She was a beautiful individual, the most beautiful princess in existence. Her mother, the queen, was a gentle woman. Her father, the king, was a noble man. But despite this, and her royal standing, she felt as if something—or rather, someone, was awfully off.
Or gone.
Her mother would read to her, the most gracious fairy tales written, every night before bed. But tonight, something was off. She couldn’t see. Every speck of color had disappeared, faded, and become nonexistent.
She felt dizzy.
So, after dinner, she ran off, using nature as an excuse, so that her mother would not worry. And as she ran, these words were chanting inside her head—
Roses are red, violets are blue
Prepare yourself, I’m coming for you
Hold onto your beauty, your grace
For you will need them to escape with that pace
Fear not, my dear, you’ll be free soon
From this chained life that harms you.
Poison apples, stinging your tongue
Bringing death upon yourself is what you’ve done
Young and beautiful, elegant and graceful
Old and scarred, wrinkled and scornful
The roses have wilted, the violets? Dead.
I will run circles, ‘round within your head.
And she ran, into the woods. The forests, the black trees, dark and deep. Clearly offering eternal sleep. And despite it, full of beauty and peace, it was but a morgue of the deceased.
Caws, echoing through the leaves, were nothing but pain-filled shrieks. Blood dripped from the twigs, full of malice and evil it seethed. Glass shards, which mirrored these, only showed the red that they bleed. And it wasn’t long before the princess sees—
That she was really the Evil Queen.
The Swerve 