The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-03 02:51 pm
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-03 02:51 pm
Entry tags:
When going to hide, know how to get there
June 11, 2017 (later):
It might all be nonsense -- she's thought of that. She's found Jack and Rapunzel and Cinderella and the Girl with the Cape in story books, and none of it has been quite what she expected. None of it has been a perfect match. There's no reason to think that her own story has somehow survived intact, down to the last detail. Maybe it's been mangled and twisted over the years. Maybe there have been mistranslations.
Maybe people changed things on purpose. It's not as if 'a Baker's Wife lies, swindles, and cheats her way through a magical Wood, gets the child she wants, and lives happily ever after' is the sort of tale people would want to tell their children. Stories are supposed to teach lessons, and lessons are supposed to be things like 'behave yourself -- or else.' They're supposed to teach children how to be good, not practical, or satisfied.
She hadn't gone into the Woods to be good.
But no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that it's all some sort of ghastly editing choice, she can't quite believe it. She remembers how it had felt, standing at Sam's window and looking straight down. The terror that she was about to fall had been sudden and visceral and familiar in a way she had refused to examine. Now, she knows why.
She wishes--
--no. No more wishes. Look where the last one got her.
God, if she can just hold herself together until she gets back to her apartment, then... she can't think about what then. She just has to get there without making a scene, without being the madwoman everyone else tries to politely ignore. Oh, don't mind me, I just found out that I'm technically dead, that's all.
She feels as if she might laugh, or be sick, she doesn't know which. She has to stop for a moment and grab the back of a bench to steady herself, her other hand pressed to her midriff, as if to make sure she isn't literally falling apart.
But she isn't. She's fine. She's fine.
It might all be nonsense -- she's thought of that. She's found Jack and Rapunzel and Cinderella and the Girl with the Cape in story books, and none of it has been quite what she expected. None of it has been a perfect match. There's no reason to think that her own story has somehow survived intact, down to the last detail. Maybe it's been mangled and twisted over the years. Maybe there have been mistranslations.
Maybe people changed things on purpose. It's not as if 'a Baker's Wife lies, swindles, and cheats her way through a magical Wood, gets the child she wants, and lives happily ever after' is the sort of tale people would want to tell their children. Stories are supposed to teach lessons, and lessons are supposed to be things like 'behave yourself -- or else.' They're supposed to teach children how to be good, not practical, or satisfied.
She hadn't gone into the Woods to be good.
But no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that it's all some sort of ghastly editing choice, she can't quite believe it. She remembers how it had felt, standing at Sam's window and looking straight down. The terror that she was about to fall had been sudden and visceral and familiar in a way she had refused to examine. Now, she knows why.
She wishes--
--no. No more wishes. Look where the last one got her.
God, if she can just hold herself together until she gets back to her apartment, then... she can't think about what then. She just has to get there without making a scene, without being the madwoman everyone else tries to politely ignore. Oh, don't mind me, I just found out that I'm technically dead, that's all.
She feels as if she might laugh, or be sick, she doesn't know which. She has to stop for a moment and grab the back of a bench to steady herself, her other hand pressed to her midriff, as if to make sure she isn't literally falling apart.
But she isn't. She's fine. She's fine.
no subject
"No, it's--I'm sorry," Greta says again, letting her hands drop. The offer to stand next to her is somehow all the more touching for its absurdity. The last thing she wants to do is stand here, with or without company, but this woman's apparent willingness to do just that is unexpectedly kind. "If... if you wouldn't mind walking with me, I'd appreciate that very much."
There, see, she hasn't entirely misplaced her manners. "I'm Greta," she adds, hesitantly offering her hand. A proper introduction feels absurd, too, and part of her wants to forego it. Maybe it would be better if they didn't know each other's names; once she's seen to her apartment, they could both get on with pretending this whole thing never happened. But she's already been rude, and she has enough to worry about without adding more of that to the mix.