Summary: She didn't think she'd have the strength to do it. He called her Sleeping Beauty, after all. But as she gripped the knife and listened to the taunting… Oneshot, rather short and deliciously morbid.

Forenote: Short and rather warped, but I find it enjoyable. If you can't understand why this is under 'Fairy Tales', it's got a few references to Sleeping Beauty. For the faint-hearted, I am not responsible for any dire reactions, understand? I'm penniless.

o…o…o…o…o

Meek

Rasielle

o…o…o…o…o

I was lying in bed waiting for him in the dead hours of night, the covers tucked up to my chin. He was drunk again, I knew. He was always drunk.

I couldn't sleep. I was wide-awake, alert, when he came bursting into the bedroom. Singing, drunk. His voice was thick and slurred. I heard the sound of a beer bottle thudding onto the carpet.

"Wife! You awake? Wake up, you wench – " He gave the bed a good kick, startling the blankets off of my shoulder. A hearty laugh, and he was leaning onto the bed already.

Too close. Too close. My heart thudded. I could smell the pungent stink of his breath, could smell the alcohol and how he was drowned in it.

He crept a little closer, placing his hands on my cheek and waist. I pretended to sleep, but I could not help flinching. Those disgusting hands. I heard his laugh boom again.

"Ah, you are awake then, you whelp! You should be greeting your husband like a loving wife, smothering him with kisses and maybe something more… " Even closer now.

Even under my closed eyes, something cold and wet slipped out. Just a little while longer, I promised myself silently. A little while.

"Ah, my sleeping beauty. So pretty, and innocent – well, now I can change that!" He nearly fell upon me, but I gave a strangled yelp and hitched the covers over my head completely. I could not stop from weeping.

He only laughed, but he sounded angry. Furious. His roaring, slurred and stupid-sounding from the effect of the alcohol, was endless. "Argh, you little slut! Why, I ought to beat you breathless! Thinking you can scorn me! You're mine, ya'hear? Mine. You weak-blooded thing, you – meek, useless – can't do a single thing right – won't let your own husband touch you, when you'll let the T.V. repairman feel you all over! Why – "

His breath sucked in suddenly, and he fell back, gripping his chest. From it protruded a knife, a kitchen knife, and it made a messy gash that let blood gush through it and onto the bedspread. I didn't even recognize it, until I saw the hand that held the hilt. Mine.

See? I told myself. You could do it. You aren't meek. You aren't whatever he calls you. You're free, now.

I could not tear my eyes from his dead, whitening face. There was shock, disbelief, and something else I couldn't see. Murderer.

I let out a moan. Sleeping Beauty. His sleeping beauty. He called me that before he ever starting beating me, before he ever started drinking, before he ever started bedding those whores. He called me that while he still loved me.

Ice. I am ice, the voice in my head whispered. Not breathing, I pushed his body from me, pushed it backwards and backwards and losing control, I pushed it until it fell from the high bed. He was weak, I realized suddenly. Too weak to even have a last word, too weak to even draw a last breath.

You're the strong one here, the voice told me. The hand on the hilt was yours.

I pulled my hand back as though burned.

Yours.

Mine. You're MINE, he had told me. I crawled on the bed and looked down, gazing at the crumpled dead corpse on the floor, knowing he was dead and gone and not even in love with me even though he used to be and was an alcoholic and was everything I ever hated in life and now the first person I have ever hurt or killed or whatever in my entire lifetime.

He beat you, the voice said.

He loved me.

Loved, being past tense, darling. He hated you now.

He was drunk.

He's said similar things on sober nights.

He was DRUNK!

I couldn't even cry. My tears had dried instants after falling, after I stunned myself by doing what I swore I'd do. Did I really lack so much humanity? I remembered that I loved him once, and still loved him now. But there was only so much I could take.

My hands were stained with blood, I knew. I wiped them on my covers and sunk into them, dropping my head onto my pillow, losing my face in it. I didn't have another breath in me; I wanted to sleep. Sleep for a hundred years and more, remain undisturbed, be the Sleeping Beauty he used to love so much.

And what about the body? What about the police? What about tomorrow?

Tomorrow. Would it come?

My breathing slowed as sleep began to grip me. Numb, I knew I would have no dreams. No, I thought, and this time no separate voice spoke for me now. Tomorrow won't come. I won't let it.

I won't let it.

o…o…o…o…o

Afterthoughts: That was sunny. I liked it. Now, for those who like to flame the more macabre masterpieces in literature, do remember that "if you've nothing nice to say, say nothing at all", although I'm sure everyone likes a little darkness now and again. Let me know what you think.