A Fairy Tale

[emmyette]

There was once a poor widow who lived in a lonely cottage. In front of the cottage was a garden wherein stood two rose-trees, one of which bore white and the other red roses. She had two children who were like the two rose-trees, and one was called Snow-white, and the other Rose- red. They were as good and happy, as busy and cheerful as ever two children in the world were, only Snow-white was more quiet and gentle than Rose-red. Rose-red liked better to run about in the meadows and fields seeking flowers and catching butterflies; but Snow-white sat at home with her mother, and helped her with her housework, or read to her when there was nothing to do...

--Snow White and Rose Red, The Brothers Grimm

~*~

Roses, a fairy tale retold

~*~

“Once Upon a Time,” that’s how this story should begin. But then, it should also end with “And they all lived Happily Ever After,” with those last three words capitalized for emphasis. But it doesn’t. End in “Happily Ever After,” I mean. Or, at least, that’ how it seems. But I’ve managed to tie up the loose ends and I promise you that at the end, everyone gets to live Happily Ever After.

My name is Lisa, short for Lisa-Marie, and I once heard this story from my mother, many years before she died. It’s about two girls, and I have been careful to confirm this story with my Auntie. Here, I have attempted to recreate the story, just as my mother told me all those years ago when I was a little girl. And now, I’ll begin the Tale of the Two Roses…

~*~

It starts with a girl. Well, really it starts with two girls, but I’m only interested in telling the story of the one; The Sweet One. Her name was Rose. She was beautiful; a beautiful, pale thing with blonde hair and sweet grey eyes and a mouth that was forever smiling, a shy, small, little thing who seemed almost waif-like—barely there. She rarely met your eyes, but when she did, hers spoke of unknown wisdoms, a fairy tale not yet told, a wish which had yet to be spoken. She very nearly relied entirely on the other girl to help her get by day to day. She lived next door to this other girl, The Other One, the Wild One, Rose Red in the City of Lost Angels, Los Angeles—L.A.

Called so because of her wild, unruly, red hair, which suited her personality like a glove, Rose Red was the one who took care of the other Rose—the transparent Rose, Rose White. She was intense and powerful. When her gaze held you, you could feel her raw power, her unbridled strength. Her mouth was stubborn, as was her attitude. She refused to take no for an answer to anything—unless it was the answer she wanted.

At first, they were best friends. Like Fire and Ice, War and Peace, Hate and Love, Ferocity and Gentleness. Total opposites but as close as humanely possible, and how could they not be? They lived next door, from the moment the Sweet One was brought home (because she was younger than the Wild One).
And so, they grew up together; like bosom buddies, best friends and sisters together. They vowed that they would never be apart. If only such promises could be held as true.

As the years went by, the two Roses grew apart. By the time they reached high school, the Sweet One (who went by Rose) had withdrawn and usually minded herself. Her drawings had won many awards and when people noticed her, because they usually didn’t, they complimented her on her hand-made clothes, which reflected an oddly Baroque or Rococo fashion style. The Wild One however grew to despise her name of Rose and went, instead, by her nickname, Red. She was a well known entity in their school, loud and boisterous and dramatic, not at all like her pale counterpart, the sweet, innocent Rose White. No, Red was head of the Drama Guild with almost failing grades and was known to hang out with a large crowd of friends on the edge of what was right and what was wrong.

They continued to live this way, apart, until the last day of the final year in high school. On that day, Red walked a formerly worn path between their two houses and knocked on Rose’s door. When she answered, she stared in shock at the sight of her former best friend.

“Come with me,” she said. “Come with me and recapture our childhood. Don’t you remember when we were close, like sisters? Let’s go and revisit the old woods.”

“I can’t,” began Rose. “I can’t because you once left me behind. If that should happen again, I would be lost forever.”

“I promise I won’t leave you. Just come with me. Come away with me.”

“Do I have a choice,” laughed the Pale One. “Haven’t I always done what you’ve asked?”

And so, they were off. Off to explore the woods they once knew so well, that they once knew as well as each other. However, they did not know each other that well. And they knew these woods less. Soon they were lost; wandering around in circles, roaming for hours upon hours on end. Until, far after dark, they stumbled upon a bungalow in the middle of the woods.

They knocked on the door, because, as everyone knows, you just don’t walk casually into a random bungalow that you find indiscriminately in the middle of the woods without knocking. No one answered, so the two girls walked in.

Inside, the cottage was chaotic and cluttered. Dirty dishes and filthy clothes cluttered the floor, furniture, and just about any and every surface that wasn’t covered with dust. In many of the places, the two shared spaces. The little chalet was entirely bathed in darkness. It seemed to cling to the fixtures, surround the corners, and choke out what little sunlight that tried to invade through the various windows and cracks in the architecture.

A noise from the darkness startled the two girls. They turned to face a large, dark, figure. All they could see of it were two glowing eyes and the only thing that they could ascertain of its figure was that it was large, and seemed to be even murkier than even the gloomiest corners of the small cottage. As it approached them, they gained a feeling of the power this creature held within himself. And, as he drew closer, the shape of this frightening figure revealed itself to be that of Damien Beare, the resident rebel “bad boy” at their school.

He seemed to be bathed in blood, so deep were the shadows; the darkness of its seemingly crimson coloring further darkening his already mostly black attire. His piercing eyes were darkened even further by the pain which echoed clearly through them. His usually beautiful features spoke of an ache which neither of the girls had ever had the misfortune of knowing.

He was gaunt, pale, and thin, with the appearance of a creature who hasn’t eaten in several days. And because of the shadows misleading appearance as blood, he presented a frightening idol.

At the sight of him, the girls gasped and stepped back, even brave Red who had never before backed down from any sort of frightening, unsettling, unfortunate event was afraid — until he spoke.

“Please, please don’t be afraid,” he pleaded of them. His voice, which was so contrasting to his fearsome appearance, left the girls filled with wonder for all the things it seemed to promise. It was soft, tender, sweet. It seemed to promise them the world, to claim to honor each of them forever on a high pedestal to which clearly they had been owed their entire lives but never given. His voice spoke of dreams, of peace and love and all things sane. It promised each of the world, all they ever wanted, simple things, great things, tender things.

And the girls believed it. They believed in all it promised so strongly, that they stayed. They helped Damien, the fiercest of all their school, to heal his broken heart. They took care of him and spent many days there, cleaning and mending and fixing so that all aspects of his life: his house, his dishes, his clothes, recovered along with his heart. And slowly, ever so slowly, things began to change.

Red noticed it, after a few weeks. The changes at first had been so small she hadn’t bothered to see them. But now, now they were glaringly obvious. She saw the way that Rose was no longer pale, how her eyes lit up when the Bear spoke. She saw how the Timid One had opened up, had blossomed in His presence, how she took greater care with her looks, that He might, with a stray smile, compliment her. She saw it all. And she despised it.

She hadn’t brought the Rose into these hate-filled woods to change things even more. She had brought her to make things right again. To recreate what once was. To change things back to the way things were. Instead, they were growing farther and farther apart.

Apart—what they had promised never to be, never to become. And now they were. School days, old friendships, all of their former childhood innocence, it was all gone, lost forever. Like the blanket they had been attempting to embroider together when they were younger and had wanted to learn to sew and create beautiful things. Rose White had surpassed her in that and now she surpassed her in all things where once all would have said she had failed.

Hadn’t Red created this monster, this beast, this thorn, which threatened to steal all which was sane from her? And now, now this fiend threatened to steal all which she had longed for. She wanted to destroy it, to tear it apart, to once again place it in that hateful pit in which she had helped it from. And yet, yet she longed to appease it, to make it happy once more. For this hateful thing was still her beloved Rose White.

And so she kept silent. The quietness of it all was killing her, yet she held her tongue and smiled and nodded and encouraged when the undemanding Rose asked it of her. And, even though it broke her heart, when the bright flower that had become of her Rose and the Prince who had hidden as the Bear announced their engagement, she beamed, if only for their sake.

And so that is how it ends; the sad, true story of the Rose White and the Rose Red. Rose White and Damien, the Prince formerly a Bear, got married and had a joyful life together. Rose Red, sick with grief over her lost friend, left L.A. She moved away and met a man. Together, they started a business which grew and prospered. And they had a daughter. They named her after Red’s childhood friend, and even today, that baby girl, who grew up into a graceful lady, is a beautiful Rose. The perfect mix of her mother and her dear Auntie—the immortal Rose White--she is proud and strong, creative and intuitive. But most of all, she is filled with love.

~*~

And that’s how it ends. I’m told this is the story of how an amazing girl got her name. When I asked my Auntie who the girl was, she told me that I knew her. Actually, she told me that I knew her as well as I knew myself. And that is how I know the ending to this story.

Rose White married Damien Beare and, years later, Rose Redding met and married her own Prince. They named their only daughter after her dear, childhood friend. And that’s me, Lisa-Marie Rose Andrews. My Auntie is Rose White, and for years I had heard her story without knowing the truth. But now, I do--as do all of you. And I can honestly say that they all lived Happily Ever After.

The End.