Revenge
“Here’s the birthday girl!”
The slender, blond haired girl screamed. She whipped around and stared at the boy who’d scared her, her blues eyes wide with anger. Her face instantly softened when she saw who it was, but she still kept her eyes narrowed. She playfully slapped him on the arm.
“Don’t scare me like that,” she chided, taking a step forward so she didn’t crush the roses she was tending to beneath her red gardening boots. She always grew the best roses; her mother said she had the greenest thumb on earth. She smiled up at the dark haired boy and allowed him to slip his arms around her waist and pull her close. Henry had been her best friend since the day they stumbled into each other in the woods near her parents’ summer cottage. They’d become instant friends, and as the years grew, more. It was their second year of being together, and anyone with eyes could see that they were had something definitely deeper than strong, mutual affection.
“What are you doing here so early?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to picking me up around eight?” Rose looked pointedly up at the sky. Right now it had only just passed noon. Henry shrugged.
“Well, what if I had a pre-birthday dinner surprise for you?” Rose raised an eyebrow. “Then I guess I better come with you, then,” she said, allowing Henry to take her by the hand and lead her towards his house. Henry’s parents’ house was enormous; at least three times the size of her own. It was no wonder, since she was neighbors with the prince of a small nation.
Henry led her through the massive foyer, up flights of stairs to the third floor, and into his room. He rummaged through a drawer in his bedside table and brought forth a small, green wrapped box with a red satin ribbon. He waited silently while Rose carefully removed the wrapping paper and opened a small, black jewelry box. When she lifted the top, she gasped.
“Do you like it?” Henry asked hesitantly.
“Oh my…oh my god, Henry,” she said, bringing her hand to her mouth. “It’s beautiful. I love it!” Rose allowed Henry to take the slender silver ring from its box and place it on Rose’s ring finger. Vine carvings were engraved into the ring, twisting around in looping patterns.
“Someday soon,” Henry said, lifting Rose’s head so that her eyes met his. “Happy sixteenth birthday, Rose,” he said, bending down and touching his lips to hers. Rose couldn’t think of a better birthday in her life.
~ **** ~
The time was seven thirty, and Rose’s birthday dinner was to start in thirty minutes. She stood in Henry’s room, wearing the birthday gown her mother had surprised her with this morning. It was the color of cornflowers, with a neckline just to the edge of her shoulders and a flaring skirt. She bounced up and down with anticipation and excitement, waiting for Henry to return from a conversation with his father downstairs in the library. She’d been in Henry’s monstrous house so many times, but she could never figure out the twist and turns of the place. She heard footsteps quickly approaching, and she automatically straightened, smoothing out her dress. The footsteps came, but they stopped abruptly, right outside the door.
“Henry?” she called, stepping out into the hallway. She expected to see Henry, or at least someone in his family. Instead there was a haze, a sort of shimmering light only visible if she concentrated. Directly down the hallway was a door, a heavy dungeon looking contraption flung wide open. Rose had never seen it before; there had always been nothing there but solid wall. Obviously someone didn’t want anyone to know it was there since it had been hidden for so long, but Rose felt inexplicably drawn to it. Before she knew it, she had taken several steps towards it, and couldn’t stop herself from walking all the way to the door.
Rose touched her fingertips to the rough surface of the door. Something incredibly ominous was behind; she could feel it. Without a second thought she suddenly found herself on the other side, standing in some long forgotten cave of a room, laden with dust. The walls were bare stone; a single, giant table rested at the front of the room. A massive hourglass sat on the table, the delicate glass surrounded by silver casing that curled like thorned vines. Rose was stung with a sense of familiarity, but she couldn’t place it. She turned her head, and she saw it.
A single window at the far end of the room poured evening moonlight onto a giagantic spindle. While everything else was choked in dust, the spindle and the small area around it looked as if it had just been placed there. Rose gravitated towards it automatically. As she got closer, she realized there was something dark and wet on the end of the pointed spindle. Blood. Rose jumped just as her hand started to reach towards the spindle. She screamed in her head to stop, stop, STOP. But it was too late. She watched helplessly as her finger pricked against the sharpness of the spindle. There was a flash, something black and horrid, like smoke and fire, and she was gone.
~****~
Henry rounded the corner and peeked in his bedroom for the twentieth time.
“Rose?” he called again. Henry had returned twenty minutes earlier to find that Rose was gone. She hadn’t picked up on her cell phone, and she was nowhere to be found in the house. Henry had gotten progressively anxious as the evening went on.
“Rose?” he called, panicked. He backed you of his room and turned, and then he saw it. An open door, curiously out of place. Henry had never seen it before, but for some reason it rang a vague bell. He strode over to it, knowing, just knowing somehow that Rose would be on the other side. He pushed the door open and surveyed the room.
“Rose?” No Rose, just a dark, empty room save a giant table, an hourglass, a book, and an odd, out of place spindle, broken down and covered in dust. Something dark dripped from the tip of the spindle. Henry stared at the spindle for only a moment, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the thick, heavy bound volume on the table.
It was fresh, despite everything else in the room, as if someone had carelessly left it only seconds ago. Henry approached it, and quickly recognized the title. Sleeping Beauty. Henry knew it; it was the first tale his parents had ever told him. An evil sorceress Maleficent entranced Aurora to prick her finger on a spindle, which put her into a deep sleep. Only a kiss from Aurora’s true love, the prince, would save her. But why, Henry wondered, was the book randomly sitting here? He reached out, and as soon as his fingertips brushed the book’s surface, a shock ran through him, white hot and blinding. When Henry regained his vision, he felt his heart pounding, but it didn’t feel like his own. Something else inhabited his body, pushing him out the door and towards the woods.
~****~
Henry ran as fast as he could. He tore through the woods, passing by Rose’s garden as he went. Something was wrong with the roses; thick ivy had climbed the walls, thorns piercing through black petals. The woods were so dark he could barely see, but some force pulled him in the right direction. There was the screech of an owl, the angry chittering of squirrels. He ran so hard his lungs felt as if they were about to burst, and then suddenly he came upon it.
Rose’s parents’ summer cottage was choked with vines, jutting with even bigger thorns. Lightning flashed, followed by a startling crack of thunder. Henry threw the door open to the cottage. “Rose!” he screamed. She was nowhere. Instead there was only a long glass box in the center of the cottage, the top made of translucent glass. Henry peered into the glass.
Bones. Bones and hair and dust. A coffin.
Henry noticed a nameplate, barely visible. He brushed his hand against it and read the name. Briar Rose. Briar Rose. The name reverberated in his head a million times a minute. Briar Rose Briar Rose Briar Rose. And then, he saw it. Memories racing through his head at lightning speed. A grandfather with too many greats in front of his name: Philip. Fighting his way to the castle where his beloved lay dying. Maleficent’s words ran through his head:
If you do not reach her when the clock strikes midnight, she will be lost to you forever.
Briar Rose sleeping on her bed, dying slowly from the poison on the spindle. The vines swallowing Philip up, thorns piercing his flesh. Too late. Briar Rose dead, pale and cold. Briar Rose. Briar Rose. Sleeping Beauty’s real name was…
“Philip.” Another thunderous crash sounded overhead. Henry turned slowly.
“Rose,” he gasped when he saw her, truly saw her. She was in her peasant clothes, the ones she was in when they had first met by this very cottage centuries ago. But it was slashed in many places, torn along her corset and her skirts. Two jagged scars ran through both of her cheeks, and two more slashed through her lips, gruesome and black. Her eyes were rimmed with black, dripping down her face as if she’d been crying, the broken ends of stitches along her lashes as if her eyes had been previously sown shut. Her hair was just as golden as the day he first saw her, but her cyan blue eyes held no warmth for him. She stared at him with murderous hatred.
“Is this what you wanted?” she asked. Henry frowned. Her voice was the same, but wasn’t. There was no trace of the Rose he knew. And when he spoke, it wasn’t his voice any longer, but the voice of Philip.
“Rose,” he began.
“No!” she screamed, and the cottage shook as another thunderous crash sounded through the sky. “You left me! You left me to die!”
“I didn’t leave you to die!” Philip protested.
Rose didn’t seem to hear him. She cocked her head to the side and studied him. “I cursed you, you know,” she said, grinning viciously. Henry said nothing, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. “I cursed you,” she repeated. “When I died, when you left me to die, a lot of Maleficent’s magic was left over. My spirit rose from my body and I cursed you. For generations to come, your spirit would reincarnate in your ancestors until you met me again. Another daughter, born of my mother’s blood, would prick her finger on her sixteenth birthday, and her body would open up to my spirit. And I would inhabit it.”
Henry was speechless. He watched as a massive owl hurtled through the door of the cottage and perched itself upon her shoulder with a screech, training its eyes wickedly on him. “Are you ready Philip? Are you ready for my revenge?” Rose took a step forward. The owl gave out another screech and beat its wings powerfully. Rose came towards him, stopping directly in front of him.
“Rose,” Philip said, disbelieving.
“Just as you murdered me, I shall repay tenfold.” The owl was silent. Rose reached her hand up to his face and cupped his cheek. Something passed over her scarred face, something almost akin to affection.
“Rose,” he whispered one last time.
“Goodbye Philip,” she said. The owl screeched and was upon him.
And then it was done.
“Here’s the birthday girl!”
The slender, blond haired girl screamed. She whipped around and stared at the boy who’d scared her, her blues eyes wide with anger. Her face instantly softened when she saw who it was, but she still kept her eyes narrowed. She playfully slapped him on the arm.
“Don’t scare me like that,” she chided, taking a step forward so she didn’t crush the roses she was tending to beneath her red gardening boots. She always grew the best roses; her mother said she had the greenest thumb on earth. She smiled up at the dark haired boy and allowed him to slip his arms around her waist and pull her close. Henry had been her best friend since the day they stumbled into each other in the woods near her parents’ summer cottage. They’d become instant friends, and as the years grew, more. It was their second year of being together, and anyone with eyes could see that they were had something definitely deeper than strong, mutual affection.
“What are you doing here so early?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to picking me up around eight?” Rose looked pointedly up at the sky. Right now it had only just passed noon. Henry shrugged.
“Well, what if I had a pre-birthday dinner surprise for you?” Rose raised an eyebrow. “Then I guess I better come with you, then,” she said, allowing Henry to take her by the hand and lead her towards his house. Henry’s parents’ house was enormous; at least three times the size of her own. It was no wonder, since she was neighbors with the prince of a small nation.
Henry led her through the massive foyer, up flights of stairs to the third floor, and into his room. He rummaged through a drawer in his bedside table and brought forth a small, green wrapped box with a red satin ribbon. He waited silently while Rose carefully removed the wrapping paper and opened a small, black jewelry box. When she lifted the top, she gasped.
“Do you like it?” Henry asked hesitantly.
“Oh my…oh my god, Henry,” she said, bringing her hand to her mouth. “It’s beautiful. I love it!” Rose allowed Henry to take the slender silver ring from its box and place it on Rose’s ring finger. Vine carvings were engraved into the ring, twisting around in looping patterns.
“Someday soon,” Henry said, lifting Rose’s head so that her eyes met his. “Happy sixteenth birthday, Rose,” he said, bending down and touching his lips to hers. Rose couldn’t think of a better birthday in her life.
~ **** ~
The time was seven thirty, and Rose’s birthday dinner was to start in thirty minutes. She stood in Henry’s room, wearing the birthday gown her mother had surprised her with this morning. It was the color of cornflowers, with a neckline just to the edge of her shoulders and a flaring skirt. She bounced up and down with anticipation and excitement, waiting for Henry to return from a conversation with his father downstairs in the library. She’d been in Henry’s monstrous house so many times, but she could never figure out the twist and turns of the place. She heard footsteps quickly approaching, and she automatically straightened, smoothing out her dress. The footsteps came, but they stopped abruptly, right outside the door.
“Henry?” she called, stepping out into the hallway. She expected to see Henry, or at least someone in his family. Instead there was a haze, a sort of shimmering light only visible if she concentrated. Directly down the hallway was a door, a heavy dungeon looking contraption flung wide open. Rose had never seen it before; there had always been nothing there but solid wall. Obviously someone didn’t want anyone to know it was there since it had been hidden for so long, but Rose felt inexplicably drawn to it. Before she knew it, she had taken several steps towards it, and couldn’t stop herself from walking all the way to the door.
Rose touched her fingertips to the rough surface of the door. Something incredibly ominous was behind; she could feel it. Without a second thought she suddenly found herself on the other side, standing in some long forgotten cave of a room, laden with dust. The walls were bare stone; a single, giant table rested at the front of the room. A massive hourglass sat on the table, the delicate glass surrounded by silver casing that curled like thorned vines. Rose was stung with a sense of familiarity, but she couldn’t place it. She turned her head, and she saw it.
A single window at the far end of the room poured evening moonlight onto a giagantic spindle. While everything else was choked in dust, the spindle and the small area around it looked as if it had just been placed there. Rose gravitated towards it automatically. As she got closer, she realized there was something dark and wet on the end of the pointed spindle. Blood. Rose jumped just as her hand started to reach towards the spindle. She screamed in her head to stop, stop, STOP. But it was too late. She watched helplessly as her finger pricked against the sharpness of the spindle. There was a flash, something black and horrid, like smoke and fire, and she was gone.
~****~
Henry rounded the corner and peeked in his bedroom for the twentieth time.
“Rose?” he called again. Henry had returned twenty minutes earlier to find that Rose was gone. She hadn’t picked up on her cell phone, and she was nowhere to be found in the house. Henry had gotten progressively anxious as the evening went on.
“Rose?” he called, panicked. He backed you of his room and turned, and then he saw it. An open door, curiously out of place. Henry had never seen it before, but for some reason it rang a vague bell. He strode over to it, knowing, just knowing somehow that Rose would be on the other side. He pushed the door open and surveyed the room.
“Rose?” No Rose, just a dark, empty room save a giant table, an hourglass, a book, and an odd, out of place spindle, broken down and covered in dust. Something dark dripped from the tip of the spindle. Henry stared at the spindle for only a moment, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the thick, heavy bound volume on the table.
It was fresh, despite everything else in the room, as if someone had carelessly left it only seconds ago. Henry approached it, and quickly recognized the title. Sleeping Beauty. Henry knew it; it was the first tale his parents had ever told him. An evil sorceress Maleficent entranced Aurora to prick her finger on a spindle, which put her into a deep sleep. Only a kiss from Aurora’s true love, the prince, would save her. But why, Henry wondered, was the book randomly sitting here? He reached out, and as soon as his fingertips brushed the book’s surface, a shock ran through him, white hot and blinding. When Henry regained his vision, he felt his heart pounding, but it didn’t feel like his own. Something else inhabited his body, pushing him out the door and towards the woods.
~****~
Henry ran as fast as he could. He tore through the woods, passing by Rose’s garden as he went. Something was wrong with the roses; thick ivy had climbed the walls, thorns piercing through black petals. The woods were so dark he could barely see, but some force pulled him in the right direction. There was the screech of an owl, the angry chittering of squirrels. He ran so hard his lungs felt as if they were about to burst, and then suddenly he came upon it.
Rose’s parents’ summer cottage was choked with vines, jutting with even bigger thorns. Lightning flashed, followed by a startling crack of thunder. Henry threw the door open to the cottage. “Rose!” he screamed. She was nowhere. Instead there was only a long glass box in the center of the cottage, the top made of translucent glass. Henry peered into the glass.
Bones. Bones and hair and dust. A coffin.
Henry noticed a nameplate, barely visible. He brushed his hand against it and read the name. Briar Rose. Briar Rose. The name reverberated in his head a million times a minute. Briar Rose Briar Rose Briar Rose. And then, he saw it. Memories racing through his head at lightning speed. A grandfather with too many greats in front of his name: Philip. Fighting his way to the castle where his beloved lay dying. Maleficent’s words ran through his head:
If you do not reach her when the clock strikes midnight, she will be lost to you forever.
Briar Rose sleeping on her bed, dying slowly from the poison on the spindle. The vines swallowing Philip up, thorns piercing his flesh. Too late. Briar Rose dead, pale and cold. Briar Rose. Briar Rose. Sleeping Beauty’s real name was…
“Philip.” Another thunderous crash sounded overhead. Henry turned slowly.
“Rose,” he gasped when he saw her, truly saw her. She was in her peasant clothes, the ones she was in when they had first met by this very cottage centuries ago. But it was slashed in many places, torn along her corset and her skirts. Two jagged scars ran through both of her cheeks, and two more slashed through her lips, gruesome and black. Her eyes were rimmed with black, dripping down her face as if she’d been crying, the broken ends of stitches along her lashes as if her eyes had been previously sown shut. Her hair was just as golden as the day he first saw her, but her cyan blue eyes held no warmth for him. She stared at him with murderous hatred.
“Is this what you wanted?” she asked. Henry frowned. Her voice was the same, but wasn’t. There was no trace of the Rose he knew. And when he spoke, it wasn’t his voice any longer, but the voice of Philip.
“Rose,” he began.
“No!” she screamed, and the cottage shook as another thunderous crash sounded through the sky. “You left me! You left me to die!”
“I didn’t leave you to die!” Philip protested.
Rose didn’t seem to hear him. She cocked her head to the side and studied him. “I cursed you, you know,” she said, grinning viciously. Henry said nothing, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. “I cursed you,” she repeated. “When I died, when you left me to die, a lot of Maleficent’s magic was left over. My spirit rose from my body and I cursed you. For generations to come, your spirit would reincarnate in your ancestors until you met me again. Another daughter, born of my mother’s blood, would prick her finger on her sixteenth birthday, and her body would open up to my spirit. And I would inhabit it.”
Henry was speechless. He watched as a massive owl hurtled through the door of the cottage and perched itself upon her shoulder with a screech, training its eyes wickedly on him. “Are you ready Philip? Are you ready for my revenge?” Rose took a step forward. The owl gave out another screech and beat its wings powerfully. Rose came towards him, stopping directly in front of him.
“Rose,” Philip said, disbelieving.
“Just as you murdered me, I shall repay tenfold.” The owl was silent. Rose reached her hand up to his face and cupped his cheek. Something passed over her scarred face, something almost akin to affection.
“Rose,” he whispered one last time.
“Goodbye Philip,” she said. The owl screeched and was upon him.
And then it was done.
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