Two stories, so different, and both with the same beginning. A girl. An apple.

See the girl. Her skin is deathly pale, all except her lips, which are a deep scarlet. Blood.

See the apple. Rosy red and firm, flesh unbruised, unmarked, except in one place, where there is a pinprick marring the perfect surface. Poison.

A warning—do not open the door, not for anyone, not on your life, never. Do not speak to anyone but us. Do not go out of doors.

From one prison to another; from one cruel captor to seven benevolent ones—there is little difference.

See the girl. Skin still deathly pale, as her hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around the apple, first of its kind, left in a basket on the doorstep.

See the apple. Red meets red as she bites into it, her mouth open wide; the juice runs down her chin. And this is where the story splits.

Like speaks to like, and maybe her stepmother saw too much of herself in her protégé. Mere jealousy could not motivate such an act. There was, of course, something more. Ordinarily sane people (there was no mirror) do not plan to murder their (step)children.

She was not ordinary, nor sane (she spoke to her mirror as if it would respond).

There was a motive. There was not. Two possibilities, two sides to the same coin.

See the girl. See the apple.

See both, as they fall together, her fingers clutching it tightly, white on red, hiding its one flaw. Poison works quickly.

They built her coffin out of glass, as a way of honoring her (objectifying her). Their motives were clear.

His, when he rode up on his white palfrey, were not.

It was love at first sight, he said. He had to take her away, the poor dead girl, and keep her in his castle, as a tribute to her, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

It was not love that drew him to her. He could see that she was still breathing, still warm—albeit helpless—and so beautiful. He had other plans for her, the poor dead girl.

He cajoled and pleaded with them until they let him take her, out of pity.

He took her himself, in the night, without their consent.

A kiss woke her, as he felt himself so moved, it was all he could do not to open her coffin and kiss her, embrace her cold form.

It was not a kiss that woke her, innocent and chaste, but blood and breaking, in his bed.

See the girl, woken one way or another, now crowned queen, the gold circlet bright against her dark hair, her pale skin. Contrast.

See the apple's maker, as she is pardoned, allowed to join her kingdom with theirs, happily ever after. The traditional ending.

See the apple's maker, as she dances in iron shoes, lovingly heated before the fire until they glowed red. Listen to her screams, as she claims her innocence.

Two stories, two endings, both with the same beginning: a girl, an apple.

Two stories, two endings.

See the girl.

See the apple.

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Author's Note: I hate the “tame” version of Snow White. It leaves too many unanswered questions. I wrote this as sort of a “what-if”--if you liked it, I'd recommend checking out Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors—he has a version of Snow White where she's a vampire, and the prince is a necrophiliac (which, no, was not what I was trying to imply with this :) ).