We were not well-behaved children and Mother was an inattentive drunkard who hardly seemed to notice our altercations. We lived apart from the village in a little cottage badly in need of repair, but it was widely known that the two sisters, one as dark as sin, the other as white as snow, hated each other. Our greatest joy was in tormenting the other and we were endlessly imaginative toward that end.
I found Snow one day stoning my pet rabbit to death. It was squealing shrilly, a thin sound but one that carried clearly. I was too late to stop her. When I arrived, the noise had stopped and it lay still on the ground, quiet, trickles of blood making crooked paths in its white fur. Snow looked up at me, smiling triumphantly. "I wanted to see if rabbits made sounds," she said airily. Snow tossed the remaining rocks in her hand onto the ground and walked away. I remained crouched by the dead rabbit and watched her leave.
That night, when Snow was asleep, I lit a candle that blazed white in the darkness and crept up to her with a pair of scissors. Holding the candle close for light, I squeezed the scissors closed on the thick white-blond braid. That much I meant to do and I do not deny the satisfaction I had from watching it drop onto the floor like a discarded length of rough rope. But the blood red ribbon that had been woven through her hair flapped loose and caught the flame of the candle and dropped on the nape of her neck.
I never forgot the smell of burning flesh. She thrashed and shrieked, and I found myself unable to act with the speed I should have. For a moment, I was still with shock, watching the fire turn her young, white skin first red, then black. But at last I smothered it with a heavy blanket and Snow lay sobbing in her bed, the burn on her neck bloody and beginning to blister. Mother never woke from her drunken stupor.
I was whipped publicly, and of all the spectators, I remember only how Snow looked, with scarlet ribbons in her short hair, a white bandage at her pale neck, and a slight smile on her face as she watched me. I clenched my teeth and never made a sound, though the black leather whip turned my thin white shift and back into a mass of bloody ribbons.
Life from that point on for me in the village was torturous. They whispered that I was the evil, jealous sister who had tried to burn her own sweet sister to death, that I was the devil incarnate, that I was sin itself. Mother died; I was blamed. Snow went to live with her friends in the town and I remained, all alone, in our old house.
It was a relief when Snow left the town, a few years later. The taunts, without her presence to feed them, began to die. I heard fantastic rumors that Snow had the attentions of the prince, that she was shortly to become the land’s princess. I believed it idle gossip and paid no attention.
It was no longer possible to do so when a carriage with armed guards trampled over my garden to alight in front of my door. They made it clear I had no choice but to go with them. I was taken to the castle in my homespun clothes. The castle was filled with clear, well-educated voices and lit with the colors of rich fabric, and I saw that it was a wedding day celebration. I was taken into a great hall filled with nobles, and across the room, attired in white brocade with a crown set with rubies, was Snow. Our eyes met and she nodded briefly, pleasantly. A pair of iron shoes was brought out of the great hearth, red with heat.
Snow stood up in her rustling majestic gown and the crowd hushed. She pointed to me and a thousand hostile eyes turned to stare at me. "This is my own sister, who has never been anything but cruel to me," Snow cried. "She killed our mother and tried to burn me to death when she was only a child. When she knows the pain I suffered, my happiness will be complete." The people watched in silent fascination.
I was made to step into the red hot slippers. As I had long ago, I heard the sizzle of frying skin—my own. I smelled the smell of burning skin—my own. I wanted to scream, to kick off the iron slippers. The pain was indescribable; it blocked off every other sensation. I was held up, or I would have fallen. Through watering eyes, I looked up to see Snow, straight and fair and smiling, blood red ribbons lavishly entwined in her hair. I was made to dance, blackened feet in glowing red slippers, and the wedding guests continued to look at me. My vision began to cloud over with the pain of my burning feet, but I could still see Snow clearly, though everything else was fogged with a pale red mist. She was still standing and watching me, waiting for me to scream. I refused to oblige her. I bit my lip until it bled, little ribbons of crimson blood trailing down my chin. The break through which I could see Snow slowly closed and gray enveloped me. In my mind, I saw her still, as beautiful as I was ugly, as fair as I was dark. In my mind, she smiled and I knew no more.
This is obviously a retelling of Snow White, but more than that, I always wanted to know how such a sweet creature like Snow White could condemn her stepmother to such an awful torture. The only really plausible explanation I could come up with was revenge. And then the character of Snow White would necessarily have to be rather different. But I mostly got the idea when I stupidly burned myself ironing. I also tried to work in color motifs-- repeated images of red, black and white.
