CW: internalized homophobia
Fairytales were stories woven from children’s imaginations: a little boy’s dreams of conquering a dragon in a knight costume made from cardboard boxes; a princess-clad child’s tea party and her wish for a dashing Prince Charming; or a maiden at slumber, only awakening after a true love’s kiss. Fairytales were figments of augmented reality where everything was always happier, never succumbing to life’s hellish sensibilities. Fairytales were the silver linings of a dark cloud only children could see. Fairytales weren’t real, and Quin had known this.
Quin sat at the small dining table, staring at the plate of jam-covered, burnt toast in front of her. The pounding in her head spiked dully, and her vision kept blurring, re-focusing, then blurring again.
It’s fine. Her parents were out, and they wouldn’t be back for a while. It’ll be fine.
Quin glanced at the bowl of prayer verses in the middle of the table—used during family dinners for prayer—looked back down, and finally pushed away her plate with a sigh as another wave of nerves fizzled in her chest.
A sudden buzz from the phone next to the plate caught her attention. Quin answered, too nauseous to check who the caller was.
“Quin?”
“Isabel! Hi, what’s up?” Quin cringed internally at her voice cracking.
Footsteps sounded from the other end. “I’ll be at your house in a few seconds. Are you ready to leave yet?”
“Um—yeah!” Quin scrambled to eat her foul breakfast, barely chewing each bite before hastily swallowing. “Of course I am.”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t just eating breakfast. You would’ve skipped if I didn’t call you just now.”
“You really know me too well,” Quin laughed, slipping on a thick jacket over her sweatshirt. “But can’t you tell me where we’re going already?”
“Quin, darling, I said it was a surprise. You’ll find out soon enough.” The footsteps halted. “I’m here now. Better hurry up.”
Quin quickly hung up and opened the door after anxiously smoothing over her hair one last time. Isabel stood under the roof, her golden, wavy hair trailing in rivulets against her off-white turtleneck and paired caramel knit cardigan, down to the hem of her plaid skirt. Quin gave her a quick peck on the cheek, grinning fondly.
“Let’s go?” Isabel held out a hand.
Quin took it. “Lead the way, princess.”
—
Quin didn’t know she’d be driving home alone with a shameful, red handprint on her swollen cheek, but the sting she felt was minuscule compared to the blistering humiliation that wormed around in her skin.
Quin couldn’t have known. She couldn’t have—but she did. There was no one to blame but herself, and Quin was fully aware of what her parents’ reactions would be if they found out.
She could still vividly remember the look of utter disappointment sketched on her father’s face—her mother’s raucous cries and embarrassing prayers directed skyward despite being in a public place. She remembered trying to rebel—for once—head held high in defiance, trembling hands, voice thinner than spiderwebs. But everything seemed to fall apart right as her father’s hand struck her face. And Quin had sprinted back to her car after a quiet apology directed at Isabel, neck bent low to avoid any pitying eyes.
The garage door groaned as Quin stopped the car before bolting into the house. Darkness bathed the surroundings, and Quin wiped her eyes as she numbly walked through the dining room.
Something shone on the dining table—moonlight reflected across its surface. The bowl filled with prayers, carved into paper figures, innocently sat on the blood-red tablecloth. Their paper halos gleamed; their little wings seemed to twinkle.
With shaky hands and tears cascading down her face, Quin reached for the bowl of verses and stumbled through the empty house. The floor seemed to bend and stretch, boards creaking slowly under pressure with each step. Quin passed the hall—decorated with family photos, and one or two mirrors gleamed against the gray, monotonous wallpaper. She ascended the carpeted stairs, clutching the bowl like a lifeline. She passed a bathroom, her parents’ bedroom, and a closet before she stopped at her room door.
Quin simply…stood there.
Her mind seemed barren, frozen, stuck somewhere between panic and shock. Her hands shook—raw and slippery against the bowl’s smooth clay surface.
But Quin knew it was over.
That something priceless was stolen from her, and the emptiness would be eternal. Her crown of thorns.
Quin let it sink in. She let it eviscerate her—let it boil her alive—as she crumpled to the ground like a rag doll. Finally, she lifted the bowl and dumped out its contents, watching the angels flutter down.
A slip of paper glowed dimly in the dark hallway. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.”
A rip and Quin coughed, the paper scraping against her throat as she swallowed.
Another slip of paper. Another faint angelic glow. “Scarcely had I passed them when I found her whom my soul loves.”
Verse after verse, Quin consumed them slowly, deliberately, while tears bled from her eyes. When it wasn’t enough, Quin ingested multiple at a time, teeth tearing them apart. A few turned into handfuls as she harshly shoved them down her throat.
It burned. Everything burned.
Swallow after swallow after swallow—she downed them all. Her lips stung from numerous paper cuts, and a metallic tang dusted her tongue when she licked them.
Quin felt equally torn apart as her prayers. Her throat was sore. Her mouth was bleeding. But Quin knew better now.
Fairytales weren’t real. They never would be.
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