me ugly, but it did not stop the glances, the whispers, the heady gazes of the men in our town. They all wanted me, and tried to win me with gestures and pretty words. They tried admirably, but I did not want them. To me they were dull and stupid in their handsomeness, and they had no interest in me beyond my face. What could we discuss between us, as lovers? Not books, nor dreams; there was nothing to be discussed. They merely wanted a delicate ornament to hang from their arm. They needed a dutiful wife who would serve them and give them an heir without question, but I could not provide them with this. My young head was filled with dreams and fanciful wishes, and I had no desire for such a fate.
But my sisters, they longed for marriage to an eligible man, and their failures served to fuel their hatred of me further. It was not my doing, it was not my fault I should be this way.
I did not even think of myself beautiful then. I had grown up with my reflection foreign in the looking glass and a body that was flat and functional. My childhood was spent wondering why my Father treated me as some sort of precious jewel, why he was so hesitant to let me play among the other children and speak with the young boys of our town.
Then I was sixteen years old. Suddenly I had breasts and curves and a bleeding that came with every new moon. With these changes I was made to become conscious of my beauty and the way that people perceived my character. They stared at me, all of them; the men with lust, the women with envy. Always I was watched, watched and scrutinized.
It was not long before I began to change. In the night there was a pulsing in my stomach, a burning throb that spread in my blood and into my dreams, causing me to moan and writhe. I touched my bare skin and felt its softness, and my fingers left behind the faintest of sensations. I explored myself, came to learn why the men stared so, and saw what they lusted after in me. I now understood my empty appeal, and I despised it. My name had become a curse; it made me nothing but a doll to be admired, and every passer by that stared at me remained ignorant to me, as I am. They knew nothing of my passions, my desires, my impurities. I was not perfect, I was a woman, but because I am beautiful it was not a matter anymore. They tried to break me and make me a face without personality. Sometimes I thought that I might cut my skin with glass and scar their beloved beauty. But I could not; despite all these things I feared the pain.
They did not understand. By then I was nineteen and longing for freedom. My Father's love, which had sustained me in my childhood, now smothered me. My sisters' hatred too, began to hurt me. I ached and struggled to breath in that broken little cottage, and I was becoming impetuous, unkind, some how sharp in my ways. I was damaged from such forces, and late into the night I sought solace in tales of adventure and true love, page after page, book after book, wishing I was in my heroes' place. Now I could see that there was such a thing as love, that it was not all sinful desire, and I wanted it for myself. I wanted a life that I could call my own, and I wanted a love that was honest and real. I wanted to be loved for who I was, regardless of my face. As time passed I began to see that I would one day have to accept the role that had been written for me. I could only dream for so long. Marriage, wifedom, motherhood, enslavement, all such things awaited me at the end of my youth's slowly darkening tunnel.
And then my Father met the Beast, and my life was changed forever.
Yes, you have heard this story before. Who has not? It has been told from so many mouths and so many times since. Then you know how my Father went away to recover our lost wealth, and my sisters' begged for fine dresses and jewels, and I asked for a rose. That was true. If I asked for nothing my sisters would accuse me of playing the martyr, but I did not want gowns and pearls. Roses are soft and gentle, they bloom and then they die, it was a gift that would give me pleasure in its time. They are beautiful, but they fade, just as I would one day. It gave me comfort to know I was not alone in my misery; after all, what is a rose after its colour has been drained and its petals curled?
Nothing but compost, part of the earth.
And if you know that, then you will know everything else. How my Father came upon a castle in the rain, lost and bewildered, seeking shelter, and plucked the reddest of all roses from the table of his absent host, thinking it would not be missed. Well, a rose is always missed, especially by a Beast. In he came, roaring and pacing, made wild from fury, and my Father collapsed upon his knees and flattered and bartered, anything to keep his sorry life. He was sorry, he cried, oh so sorry, but it was for his daughter, his good and pretty daughter who had never asked for anything but this one thing. That won the Beast's interest, of course, and he laid down his punishment. The price for my Father's theft would be very great; his life, or mine.
But this is where the story you know so well comes to an end. I got my rose, and my Father collapsed into his chair, weeping like a child. He told all, and we listened. My sisters screamed and moaned and wailed and cursed my name for bringing such horror upon our house, but I said not a word. I merely held my rose, and let the thorns pierce my white skin. The Beast's words were very great and terrifying, as he was himself, my Father said, all trembles and sweat. He was so very ugly, so very strange, so many awful things. He said he would return the next day, and give up his life. I clutched the rose in my hands until the thorns pierced my skin, until my blood, the blood of the sacrificial virgin, the princess to the dragon, slipped down my arm, warm and wet. And then I spoke.
"Father, I will go."
My sisters looked at me as though I had gone mad. My Father began to beg and plead, to make me see reason, but I could not be moved. Determination kept me strong, and soon he had no choice but to agree. I was not mad, nor was I afraid. No, I was fascinated. I did not stake my life out of selflessness; it was my Father's crime, I did not ask that he should steal. I did it because I wanted to see this Beast, who was everything I was not.
Does this seem strange to you? Listen, all my life my head had been filled with beauty and nothing else. I had never seen ugliness; I had never seen the other side. I, who lived in the shadow of my beauty, was burning with need to see this damned creature, because he too lived in a shadow, the shadow of his ugliness. I had some sense that we were kindred, that destiny was pulling me away from provinciality and into the fantastic. He would not kill me, I knew that. He wanted me. That fire in my belly, quelled some years ago, began to rise again at the thought of him. I wanted him, too. I had never wanted anything more.
I was resilient, but so was my Father. With every plea, I answered the same. "No Father, I will go." Over and over, I wore at him until he snapped. Enraged at my insolence, he struck me across the face and dragged me upstairs, pulling on my hair and tearing my dress.
"I will not send you to that monster!" He shrieked. His face was that of a madman. His grip was hard, and cruel. He locked me in my room, imprisoned me, and said that I would thank him in the next life. I said not a word. I would not speak to him, instead I dwelt upon what he had done. My face began to bruise. I felt it swell, broken skin bleeding down my cheek. My father had never hurt me before, but now he had scarred the facade he had fought so hard to preserve. I smiled, thankful. Now I had a true reason to go.
That night, after my Father and Sisters had retired to their own rooms, I escaped out of the window. My Father had nailed it shut, but I took a vase from the windowsill and gently, quietly cracked at the glass until it began to web, and then I took it apart, piece by piece. Hitching my skirt about my waist, I climbed down. In my hand I held the rose, the gift my father stole. Its petals had begun to darken and dry, the stem withering under my touch.
This rose, it was not mine. I could not call it so with any honesty in my heart. Holding it tightly in my hand, I fled then into the darkness, and I knew where I should go. To this day I still do not know what unseen force guided me to my destiny, but feet carried me along, swift and fast through the trees of the dark forest, along the dirt paths, past every danger and away from the life that I knew. The light of the ochre moon lit up the way for me, and I had to go. The Beast was waiting.