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I shifted back into my human form and sauntered over to my wardrobe to put on my black silk robe. Tonight I was going to soak in my bathtub and relish that little bitch’s death.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall…” I called across the room, slipping my arms in.
“Yes, my Queen?
“Who is the fairest of them all?”
I walked over to stare at the silver satin ribbon spinning in the mirror.
“My Queen, you are the fairest here, but Snow White is still alive, and she is much fairer than you.”
“No! That can’t be. She’s not alive. I saw the life drain out of her eyes myself. I saw her color fade. You must be mistaken.” I rambled in a panicked state.
“My Queen. I cannot tell a lie.”
I knew this was the truth.
FUCK!
How is that little soul-sucking bitch still alive?
She was dead before those miners got there. Were they magic? Did they bring her back to life?
With my silence, the mirror contorted back into a simple mirror on the wall.
I stared at myself for a moment, and there it was.
Another wrinkle.
She was still alive and sucking my life away!
I looked at my belly and felt the useless creature inside, growing, taking more of my life. They always did until they were born.
Nine months of agony for eighteen years of bliss and youth.
I paced the room, trying to think of what I could do next.
Snow had to die. It was as simple as that, but why was it proving to be so difficult? This is the second time she’s evaded death, and I was growing impatient.
I couldn’t trick her as an old lady again. She wouldn’t be dumb enough to fall for it a second time, but perhaps as a child…
Yes. She always had a soft heart.
I walked over to my bench and pulled out a number of ingredients to concoct a poison that would kill her quickly. Usually, I would opt for the slow, torturous death, but Snow has managed to escape too many times! I needed it to be quick and without question.
I looked around the room for something I could use and then a deliciously evil thought crossed my mind. I excitedly, but quietly, headed down the hall towards the hidden doorway behind the portrait. The air was cool and damp as it blew up the stone staircase.
“Where is she?” One of the male prisoners rushed to the edge of the cell, pressing his face through the slats.
I paused a moment to look at him and was filled with disgust. His clothes were rags and threads, barely hanging onto his bony body, and he was filthy- covered head to toe in dirt with bloody scraped knuckles and hair that hung down long and greasy.
“Get away from me. Your stench is filling what little clean air is down here.”
“What did you do with her? Where is my Isabelle?”
“Who is that?”
“The woman you took.”
