A short story based off of the fairy tale Snow White.
Snow White. That’s what the kinder ones call me. To the others, I am a Siren. Temptress. Witch. Death.
I am not any of these things, but I can never correct them. To do that, I would have to know what I am.
He kicks me out of sleep, but when I sit up, he growls, “Cover yourself, witch.”
I obediently drape myself in the ragged red covers, leaving a small gap for my eyes. He glances at them in dissatisfaction, but even he recognizes that he can’t have me banging into walls. He leads me into a dark room with a low doorway.
“Is this the witch?”
My captor nods.
“Let me see it.”
My captor hesitates. “Are you sure?”
The silence is answer enough. After a moment, my captor tears the sheet off my body. The other man – a greying fellow of average size – takes me in. His eyes widen as he absorbs my deathly pale body. He reaches out, and to my surprise, actually touches a lock of my hair.
“Ahhh,” he sighs, as though my hair is something too hot to touch but too precious to release. Release it he does, though, and then he simply sits back and considers me. “It looks sickly. Is it ill?”
“No, sir,” replies my captor.
Grey is staring at my lips. “Is it a vampyre?”
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Grey sits back, clearly dissatisfied. “What are you?” he demands of me.
I start, surprised to be addressed directly. “Human.”
He snorts. He doesn’t believe me. They never do. How can I be human when I look like death? My skin appears bloodless, my lips as though they are smeared with the substance. More than my appearance though, is that tug of magic.
“Liar,” he snorts. “Witch.”
He reaches for my hair again, and manages to brush to cheek with calloused hands before drawing back. He stares at me a few moments longer.
“Take it away,” he says.
I’m thrown unceremoniously back into the dungeon, with only my memories for company.