Read Online Once Upon a Time: The Villains by Shea Berkley - Free Book Online
Authors: Shea Berkley
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falling back on family names.
“Herocleas?”
I laugh. “Nay.”
She bites her lip. “Is it…” a smile tips her lips, “…Rumpelstiltskin?”
I gape at her in disbelief. “Nay,” I whisper. “Nay!” I scream. “How could you know?”
I stamp my foot so hard the ground cracks. But I am in a temper. I have been wronged. My whole life has been a series of injustices. And now, to be beaten by a mere peasant in queenly garb, I grow ever angrier. The baby awakes and whimpers. I stamp and rail and awaken the whole household. The king appears, waving his sword, his loyal guards at his back.
A crowd forms to witness my defeat. I ignore them all and stamp my feet and howl at the heavens. The floor stones crack, the ground opens. All the tomorrows dissolve in an instant as the ground beneath my feet gives way and I fall in.
I refuse to see I have chosen this end, from the day I was born I have rushed down this path, blaming everyone and everything for my suffering. Nay, I have been injured. I have been wronged.
“Curse be to woman, curse be to man.
Curse be to all those who have made me who I am.”
As I tumble and fall, I feel the heat of the earth’s core racing to meet me, and I cry out. “I will always be!”
Aye, man fears the unknown and the unexplained. Though my body is destroyed, I will always be, hiding in the heart of man, waiting to be unleashed.
Candy Lane
A Tale of Selfishness
I know what it is to be alone.
To have nothing.
And I vowed having nothing would never do.
I was an only child. A surprise to my elderly parents. And not a pleasant one. They had resigned themselves decades earlier to never having children, and then one day, I appeared — a squalling baby girl. Smelling of goat’s milk and oatmeal, I disrupted their sleep and taxed their thin resources. Never wealthy, after I appeared my parents became positively destitute.
For the first year of my life, I rarely left my crib. I saw my world through the bars of my bed. I learned to ignore my hunger and accept my confined world. As soon as I could walk, I was put to work. I saw kindness as a reprieve from labor when the sun went down — my parents rarely lit a candle — and mercy as a kick instead of a wallop. Grace had nothing to do with God, but only a teaspoon more of porridge before I sought my bed, and that I had to steal from the pot. Since I knew no more than what I had experienced since I was born, I made no complaints.
Not so my parents. Whenever they looked at me, they muttered. I had become a daily reminder of the hardships they were forced to endure. And there was no end in sight.
When I was five, and it was clear I would survive into my youth, the few friends my parents had would come and stare at me as if I were the oddest of creatures. I bore these rare visits in silence, for my parents’ friends had even less kindness to give me than my parents.
“I wouldn’t call this a blessing,” one gray-haired, loose-toothed woman would say. She took scornful pleasure in poking at my ribs which stuck out from my chest like a delicate bird cage as I lay in bed. “Too weak to be of any real use.”
Another sour-faced woman would quickly take her place and hover above my squalid pallet. Remembering her visage still makes me shudder. I would burrow under my covers and pretend she wasn’t there. Her cheeks crinkled like paper when she pursed her lips. “On the night of the first snowfall, put it out in the woods as naked as the day it were born. That’s what I would do. In the morning if it’s still alive, it is the will of the gods and your penance is not yet over.”
Her face was replaced by a wrinkled old man’s. His breath smelled like cabbage and his nose constantly dripped. “You are looking at this all wrong.” He pinched my skin and made me gasp, but I did not cry. I never cried. “Healthy this one be. She has broad shoulders and straight legs. The child is a blessing. Sell her. The money you make will see
“Herocleas?”
I laugh. “Nay.”
She bites her lip. “Is it…” a smile tips her lips, “…Rumpelstiltskin?”
I gape at her in disbelief. “Nay,” I whisper. “Nay!” I scream. “How could you know?”
I stamp my foot so hard the ground cracks. But I am in a temper. I have been wronged. My whole life has been a series of injustices. And now, to be beaten by a mere peasant in queenly garb, I grow ever angrier. The baby awakes and whimpers. I stamp and rail and awaken the whole household. The king appears, waving his sword, his loyal guards at his back.
A crowd forms to witness my defeat. I ignore them all and stamp my feet and howl at the heavens. The floor stones crack, the ground opens. All the tomorrows dissolve in an instant as the ground beneath my feet gives way and I fall in.
I refuse to see I have chosen this end, from the day I was born I have rushed down this path, blaming everyone and everything for my suffering. Nay, I have been injured. I have been wronged.
“Curse be to woman, curse be to man.
Curse be to all those who have made me who I am.”
As I tumble and fall, I feel the heat of the earth’s core racing to meet me, and I cry out. “I will always be!”
Aye, man fears the unknown and the unexplained. Though my body is destroyed, I will always be, hiding in the heart of man, waiting to be unleashed.
Candy Lane
A Tale of Selfishness
I know what it is to be alone.
To have nothing.
And I vowed having nothing would never do.
I was an only child. A surprise to my elderly parents. And not a pleasant one. They had resigned themselves decades earlier to never having children, and then one day, I appeared — a squalling baby girl. Smelling of goat’s milk and oatmeal, I disrupted their sleep and taxed their thin resources. Never wealthy, after I appeared my parents became positively destitute.
For the first year of my life, I rarely left my crib. I saw my world through the bars of my bed. I learned to ignore my hunger and accept my confined world. As soon as I could walk, I was put to work. I saw kindness as a reprieve from labor when the sun went down — my parents rarely lit a candle — and mercy as a kick instead of a wallop. Grace had nothing to do with God, but only a teaspoon more of porridge before I sought my bed, and that I had to steal from the pot. Since I knew no more than what I had experienced since I was born, I made no complaints.
Not so my parents. Whenever they looked at me, they muttered. I had become a daily reminder of the hardships they were forced to endure. And there was no end in sight.
When I was five, and it was clear I would survive into my youth, the few friends my parents had would come and stare at me as if I were the oddest of creatures. I bore these rare visits in silence, for my parents’ friends had even less kindness to give me than my parents.
“I wouldn’t call this a blessing,” one gray-haired, loose-toothed woman would say. She took scornful pleasure in poking at my ribs which stuck out from my chest like a delicate bird cage as I lay in bed. “Too weak to be of any real use.”
Another sour-faced woman would quickly take her place and hover above my squalid pallet. Remembering her visage still makes me shudder. I would burrow under my covers and pretend she wasn’t there. Her cheeks crinkled like paper when she pursed her lips. “On the night of the first snowfall, put it out in the woods as naked as the day it were born. That’s what I would do. In the morning if it’s still alive, it is the will of the gods and your penance is not yet over.”
Her face was replaced by a wrinkled old man’s. His breath smelled like cabbage and his nose constantly dripped. “You are looking at this all wrong.” He pinched my skin and made me gasp, but I did not cry. I never cried. “Healthy this one be. She has broad shoulders and straight legs. The child is a blessing. Sell her. The money you make will see
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