Page 45 of How To Survive This Fairytale

If he doesn’t want you to speak, to protest—fine.

If he wants, but doesn’t want, your heart—… fine.

“That’s not the way it should be,” he says.“You shouldn’t wake up next to me every morning knowing I’d leave you in a heartbeat if it meant I could be a swan again.I care about you too much to make you feel that way.”

You’d half-hoped for this.You dreamt of your bloody hand staining his white feathers, and it was nearly enough to make you leave for good.Now he’s made certain you can’t ruin him, and you should be glad because you wanted him to push you away, reject you.

You wanted this.It’s better this way.

wait.that can’t be how this story ends.let me try again.

Other people make their choices.

Other people write their stories.

You cannot make him change his story,

even if it changes yours.

Thirty-Three

Chopping wood.Selling wood.Aim a little higher, Red.Eating a full meal, and not wanting to vomit afterwards.Teaching your niece and nephew how to read the stars.Hans, don’t let anything happen to them in the woods, all right?I don’t want to go through the trouble of making another heir for this kingdom.Building a downstairs bedroom for Granny.Chopping all the wood for it yourself.Red, you’re aiming at the dirt.Seeing Cyrus, by chance, in the marketplace.Not seeing Cyrus anywhere else.Hans, whatever happened between you and my brother, you’re my brother, too.Fixing up the oven in your new house.Sweating the whole time, thinking of Gretel.I’m not in danger from the witch, the witch can’t hurt me now.Building a porch railing so Granny can get up her front stairs.Dreaming about a lake of blood, scalloped by sunlight, your body waist deep.Red— I know, Hans, okay?Deciding you don’t needhappily ever after.Decidingpeacefully ever afterwould be generous enough.Hans, do you remember when we were little, all the drawings?Somehow, I still had some of them.Look at these.Eating half a meal, and hearing the witch’s voice in your head.Not vomiting, even though you think it would make you feel better, because you know it won’t make anything better.I don’t know what happened to the witch that cursed me, Hans, but if I did… If I did, what would I even do?Chopping wood.Selling wood.Uncle Hans, will you play horsey with us?Finding Cyrus waiting for you outside your front door.Looking at him, not knowing what to say.Will you come visit after you’ve had supper tonight?Agreeing.Going.I miss you.Not speaking.Not looking at him.I miss you too.Chopping wood.Selling wood.Sometimes I wish I could go back, and start that day all over again, and never talk to the wolf.Correcting her aim.I’d make other choices, and then maybe we never would have been eaten by the wolf to begin with.Correcting her aim.If you want a story to end differently, then it has to start differently, right?

Looking at Red.

Really looking at her, and seeing that despite how much she’s grown, she still relives that day, over and over again.

“Sometimes, no matter what choices you make, the story always ends the same.”

Wishing you had something better to tell her.

Wishing it even more when you see the defiant clench of her jaw.

“I don’t believe that at all.”

Smiling and meaning it.

Kissing the crown of her head.

“I hope you never do.”

Thirty-Four

“Maybe we’re justbitter and old,” says Gertrude, “because I don’t see a way for either of us to ever have made different choices.I don’t see how it ends differently, Hans.”

Neither do you, but maybe that’s because neither of you are trying.You’ve lived in your stories for so long you can’t see what details are malleable.You inhale deeply, taking autumn into your lungs.As you and Gertrude walk forward through a maze of royal hedges, you take yourself back to the start.

“Let’s say: My father doesn’t abandon me and my sister in the woods.”

Gertrude peers up at you.“I forgot you had a sister.What was her name?”

“Gretel.”

The thing you love about Gertrude is she doesn’t ask what happened.She doesn’t want to vivisect a tragedy—she accepts it, categorizes it into her understanding, and moves on.

“Good thing she died,” she says.“Her name’s similar to mine, it would have gotten confusing if she’d lived.”

You grin, but she maintains a delightfully straight face.The only hint of her humor is the wicked sparkle in her eye.