Wolf - "Little Red Riding Hood" retelling

[tigriswolf]

Title: Wolf
Fandom: Little Red Riding Hood
Disclaimer: I didn't think up the fairy tale.
Warnings: spoilers for the basic story.  Implied child abuse.  Implied pedophilia.
Pairings: glance above and ponder
Rating: R
Wordcount: 500
Point of view: third and first
Notes: There is a line from “Romeo and Juliet” in here. Belongs to Shakespeare, or whoever owns his plays now.

 

A plague on both your houses!
So said him as he died.

She wears a cloak of fury and fire,
hiding her drab moth-wings and porcelain skin.
The hood is always up, shielding her ebon-straw hair
from the harsh elements that will fade it further
away from that raven's-wing it used to be.

And the wind howls, 
shrieking through the trees, 
and you run, little one, 
but you’ll never escape me.

Momma doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know;
and eyes can’t see what the mind won’t acknowledge.
So Momma just sews and sews, blind to the
fallen child across the dinner table.
And Papa, oh Papa, she’s still his little girl,
but she stopped being little long ago.

A plague on both your houses! 
He was her favorite from that story,
and oh, how he died.

The forest is cold as she trudges through it;
her feet shuffle in the freezing snow.
She kicked off her slippers back at the house,
and now she curses such foolishness.
She clutches her threadbare cloak,
torn and unraveling and not warm at all,
closer about her shoulders.
The ruby bled from it long ago.

Come closer, little one, 
run your fingers through my hair. 
Do not fear me, my dear, 
for you’ll never escape.

A plague on both your houses! 
It echoes in her head, his dying curse,
and she whispers it to herself,
hurrying through the darkened woods.

Papa smiles sadly at Momma, pulling her close.
She lies in his arms, silent tears on her face.
She clutches his shirt, mutters a plea,
and he says, Forgive me.
Momma shakes her head, sobs harder,
and Papa presses a kiss to her hair.

Her footsteps fade into the snow.
Threads of a crimson cloak flutter in the icy breeze,
threads with no cape to be seen.
Here a faded hair, there a faded hair,
and look! There a bloodstain.
She wore that cloak to hide her drab moth-wings,
to shield herself from the world and its pain—
and look.
There, do you see?
Momma sewed that cape
and Momma carried her to term
and Momma now weeps in Papa’s arms,
because the Wolf, as always, has won.

She was Papa’s little girl.
But she stopped being little long ago.
And her cloak of fury and fire could not mask the experience.
She was Papa’s little girl.
and what’s his stays his.

A plague on both your houses! 
If she’d had last words, they’d be the same as his.

And the wind moans, 
sighing through the trees, 
and you cry, little one, 
for you’ve finally sated me.

The Wolf licked his lips
and his fangs glistened in the moonlight.
The Wolf laughed and dug a hole
for her fragile little bones.

Comments

[o-glorianna.livejournal.com]

Ah! So it was what I thought. :D

Here's another part I really like: the tattered cape Little Red Riding Hood's mother made for her whose colour bled out long ago. Like her mother's love, the cape is insubstantial, threadbare and worn...