TWISTED TALES

six | ❝ beauty & the beast ❞

She was reading,
The pretty thing,
Nose always in a book,
Delving into made up worlds,
Full of fantastical creations,
Where dragons spat fire,
And burned down towers,
And princesses were rescued,
From rising, orange tendrils,
By prince charmings who braved the angry flames,
That wanted to dance them to an early grave,

Or perhaps it was a romance,
Where the shy, lonely girl,
Who stuttered and was so innocent,
Knowing nothing of the world,
Unaware of her beauty,
Attracted the attention,
Of a wealthy suitor,
The one all the girls would blush about,
Would end up at her doorstep with a bouquet of her favourite flowers,
Belle's favourite were roses,
The deep red ones her preferred colour.

They didn't like her,
The pretty thing,
Because she read, they thought her strange,
It was peculiar to see such a well-read girl,
Who was curious about the world,
They hurled knives out of ignorance,
And sometimes the girls would get physical,
Throwing drinks, hurling trash,
Or slapping her across the face,
They scarred and left deep wounds,
That she pretended weren't bleeding,
Instead of confrontation,
She read and read her dusty books,
Diving into other lands,
Ignoring their lashes of scalding sentences,
And their stinging hands,
That sentenced her mind to death,
Her heart swelling up with harboured wickedness,

One day, she was in her bakery,
A slow day for work it was,
She decided to take out a book to read,
Two patrons then walked in,
When they saw the book, their eyes gleamed,
A wicked twinkle in their orbs,
They snatched it out her grip,
She tried to grab it back,
And so the book did rip,

Two halves of a story lay on the ground,
They snickered as her tears fell,
And stole one of the halves,
They threw it in the garbage,
With a match of fire,
The second part of the story,
Was caught aflame,
Consumed by flickering flames,
The dancing, orange monsters taunted her through the window,
Their heat scorched her heart,
Leaving cinders in their wake,
The message her heaven-sent mother left,
Turned to ashes in the can,
Never to be read again.

"How cruel some people are,
When they don't undertstand,"
She turned around with watery eyes,
To find the voice's source,
She saw a shadow in the corner,
Stalking towards her,
He wore a mask, his face hidden,
But she saw his neck,
Scars ran up his skin,
She wondered what kind of life he lead,

"What do you want?"
Her voice was shaky, trembling out of fear,
The shadow let out a hearty laugh,
But behind the mirth was darkness,
And she shivered when it reached her ears,
"They taunt you, they haunt you,
With wicked words, pretty thing.
I know the feeling, the ghosts they leave,
When they kill a little of your soul,
Their mocking laughter scaring away,
Peaceful birds.
So why don't you let me help you?
And in doing so, help me out as well,
Turn the tables on the beasts,
And leave them rotting instead."

She considered,
His proposition, it was tempting,
Deliciously so,
She wanted to envoke the wrath that had been blooming in her heart,
Tearing her soul apart,
As anger raged through the cracks,
The ashes of the book, still burnt into her mind,
With a sneer, she agreeed.

They would never see her coming.

After weeks of planning,
Belle was different than before,
A beauty she had become,
Although she had always been a pretty thing,
But without her books, the people finally saw it,
They clammored inside her shop,
Buying out her goods,
With a pretty face like that,
Of course they would,

The men came in dozens,
Hoping for her heart,
She said to one each day,
To meet her after dark,
"I'll give you more than my heart,
Do you want a piece of my cake?"
They would shake their heads like dogs,
Wagging their little tales,
Panting with horrid breath,
Eager to ravage a pretty doll,
She snorted,
Animals, no humanity in them,
Just two weeks prior they hated me,
But now they want me to wed?

And always after hours,
When the moon hung low in the sky,
Flickering dimly,
Giving out a sliver of silver light,
It illuminated her inside,
Like a ghost, or a goddess,
A deity of the moon,
They were always disillusioned,
When they walked into the room,

They were always unsuspecting,
A pretty girl being mean?
Preposterous the idea, they just weren't smart enough,
They always followed her, into the back,
They would lean in, hoping to taste the strawberry on her lips,
And strawberry they did get,
But it leaked out from their hearts instead,
The knife stabbing them from behind,
Their eyes would roll back, looking at the sky,
As some last resort, to save them from their demise,
Red roses spilled out from their bodies,
Her favourite colour, her preferred flower,
The sick grin on her face made her beast, her partner, slash and slash them, again and again,
Just to see her smile, happiness in her eyes,
They cut the men up one by one,
Into tiny pieces,
Their organs dripping crimson,
Would make anyone else feel queasy.

"It would be a waste, my beast,
All this meat left to rot."
He turned to her, she could tell he was smiling under his mask,
That hid his secrets,
She suspected deformities,
"Well, let's make use of it,
Free meat for pies, yes?"

And so the people ate them,
Throwing money at the girl,
Blinded by her beauty,
They didn't notice their missing sons,
And soon their missing daughters,
And the strange, tasting meat pies,
That they swallowed whole,
Because she was pretty, the pretty thing,
Without her book-loving oddity,
They forgot their previous notions,
But the ash and the cinders,
Still remained where her heart used to be,
Rotting was her soul and their crimes hung over her gloomily.