Night Draws In

Another distorted fairy tale inspired by the amazing Angela Carter's warped fairy tales. This time inspired by the story of 'Sleeping Beauty'. There are no speech marks as a reference to Carter's own work and encourage ambguity. Hope you enjoy it, and please review!

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Black, damp walls surround the space within the mountain.
A mass of writhing flame licks the floor in an uneven rhythm and the black haired woman sways, sluicing blood over her wraith-like fingers and arm dappled with purple bruises and thin slices. The carcass of what once was a man but no longer resembles such lies by her feet, and a thin shining strip of metal protrudes from that which was once a handsome countenance. With rapturous delight the black haired woman thrust her arm into the twisting fire, feeling the hairs shrivel and liquefy and shuddering as her blood boils within her pallid flesh. The disfigurement on her arm melts too, with the heat of fire and blood of man merging, and when she pulls her arm from the blaze it is as ashen and unsullied as ever it was. She looked to the entrance of her squalid home to see the light fading in a blood red haze.
Ah, night draws in. Overwhelming pain fills the mother. She squeezes and pushes and finally the flaxen haired girl emerges from the elder, exhausted womb, eyes shut as tightly as her clenched fists and sealed virginity. They celebrate the mother’s pain. She is given her flaxen haired child and holds her to her bosom, thick, salty tears splashing on her child’s face. The silver-haired man who fathered her gazes upon his child, with a mixture of manly pride for his creation, and bewilderment that he is responsible for creating her. When the mother’s pain had subsided, and she regained her strength, a formal celebration was organised. Messengers were sent across the desolate wastelands that surrounded the high walled fortress of the mad King and his beautiful Queen. Those brave enough to venture to the event marvelled at the high, gleaming columns of thick, black marble which stood either side of the deeply dark doors. The thick wood keeping miscreants outside from entering, and those miscreants inside from leaving.

Three women, each of extraordinary capabilities, were called to greet the child, who slept in a cradle of metal which matched her hair in its bright golden gleam. The first of the women stepped towards the new-born babe, and laid her hand upon its pale face.

Thou shalt be blessed with beauty, outshining all those around you. As her hand drew away a snatch of golden curls was ripped quietly from the child’s sleeping scalp. The girl shone with momentary light, bright as the sun, and it faded as swiftly as it came. The second woman stepped towards the child and laid her hand over the child’s unformed chest.

Thou shalt be braver than any warrior, and never fear death nor loss, nor disease. As her hand drew away a nail scratched lightly on the girl’s fair chest, and she shone with a silver light as brilliant as that of any star. Again it faded as swiftly as it came. Before the third woman could step forward, darkness descended over the ballroom and a black-haired woman with skin the colour of grimy snow stood beside the cradle. She smiled, toothless gums wet with bodily juices. She roughly forced her hand into the meaty carcass strapped to her thick thigh, and removed her bloody hand to place it upon the child’s chest. The process occurred again with her second hand and that positioned over the child’s face.

This royal breed is not as gregarious as hoped, therefore I condemn your daughter to death, and she shall welcome it, knowing even before the final brutal moment what it is. When her blood is drawn by a needle, this hex is kindled. Bloodied hands flew from their places on the small creature’s body, and gory depictions of her fingers burned against the white skin. The darkness lifted from the hall, and the third woman stepped swiftly forward. Eternal living rest shall replace the curse placed upon this child, for damnation has burned its bloody imprint into your child’s pristine flesh.

The maddened King, in a vain hope of protecting his perfect daughter, locked her inside his castle grounds, and ordered all needles to be removed, under pain of bloody execution.

As promised by the women, his daughter blossomed into a beautiful and bold child. Her lips were full and pink, and her golden tresses shone as an angels halo around her face. Where her breasts had just begun to swell her waist was slim, and long supple legs supported her lithe figure. But it was in her eyes her spirit shone. Black pupils rimmed by a murky green, are darkened by years of corruption at the clumsy, fat-fingered hands of her desire-filled father. Alabaster veined with tiny red serpents surrounds the shining jelly. From those eyes can be cast forth a look so piercing it makes the person before it wither in fear.

One evening she sat in the ante chamber of her palace apartments. She held in her arms great swathes of fabric, and laid them out onto all the chairs and surfaces in the room. Her maid carried a great collection of dresses from her mistress’s wardrobe which no longer fit her blossoming figure and placed them into a woven basket beside the door. As she chose the fabrics for clothing to replace that which no longer fit her woman’s figure, she became curious as to how the rough swathes of fabric became the beautiful garments she wore. She determined to ask her maid.

How are clothes made?
Ah my little princess, talented seamstresses stitch them with their needles, thumbs covered always by their little thimbles.
What, pray tell, is a needle? The maid paused, clearly troubled as to whether she had over stepped a boundary.
Sharp, nasty little things, that can’t be found for love nor money in the kingdom. She replied primly.
Why on earth not? Asked the little princess, her soft brow furrowing. If they make such beautiful items, why are they forbidden?
I can not tell you. Gasped her maid. It would be my head if I were to do so.
No one has the right to take your head but me my darling maid. Please. The ‘darling maid’ looked too and from furtively, concern at being overheard etched in every fibre of her countenance. When you were born, you were cursed my little dove. One prick of a needle on your lovely flesh and you’ll fall straight into an eternal slumber, in which you will not feel nor see, just sleep. The girl’s lip curled into a delighted smile.
Who has told you such ridiculous fairy stories my sweet maid? They’ve your head with old wives tales.
‘Tis no laughing matter. Replied her maid sternly. I was there, I saw it happen. But you’re old enough now to know the truth.

As the girl walked alone through the gleaming marble hallways of the gargantuan palace later that night, she heard familiar heavy footfalls sounding behind her. Instinctively her heart leapt into her slender, pale throat, and she rushed to hide from the man approaching her. She turned the corridors, hearing the footsteps sound behind her continually, no falters in their stride, and saw a tapestry. She swiftly darted to pull herself behind the enormous fabric, only to find a small, gnarled door of damp, black wood. She pushed it open and closed it silently behind her.
As she pressed her ear to the stagnant wood to listen to the footsteps, a cool breeze caught the hem of her dress. She realised that she stood outside the palace walls, in a dark garden with the moon shining brightly down on her. She smothered her surprise and desire to explore the place and pressed her ear once more to the door. She heard the grotesque mumblings of her deranged father passing by.

Where is my little princess? My little, supple princess? With flesh as white and succulent as apple flesh, and such a body that would pierce any mans heart. Where is my appealing, little princess? His ramblings quieted as he passed further away from the door and the girl relaxed.

She turned, glancing around the strange, detached world she had stumbled upon. To the north, giant, dark trees stood like ancient, huge sentry guards, their wood almost merging into the black night which enshrouded them. She walked towards them, pausing now and then to glance at the vegetation about her. She passed through the grove of trees and stepped into a clearing. Standing in the centre of the clearing was a rose bush.

Darkened waxy leaves curled around each other, contorting the rose bush into a nest of bloody flowers. The girl looked on the distorted plant with curiosity rising. Within the circle of dark flowers she saw a singular rose, shrivelled and dying, dotted all along the stem with vicious thorns. The needle-sharp points of the thorns glinted in the cold moonlight, and she looked to the mother moons full, round body. Her eyes were the same murky green, but tonight the black pupils were inflamed, darkening her eyes and consequently, her entire demeanour. She stepped towards the flowers and a little gasp of shock escaped her lips as the dark flowers drew back, allowing her entry to the rotten rose. She looked to the stem and reached out one hand, eternally slowly. Her hand clasped around the jagged stalk and her voice screamed out in pain as the thorns bit into her thumb.

The girl drew her hand back and stared at the small, but gaping hole in her thumb. With fascination and delight overwhelming her, she watched blood pooling in the gap in her flesh.

Now I can escape you Father. Her small, melodious voice breathed the words gently, and the blood ran down over the soft, white skin of her digit.

Black, as dark as the raven’s feather, as thick as the sheep’s winter coat, descends upon the girl as the shining drop of blood falls to the floor. With a sharp little gasp of not shock, but felicity, night draws in.