Fairy Tales: Unraveled: A twisted retell shorts collection

by Alana Greig

  Ultimately, Lydia’s papa died in his bed. I was all for packing up my troubles and hightailing it out of there, until I heard the brothers’ plan. They were going to sell Lydia as part of the sale of the mill. Now, this child had been the bane of my life for years, but she had never hurt me or chased me. Not like her piggy-eyed brothers. So right then, I decided to stay with her. I know, I know, I said it was a horrible tale and it is. Imagine being abandoned and then having to escape death only to wind up a slave. Not exactly a fairytale, is it?

  The mill was sold, and Lydia and I stayed on. She was a girl of fifteen by then, and I was getting on a bit. I was lucky—for once—the new owner had brought traps with him, so I was able to get the mice without the hard work. My knees were not what they once were. So, we plodded on, Lydia and I, for what seemed like forever. She had finally stopped dressing me up, and I took to sleeping in her room.

  After a hard winter, the new miller couldn’t afford to keep Lydia any longer, and after giving her three silver coins and a sack for her belongings, she was put on the back of the miller’s cart and taken into the town. I went with her, of course. I felt like I should be there for her, plus it was only a matter of time before the guy kicked me out too. It was awful to listen to her cry as we stood alone in the darkening town square. For the first time in my life, I was free, and yet I was actively choosing to remain with a human.

  It wasn’t until the next day that we made our way to the tailor’s shop. Lydia had been making me clothes for years and for herself, so she thought she would try the tailor. I was in the sack keeping warm and wishing she had made me a jumper. I know, I didn’t want to be a Puss in Boots, but I was getting old, and the cold and old bones do not make for a happy cat.

  Thankfully, the tailor, a young man by the name of John, was willing to hire Lydia. I wasn’t fooled: He thought she was pretty. So, we moved into John’s spare room above the tailor shop. Lydia loved her work, and I loved the coal fire in the parlour. That was where they found me you know, by the fire, curled up inside one of John’s boots. So right at the very end I was, indeed, a true Puss in Boots.

  See . . . Sad . . .

  Go ahead and shed a tear for the old cat who found out in his winter years that some humans are okay. I sit in cat heaven now, watching Lydia and John fuss over their children and the kittens they stopped a man from throwing in the river. Sometimes I wish I could go back down to earth and lie by the fire again. Then I remember what it’s like to be grabbed by sticky hands.

  No thank you!

  So now you know, there was no princess or trolls. (Really! You humans and your imaginations.) The only part that was true was that there was a happy ever after for us all.

  And you just read a story written by a cat. Who’s crazy now?

  CONCRETE CHILD

  Based on Pinocchio

  JUNE 1950

  I wish I could feel like a real boy, not this broken thing. The pity and the stares are becoming too much. It must be joyous to play in the sunshine and run free with the wind catching your hair. I wouldn’t know such things. My life is spent in this chair with my chest and thighs held still by thick leather straps. My useless arms folded in my lap. I can feel the drool sliding from the corner of my mouth; it takes its time, sliding down my sore chin and dripping with a pat onto my shirt. Mother will be with my sister Elisa. My nurse has gone for her lunch. I hate that woman; she speaks to me like my wits are as broken as my body. I suppose I can’t place the blame there, after all, I can’t verbalise my needs and wants. I am trapped in this broken body that my mind I cannot escape.

  Nick sat and looked out the window. The summer sun beat against his pale face. To be eleven and forever trapped in his chair was one thing. But to be forgotten for seemingly longer periods was really getting to him.

  Why should I be left alone while the family plays and eats together? I say the family because I do not feel a part of that togetherness. They are the walkers, and I am the freak they hide from the world. Nick the concrete child. I hear them, the physicians. My illness has a name: fibrodysplasia ossificans. They say that it is progressive. I don’t know what it means, just that I can’t really move. I am more stone than wooden, I guess. The children that come and play with Elisa call me Pinocchio. It hurts because I can’t fight back. Sometimes they come in and move my arms. It hurts so much. But I can’t tell them to stop.

  Days turn into weeks and Nick gets worse. A fall from his bed breaks his right arm, and it calcifies at an odd angle. His father can’t even look at him. His only son, a simple-minded cripple. If only he knew what was going on inside Nick’s head—the stories he creates and the dreams he has every night. But no one cares about the concrete child, shut away in his room.

  July 1950

  I have a new doctor. He is a stern gentleman with a love for smoking his pipe and wearing tweed. He says that he has an idea to test my cognitive abilities and that it won’t hurt. Everything hurts, but I see the hope in my mother’s eyes and decide to endure it. If she could just see that I am in here, maybe I would become real to her. The real boy she always wanted to have.

  The doctor is a moron. His great idea was to get me to blink at cards he held up. “Once for yes” and “twice for no.” Well, it didn’t go well. He clearly forgot the rules after the fourth card because he became cross and declared me an imbecile and not worth his time. The look of disappointment on my father’s face was expected. My mother, on the other hand, ordered Dr. Lewis to leave that very moment. Father just shook his head and left the room. I felt the tears as they built in the corners of my eyes. I wanted to scream at them all.

  “I am here! I am not stupid, and I can hear you!”

  The feeling of complete despair was too much. I closed my eyes on the harsh world and hoped to fall into Dreamland. The sand felt warm and dry between his toes; the breeze was fresh and the sky a bright blue. Nick loved to visit the beach in Dreamland. It never rained, and there were always children to play with. Football was his favourite game. The other children had taught him the rules. Cassy was his best friend in Dreamland. In the real world, she had cerebral palsy and was likely to die in the next two years.

  I told her I was sorry. As hard as my life as the concrete child was, death was still scary. The ultimate unknown. Cassy would laugh at me and punch my shoulder. “No, Silly, death is the only true adventure. We can then be free,” she would always say. I’d smile and mess her hair before running off toward the shoreline. I love to run. It is the best feeling in the world. My toes are buried in the wet sand, the gentle waves lapping at my ankles.

  “Nick.”

  “Nicolas, sweetheart, wake up for mother, darling, wake up.”

  I am ripped from the shore and Cassy by my mother

  gently shaking me. The pain that rips through me even with such a gentle touch causes me to open my mouth in a silent scream.

  “I know you understand me. You are not stupid, do you hear me, darling Nick? I know you are in there.”

  The sliver of hope that I have always held onto begins to grow. She believes me. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her I love her. That I forgive her for forgetting me up here. But I can’t of course, so I raise my eyebrows and wait.

  “Yes, Darling, I know you are trapped in there. I watch you while you sleep. You smile and your hands move. I won’t give up on you. Please believe that.”

  Tears well in my almond eyes again as I look at the woman who brought my broken body into the world. Her tears reflect my own in her brilliant green eyes. For the first time in what feels like forever, my mother leans forward and kisses me. It feels like coming home.

  August

  Cassy says she is spending more time in Dreamland; she says her body is so sick right now that this is the only place she can be happy. It scares me because this will happen to me at some point. My illness is progressive; I know what that means now. Life-limiting and increasingly painful. But I don’t want to die. I know Dreamland is not where we go when we die. N
o one knows where that even is because none of the children can come back here. The unknown scares me more than the pain.

  Father has stopped coming to visit me in my room. Mother tells me it’s because it’s too hard for him. I know it’s because he is disgusted with me. I hear them fight. He wants to put me in the hospital. I stopped respecting my father a while ago. It makes the heartbreak less painful. Mother comes every day. She has even taken to feeding me my meals. Father won’t allow me in the dining room, so she brings a meal to my room. I try hard not to make a mess. She doesn’t seem to mind and talks to me throughout the meal, even pauses to allow me to make any expressions I am able to. It gives me hope. She hears me even though I cannot speak. She sits with me sometimes, until I wander off into dreams.

  Dreamland is always sunny, but I want to feel rain on my face. The other children get super cross when I wish for rain, but tonight I am strangely alone here. The thunder rips though the sky as I walk along the beach. It is an awesome display of power. I imagine I am the lightning rushing across the sky. I am powerful and so alive. The next thing I know, I am running on the clouds. The world below is beautiful and so far away. Suddenly, I am scared. I don’t want to be disconnected from the earth. That is my home, my safety net, and my anchor. Panic shoots through me like the lightning. And I scream. The sound is alien to me; I have never screamed. Not even in Dreamland.

  The real world rushes back at me. Dreamland is gone. But something is very wrong. I am shaking all over, and I can’t stop. The pain is unreal, and the fear is blinding. Mother is there with a few others. Ambulance crew, I think. There is a lot of talking, but I can’t focus. I don’t want to die. I look for my mother. She is there looking at me with a fear I never wanted to see. This is bad. This could be my end.

  October

  Today I woke up, I was in Dreamland for a really long time. Cassy was there but she left from time to time. I didn’t. The night I had the seizure was the same night I went into a coma. I remember my mother saying to me when I finally stopped fitting that she loved me and that I would be okay. I didn’t feel okay. The world was fuzzy, and my mouth was dry with something stuck in my throat. I was too drowsy to panic. My head would not move at all. I could tell that it was night, so I allowed the drowsy feeling to claim me again. Dreamland is better than being in that bed alone and scared. Cassy is waiting for me. She looks sad, which is unnerving because no one is sad here. Ever.

  “I am sorry, Nick,” she says before throwing her arms around me. I look confused and she then hits me with a truth I already knew. I am dying. It turns out our parents attend a “coping together” support group, and she heard her mother mention me by name. The seizure had caused massive cerebral damage. I wasn’t expected to last the week. I tell her I just woke up in the real world though, so that couldn’t be right. Her tears are the only answer I get. At least she’s tried to be honest with me.

  November

  I held on for a full month. No one was telling me when I was going to die. I spent the night, and anytime I was not with mother, in Dreamland. I wrote letters to her in Dreamland. I always signed them from her concrete child. They contained memories and answers to all the questions she ever wondered about. It seemed the closer I got to death, the clearer everything became. I no longer feared what was to come. I would be a real boy in every way.

  I saw Cassy one last time before I died. She was so sad. It was hard to see her sad. I asked her to get a message to my mother for me if she could. I wanted to make sure that mother knew I was ok.

  December

  Mrs Walker looked out at the few people who had come to lay her beautiful boy to rest. The night of the seizure would haunt her always . She was forever thankful that Nicolas had woken up a few times just to be with her. She felt he was in there, her boy, her concrete child, her Pinocchio. She knew how he hated the nickname Elisa’s friends had given him and how it had hurt him. To her, he was that fictional wooden boy full of love and adventure. Now he was free from his broken shell. He could be a real-life boy, and although she missed him, the thought of his freedom from pain was a relief.

  Looking at the tributes that had come from the hospital and far flung relatives, who for the most part had refused Nick’s existence, she took no notice of those over- the-top wreaths and messages. They were notes of guilt, not of love. The last posy was small and shaped like a football. She just knew that it was special. Bending to pick it up, she saw the card attached, it was addressed to Mother. With her heart in her mouth, Mrs. Walker opened the small card:

  Mother,

  Do not be sad for me. I am happy, and I am grateful to you. The concrete child is no more. I am free now. Be happy for me, Mother. I love you and wish I could have told you. But like you always said, you knew I was in there. My favourite colour is green. I really liked your songs and the banana cake you used to blend for me with cream. I’ll never forget the smell of your hair. Rain was always my favourite thing to listen to.

  I loved you all my life with all my heart.

  Nick

  SKINNER

  BASED ON RUMPLSTILTSKIN

  Skin. It’s a funny old thing. It keeps your insides in and your outside looking pretty. It comes in all colours. If you beat it hard enough, it even goes purple, green, and blue. I am a collector of skin. It’s how I punish those who don’t settle up at the end of our arrangement. I’m a nice man, polite and well dressed. I offer fair terms, and all I ask is that you pay your dues when the job is done. People tell their kiddies bedtime stories about me.

  “Better behave, child, or Robbie will come and steal your skin.”

  It’s a bit over the top; I’d never hurt a bairn. I had one once, a bairn I mean. She was the bonniest thing I ever did see. But her mother, well, let’s just say that was the only time I got skinned, for nothing more than asking her to marry me. I carry the scar of that proposal for all to see. The ugly melted skin on my cheek is the physical reminder of the day she took my baby and ripped my heart out. I have been searching for them ever since. I will be paid my due.

  I have run far and the child is hungry, but the gold in my pockets will keep us fed for a while. The day my plan came crashing down, was the day that stupid bastard asked me to marry him. Like I would. He is no one, just a man with no future.

  One day he might catch me, but for now we run. I should have known better than to steal from him; I knew how much he respected me and would have given me and his child the world. But I am wrong in some way; something essential is missing within me, and I wasn’t prepared to stay and curse him too. I feel bad about his handsome face. His scream will haunt me till my last breath. The child is sleeping, thankfully, and the moon is full; I can run all night if I have to. I need as much distance between me and Robert as possible.

  She’s been through here, I know she has, my dog knows her scent. Carrie should have left my child; that’s all I wanted, my beautiful baby girl. We had not yet named her. But I have one in mind now. The road that she has taken leads to the next town; it has a station. If she boards a train I will lose them, and I can’t be without my child. The murderous things I want to do to Carrie Idare not give voice to now. She made me the monster I have become.

  I didn’t mean to kill the whore the other night; she just wouldn’t leave me be. I was on my way home from the pub, dulling the pain as usual, when this doxy appeared and wanted to warm my bed for a few quid. I told her politely the first time that I was not looking for a woman tonight or any night. The silly cow followed me regardless.

  “Piss off. I do not want a doxy to follow me home; you won’t get a penny off me so go look for business elsewhere.”

  I know I was a bit harsh with my language, but she would not bugger off. I bet she wanted the money to score later. She followed me all the way to my house. Came in behind me. I could have stopped her, but by then I was already past the point of no return. Her hair was the same shade as Carrie’s, and they wore the same perfume. It was all too much.

  I had never k
illed anything before. I feel like I missed a few steps in the serial killer evolution. There she was, pinned under me, her eyes and tongue bulging, as I choked the life from her. The movies make it look easy. It’s bloody not. You have to maintain the grip for ages. My hand was getting sore, and I really thought the bitch would never die.

  After, when I sat on the floor next to her, I felt a mixture of emotions. There was shame for sure, I had raised my hand to a woman, horror at the fact I had a dead one in my hall, and euphoria. I felt powerful and justified. She had come into my home after I told her to piss off. She had it coming. She should be glad I hadn’t raped her first.

  I wish I could say I stopped there. I wish I had just left her body in the fire escape stairway and let the police deal with another “wasted life.” But something happened to me that night. The rage and hurt churned inside me and morphed into something far worse, a calm detachment that led me to take my cut-throat razor to her flesh and ever so carefully render skin from bone.

  The next town was bigger; I knew we needed to find somewhere to stay. My unnamed daughter was cold, and I was so worried that she would die if I did not find us somewhere permanent to stay. I was loath to let people know we had money. A lone woman and a baby would be easy pickings for the local pimp and those whose greed outweighed their morals.