The Hare's Not-So-Spiky Hedgehog (Grimmer Fairy Tales)

by Lee Hayton

  I tried. Our stepfather treated his daughter with hostile contempt, but he was deeply infatuated with his new bride. That granted me and my sister, Anastasia, the benefit of better treatment. Of course, none of us believed that when the sexual appeal wore thin, we’d be handled more kindly than Cinderella was.

  She was a tired, scrawny little thing. Expressive eyes, cheeky as a monkey. I don’t know how that hadn’t been beaten out of her. The girl always had spirit, for sure.

  There I go again, mixing up my tenses. My language tutor used to rap my knuckles until they bled for that, but I never managed to knock it into my thick head.

  I’m saying had, as though the princess of our kingdom is long gone. She may be out of sight but Cinderella is not out of mind—my mind at least—and there’s no way she’s been relegated to the past.

  Cinderella has and is—she IS—and I’ll not have anyone say differently. Not even my own slippery tongue.

  Once, I came home from school, my backside caned from being naughty and stupid as usual, to find her crying from frustration and despair. I felt my heart breaking at her plight, though my mom had told me to stay clear. I’d already been lectured not to interfere. Mother knew my weaknesses better than I understood myself.

  Cinderella was on her knees, trying to clean the floor. One half-full bucket of soapy water and a balding scrubbing brush at her disposal. After dipping the scrubber into the fouled liquid, murky gray, she’d rub it back and forth across the tiles. My stepfather had been at her, long thin crimson lines streaked along her spine. Not that she was naked, but they’d bled enough to stain the fabric.

  She scrubbed hard at the stonework, but poor Cinderella couldn’t get it clean. Her knees were bleeding, her sides were bleeding. Dribbles of dark red splashed down onto the floor. As soon as she could scrub it clear, my stepsister would bleed again. Her drops of blood staining the inky cobblestones with crimson so deep in color it looked black.

  I mean honestly. What’s that about? It’s one thing to want a clean house and not to care that the cost is your child’s love and admiration. I’m not a prude nor am I a simpleton. A daughter belongs to her father, she’s his chattel, so if he wants her to scrub his floors and cook his dinner, then that’s what she does.

  But when the beatings negate the cleaning, then all we’re talking about is torture. No matter how much the high council bleats on about how they don’t condone that behavior—I can give them another dozen examples that pour derision all over that supposed stance.

  I pulled her up and hugged her close, taking care not to squeeze my arms over her open wounds. When she jerked away, insisting she must get back to work, I told her I’d do it. My single bed barely sank under her light weight as I sat her down on the end of it. I used an old dress to stem her terrible bleeding, then I dressed her injuries as best I could. My heart hung heavy in my chest. Unwept sobs became trapped in the sticky flypaper of my distress so they couldn’t break free.

  I told you she was tiny, right?

  Leaving her in my bedroom, I walked back through to the dining room and sat down on the floor. Not constantly adding to the workload, I quickly whipped through the remainder of Cindy’s chores. When the last drizzle of crimson water had been tipped out for the pigs to guzzle with their scraps, I hurried inside.

  My stepfather had arrived home.

  When he saw me carrying the bucket, his face became mottled with red, pumped up in a furious rage. His eyes bulged as though his head were about to explode. He backhanded me across the cheek. The force something I’d never before been subjected to.

  Not to say I hadn’t been beaten before. Just not hit in anger by a full-grown man. His punches thumped my chest so hard, my ribs cracked. A blow to my throat caused so much pain that I opted to stop breathing. I couldn’t know it at the time, but I wouldn’t speak above a whisper for a month following the attack.

  When I fell down on the floor, his feet started to do the work for him. He kicked me in the guts with such force that I vomited black blood over the clean stone tiles. He stamped with all his weight on my leg and the bone snapped. Another boot and it tore through the skin to poke its head out—as though there was something pleasant out there to see.

  There was never anything good to see in that house.

  My mother tied my leg up, binding it fast to a wooden splint so the bone could heal. When the weather turns cold there’s still an aching itch from where it didn’t knit together the way it should.

  I lay in bed as Mom fought her best for leniency. My father’s anger was so bright and fierce that if she hadn’t talked him down, he might have come into my room and continued. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I heard him force her to do terrible, disgusting things.

  She did them out of love for me. To save me.

  If that had been the extent of it, I would have tried to intercede again. Poor Cinderella always looked so cold, so weak. Better a beating be delivered to a healthy girl than to a waif who is so underfed that you could almost see through her.

  But that wasn’t the full punishment.

  There came a next time when I extended a kindness, offering Cinderella a bite of bread and cheese from my plate. My stepfather slapped me a few times and plunged a fork into the back of my hand.

  Later that night, he crept into my room. My stomach tightened, crawling with fear. He squatted down beside my bed, his groin on full and proud display. He leaned forward to whisper into my ear.

  I never helped Cinderella again.

  Yes, I’m weak and yes, I’m stupid. I’m every bad thing that everyone has leveled at me. But I wouldn’t ever be so cruel and callous as to visit my earned punishment upon another.

  He threatened to do everything he’d done to me, perform each twisted sexual act he regularly practiced on my mother, on Anastasia instead. The sister I’d known longer than a few months. The person who formed the greatest bond in my life outside of my parents. The one who shared my whole life story. The living, beating heart of me.

  I know what you say about her now. It may not be as hurtful as the feast of bitchiness you dole out to me, but it’s bad enough. Destructive to the point of making me weep, even though I’d never show myself doing so.

  But for a long time, Anastasia was the only one always there for me. Practically my twin. We’d wrapped warm arms around each other on cold, wintry nights. As our dear father lay dying, we squeezed each other’s hands until we winced in pain. Each of us turned instinctively to the other for consolation, support, and strength.

  Noble Anastasia would never survive the tortuous perversions my stepfather wanted to hand out to her. My sister was proud and defiant. She made her own rules and stuck fast to them. I thought she’d rather die than live with that disgrace filling up her memory. Some souls stain too easily to visit the dyes of depravity upon them.

  I traded Cinderella for Anastasia.

  Call me evil, call me vile, call me any vicious name under the sun. I’ve heard them all and I’ll tell you the truth right now. They don’t hurt like a broken leg.

  About the Author - Lee Hayton

  Traveling is a great expander of ideas and the understanding of other cultures, and although I’ve explored this facet of the world many times, in the end I’ve always made the return journey to my home—just a hop, skip, and a jump from from my birthplace.

  I love entertaining readers with a good story, whether it’s one designed to make your blood curdle with fear or have you explode into fits of laughter. I’m delighted you’ve found this short story, which introduces you to my “Grimmer Fairy Tales” world. Feel free to explore this land in more detail over in Ye Olde Amazon Shoppe.

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  Read all the Things!

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(Grimmer Fairy Tales)

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  A Tale of Magic and Sorrow (World War Magic)

  Bitter Magic (World War Magic)

  Rebels and Runes: featuring Caged Magic (World War Magic)

  Eating Crow (the Birdman)

  Cupid’s Bow: featuring Monstrous Love

  A Mongrel, A Bard and Witches, Oh my! (Face the Music)

  WereEagles Fear to Tread (Face the Music)

  Skeletal

  Writing as Katherine Hayton

  The Tide

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  The Second Stage of Grief (Ngaire Blakes Mystery)

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  Breathe and Release

  Found, Near Water