Fractured Fairy Tales

by Catherine Stovall

  Gretel reached the first building out of breath, the air escaping her mouth and turning to steam as it mixed with cool air around her. Taking deep breaths she allowed herself to settle before her mind began an agonizing war with her body.

  She needed to know what had happened there. What he had done, and yet her feet refused to leave the relative safety outside the building.

  “Come on, you can do this!” she muttered to herself, trying to convince herself that all was going to be fine. “Just one foot in front of the other. One step at a time.”

  Finally her legs began to move, and she pushed the heavy wooden front doors inwards to allow her passage.

  The large building, principally made from stone, looked like some sort of community centre, graffiti lined the blistering walls, chairs and tables had been upturned and yellowing, aged papers littered the floors. Gretel picked up a piece that had flown on the breeze to land at her feet—a flyer of some sort.

  ‘Pyroa Community Centre welcomes Dr. Hed Ballinski. 14/03/1817’ was all that the brochure said. 1817. The year she had lost track of Hansel. Could the two events be related? She furrowed her brow and headed back out the door. There was nothing left to see in the community centre, nothing but death and destruction.

  Back in the snow, Gretel once again started down the street. The sky was becoming darker by the second, and she wanted to be gone from the town—or lack thereof—before dusk. This was not a place she wanted to be trapped in for the night.

  The next stop came too fast for Gretel’s liking, and she wanted to turn and run immediately upon seeing the large sign over the door. “Pyroa Mental Asylum. Est. 1812’ A shiver tingled its way up her back at the words that seemed more daunting to her than the abandoned town did.

  Their parents had abandoned them, just as the people of this town had abandoned it, left them in the woods to die. Gretel had harboured a grudge against her parents for a long time after that day, and to tell the truth, she still did every time she looked at the wide, purple scar on her left thigh. But no one deserved what had happened to them. Actually, no one really knew what happened to them. Only that Hansel and Gretel had returned home against all odds. They had acted thrilled, of course, but underneath, she could tell they were unhappy. A few days after arriving home, Hansel had asked Gretel to run some errands in town, and by the time she arrived back at her home, her parents blank, lifeless faces were staring at the ceiling.

  They weren’t dead. They were shocked, paralysed with fear. Gretel had run back to the town for help, and they were taken to a local mental asylum where they still resided. Their mouths gaped, and their lifeless eyes, hollow and dark, still stared. Still looked on in fear.

  After all the years spent at her parents side, constantly watching over her shoulder in case the other patients attacked her, the thought of entering yet another mental asylum didn’t sit well with Gretel at all. With butterflies in her stomach, she started to sweat as her feet took her closer to the entrance.

  Walking in through the great double doors at the front of the building, she was greeted with a terrifying sight. Face masks were scattered over the dust covered floors; dolls with no heads joined them. The walls were covered with bloody hand prints and long gouged fingernail marks, and what looked like the remnants of old clothes were strewn about all over the place. Hospital beds equipped with thick straps loitered in the large entry room, silent and abandoned.

  Despite the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Gretel moved off down a side corridor, finding more of the same fingernail marks and blood stained walls. Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes as she made her way through the mess and hell of the past, thinking Hansel couldn’t have done all of the damage himself. There had to be another explanation. There had to be.

  Somewhere along the corridor Gretel had come across an old elevator. The kind with cast iron barred doors and a lever on the inside to operate it. She peered in wearily at first, worried that the time spent out of action may have caused instability. She tested it, first with one foot lightly placed upon the floor, and then the other. Once inside, she started to feel a little safer, and turned to work out how to operate the elevator that would take her to the lower levels of the large asylum.

  The mechanics of it seemed fairly simple. Close the doors, pull the lever to head to the right level. Pulling the lever though, Gretel instantly knew something wasn’t right. The elevator travelled too fast, it wasn’t going to stop on the floor she had selected.

  Panic started to creep in then, and she pulled the lever with all her strength. It wouldn’t budge. That was it, she was going to die in a broken down elevator, in a creepy ass mental asylum, in a town that nobody knew about.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Finally the lever moved from its position with a grinding halt, and not a moment too soon. Gretel looked up to the floor numbers and realized she had stopped at the basement, the last floor before impending death would have taken her.

  The smell that hit her face upon stopping was like nothing she had ever smelled in her life. It started her retching and didn’t stop until she had pulled down one of the facemasks which neatly hung along the wall of the elevator.

  Gretel stepped out, turned down a corridor to her left and found herself entering a large circular room full of doors. It might have been her overactive imagination, but she was sure she could hear banging in the distance. She wandered around, pushing her ears to the blood-stained doors, then suddenly stopped in her tracks. Someone had appeared at the far side of the room.

  A woman, so pale you could see her veins through her skin. Her flesh, eaten away in places, was clad in leather clothing. She looked like a butcher with her leather boots, apron and gloved hands. In one hand, she held a rusty saw, in the other, a severed arm.

  Gretel wasn’t fooled though; she knew this was no butcher. This was a witch. The witch to be precise. The witch that Hansel had supposedly killed all those years ago in the forest by their home town.

  “How?” Gretel managed to get past her lips. She saw a flicker then, the witch’s images witching to that of her brother’s. Tears erupted from her eyes, her throat swollen with fear and grief. It hadn’t been Hansel at all. All those years, she had believed her own brother to be evil. All those years, she had hunted him down, tracked him across countries and continents in an attempt to save him, and yet, there was no need.

  With a wicked grin on her face the witch croaked out three words, “Run boy, run!” Gretel had no idea why she referred to her as a boy, but she wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  Gretel turned to run, but let out a scream when the doors in the circular room started to open. Through them entered…people? Their limbs were skewed and in the wrong spot, the old scars on their body, thick and red and angry. Their mouths open, fanged teeth jutted out in snarls that rendered her legs useless.

  Was this what had really happened to the town? Was this what she was to become?

    

  The ‘Welcome’ sign that symbolised the entry to town was rusted out, a gaping hole in the centre that you could see through. Hansel stood, his hand on his hips, shaking away the nerves of what he knew was to come. After all, he had come there for one of two reasons—to kill his sister or to save her. He crouched down next to the welcome sign, closing his eyes at the sight of the old dried blood and hearing, not for the first time, the last words his sister had spoken to him, “Run boy, run!” He stood, a fierce look in his eyes, and as he read the name of the town - ‘Pyroa’ - he heard the scream of a young woman pierce the air from somewhere unbelievably far away.

  Prince Charming

  Jennifer Raygoza

  My mother used to say that, one day, I would grow up and meet prince charming. I would live in a castle of my own, and servants would bring me my every wish and desire. She would smile and say, when it came to comparison, my castle would be more superior then hers. Her eyes would suddenly light up, and her head would tilt back.

  S
he was convinced I would rule with an iron fist and an open heart. She would lift my chin up with her finger and say “Princess Katia, you will be queen, my love, and roses will bloom as you walk past them. Your people will bow to you, not in fear, but out of respect.”

  I dreamed about that very day when I was a little girl. Well mother, you were wrong, because that was a fucking fairytale.

  “If you attempt to escape again, I will take this hot iron and press it into the side of your face. That way no man will ever want you. Do you understand, whore?” His last and final warning to me. His name was Terragon.

  He is big, mean and ugly. This man I speak of is, unfortunately, my husband. The funny thing is, I had never even seen or met him before we wed. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know who he is. He seems to know a lot about me, nonetheless. Although, it appears he can’t recall my name, since he always addresses me as whore or bitch.

  The last thing I can remember before I ended up here, in the care of this psycho, is leaving my family’s castle to take a short walk through the beautiful Orangewood forest. The next thing you know, I woke up groggy, on a cold, dusty wood floor, with this asshole towering over me.

  I wish it had just been a nightmare, but it wasn’t. This is my life now. Chained, gagged and forced into marriage. When I say forced, I mean literally forced. I can’t believe he actually found someone willing to marry us. The minister could clearly see I was being held captive and had proceeded with the lovely union as if it didn’t bother him that I was screaming for his help. Nothing says love like tying up your soon-to-be wife and beating the shit out of her until she says her vows. Sick son-of-a-bitch. I can only imagine a hefty bounty was paid to the minister for complying. One day, I am going to kill them both. How’s that for a happy ending?

  I look down at my clothes, and then at the ugly chain that had kept me prisoner here in this hell hole for so long. I have spent what feels like years in the same dirty, ripped dress, walking around this old cottage with a steel chain around my ankle. At first, my sensitive ankle would bruise and bleed, but now years later, the skin is tough and leathery. I can barely feel anything there anymore. Every time I walk, that chain rattles, and every time that chain rattles, I imagine me wrapping it around my husband’s throat.

  Trust me, I have plenty of reason to. He forces me to do unthinkable things for his entertainment. He once made me clean the floor with my tongue while he touched himself. Punishing me turns him on. His eyes grow dark, and he forces himself on me. Most of the time, I close my eyes and pretend I am in a far-away place. Although, nothing I can imagine could bring me far enough away from here—not while he is grunting from behind me.

  I am tired and hopeless, but I never give up on the idea of escaping. I have been working on this link in the chain for weeks, maybe even months now. I wait until Terragon leaves for the day, and I constantly bang the chain. At first, nothing, but over time it has become dented, worn and bent. As soon as he left today, I began to bang on it again, until a link snapped.

  This is my second attempt to flee, and now the chain is broken, all I can feel is fear. I have my shaky hand on the door knob. My heart is racing and sweat beads have formed across my hairline. If he catches me, he will burn the hell out of my pretty face.

  I throw open the old, wood door and run like hell down into the forest. This time I know there is no house or person around us. Not as far as the eye can see. I know this because the last time I escaped I ran around screaming for help, wishing someone lived near to hear my cries. It had taken seconds before Terragon found me and took me back home. That was darkest night of my life, because freedom was given and taken away within seconds.

  I try not to think about that now, as I run, breathless, for my life. Every so often, my bare feet hit a rock or stick, and the pain shoots through my legs. I won’t let it stop me. I run as if there is no tomorrow. I have no idea where I am going, but anyway pointed to a better life.

  I feel excited, and laughter erupts as I quickly look back to see that no one is following me. Everything is going as planned, until I hit the mud stocks. My feet feel them first, and then I quickly sink deep down, until my knees disappear. My body falls forward, and mud splatters across my already bruised face.

  “There you are you, bitch.”

  I hear his deep voice rumble from behind me, and a sick feeling comes over me as I close my eyes. I feel the pressure of the bottom of his boot hit my face. The sting travels across my cheek and tears fall down as I cry out in pain.

  “I’m sorry, Terragon. Please don’t hurt me. Please,” I beg. I start to tremble. His punishment will be far worse than death itself.

  “You know what I am going to do to you? Leave you right there stuck in the mud. In about two hours, this entire forest will be dark, and the wolves will be out looking for dinner. I am going to plant myself in that tree right up there and watch them rip you apart.” He looks at me with that evil grin.

  I lay my head down into the mud. “Just kill me. Kill me now,” I cry out.

  “As if I would let you off that easy, you stupid whore.” He walks over and grabs my hair with one hand and my arm with the other. He pulls me out of the mud and proceeds to drag me back home by my hair. I scream loudly, praying that if my prince charming is out there he will come for me.

  From out of the bushes, jumps a hooded man wearing all black. He carries a bow and has it aimed at Terragon. Without hesitation, he shoots an arrow straight through Terragon’s heart. His heavy body falls with a thud to the ground, and I dropped to my knees in fear that the man will kill me too.

  “Are you alright, miss?” the man asks.

  I can’t respond. I slide back on the ground as he steps forward. The mystery man removes his hood, revealing his shaggy brown hair and blue eyes. He is as attractive as a man can be.

  “I said, Are you alright?”

  I watch him look me over. I am covered in bruises, blood and mud. He looks as if he wants to reach down and pick me up. I nod before he had the chance to. He turns to walk away but stops. I watch him stand there, with his back to me. He swiftly turns around.

  “Do you have somewhere safe to go?” he asks.

  I shake my head. He looks as if he is slightly irritated that I said no. Maybe he thought I would be a burden to him.

  “Fine. Come with me. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving you alone out here. Not after what I just saw.” He sticks his hand out, but I hesitate to grab it. “Come on. I don’t have all day, you know.”

  I reach up and accept his hand. He pulls me up with so much force, I land in his arms.

  “What is your name?” he asks.

  I am inches from his face and find myself breathless. I can’t respond.

  “Your name, miss?” he repeats as he brushes back my brown hair from my face with his hand.

  I look into his hypnotizing blue eyes. “Katia Vonderburg,” I finally reply.

  His eyes widen and he releases me from his arms.

  “Katia Vonderburg? I can’t believe this. I had given up hope of ever finding you.” He stares at me oddly.

  My heart skips a beat. “How do you know me?”

  “You’re parents have been looking for you for a very long time.”

  “And you are?” I squint my eyes at him.

  “My name is Hawk Graceland. I was hired to locate you. I have searched town by town and nothing. Now, here you basically fall into my lap.”

  “I don’t know where I am, or how to get home. Will you take me to them please?” I plead.

  A sad look washes over his face. “I can’t. I’m sorry. They were both killed about a year ago.”

  I place my hand on my chest. It feels as if time has stopped. My surroundings become blurry. I start to cry, but I can’t. I can feel my breathing getting shallow. My knees buckle, and I plop down into the dirt.

  He looks away for a second, before he bends down to me. I stare at an old rock sitting next to me as his words repeat in my head. My parents are
dead. I think he is still speaking to me, but I can’t hear a word he is saying anymore.

  “Katia? Are you okay?” He touches the top of my hand.

  I flinch and snap out of it. I look up at him. I must look like a broken little girl sitting there.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. They were good people. Their castle was ambushed and set on fire by Cagers. They refused to leave and died in the fire,” Hawk said.

  “A fire? They died in a fire,” my voice is shaky. I place my head in my hands and try to take a few slow, deep breathes in before I pass out. My eyes water, and I imagine them screaming for their lives as the fire burned them to ashes.

  “What is a Cager?” I choke out. My fingers grip the hem of my dress, and I avoid eye contact with Hawk. Instead, I look at the ground, waiting for an answer.

  “That piece of trash lying on the ground is a Cager. Cagers are a barbaric clan. They take, they steal and they destroy families that have any royal blood, no matter how small or large. They despise the wealthy, and their only motivation in life is to kill the bloodline at all cost. It is a miracle you are still alive Katia. No one that has been taken by a Cager has lived to tell about it.”

  I turn around and stare over at Terragon, my heart racing in anger and my breathing quickening. I pick up one of the heavy rocks that lie next to me, stand up and run over to bash Terragon’s head in. Before I can do it, I feel a hand grasp my wrist.

  “Trust me. It won’t feel as good as you think it will. He is dead already anyway.” Hawk grabs the rock in my hand and tosses it aside.

  I narrow my eyes at him and look at my wrist. He slowly releases his fingers and reaches his hand out for mine. I decline by looking away.

  “Suit yourself. We have to start moving. It is getting late and the forest animals will want to come out and play—and I don’t mean in a good way.”

  I nod and follow behind him. It is one of the longest walks I have made. I have nothing but time and thoughts to bite at me, and I couldn’t feel worse. I have come from nowhere and have nowhere to go. My sadistic, barbaric husband is now dead and my parents were killed. Being free is not at all what I expected.