Gretel
Once upon a time, I fell in love with a boy.
That was before the curse started. After we killed the witch who kept us captive and thought we’d be safe. We were wrong.
The first hardship to strike our small town was the famine. Crops struggled to grow. The plants that managed to push themselves above the soil were weak and withered. Most of the harvest died in the fields, eaten by insects or infested with blight. The townsfolk kept smiles on their faces in the beginning, reassuring one another that it was only an unlucky year—that the next harvest would be bountiful, and we would forget how hungry we’d gotten.
We replanted the crops the next spring, and for a while, it seemed like all would be well again. Everyone in the village took turns guarding the fields from pests, saying prayers over the budding plants whenever we could. Spring turned the countryside green around us, and as the weather warmed, people started to have faith once again, satisfied that the worst was over.
But the weather didn’t stop warming. Spring became a hot, dry summer, with the earth crumbling under our feet and coating everything into dust. The crops would survive, we thought, as long as we kept the fields watered.
But no well would be deep enough. There aren’t enough buckets in the world, or hands to carry them, to protect every inch.
The wildfire came from the forest. It tore through the fields, destroying every last crop. It’s hard to deny that we brought the famine. It was on everyone’s mind, I’m sure. The witch wasn’t dead and her curse would never be forgotten.
The small town sifted through the ashes, looking for seeds, or new growth. Anything that would serve as a sign we were meant to live. That we could recover. Two unlucky years surely wouldn’t become a pattern. No God could be so cruel.
I don’t know which God was watching over our village. If any deity looked over our village, he couldn’t have been kind.
I was in love before the hardships. Before the barren fields and hot winds and bitter winters. Before my stomach pinched with hunger and my mouth got dry with thirst.
Before, when all he wanted was taffy, and all I wanted was a cool drink of water on a warm summer day. When all I wanted in the world was to see him smile.
Hansel, the boy who survived hell with me. The boy who I watched become a man. A man I loved. A man I could never have.
His smile was like a clear spring running through the forest and a lush field brimming with crops. It was like sneaking away to pick flowers in the meadow. It was a smile full of promises and secrets, and he gave it to me like I was fresh rain and sunshine.
And all I had to do to see it was knock on the wooden door to his house. He’d answer with a smile, and I couldn’t help smiling back.
That was years ago. Before the witch. Now we’re left with the barren after.
I wish I could go back. I wish I could keep the crops in the fields and snuff out the fire with my fingers before it could burn everything down. I wish I could stop what happened before we ever set foot on that long, dirt road by the old farms.
Before we ever found the witch’s house.
But I can’t.
I can’t change the past.
I can’t change that he hates me now.
And I can’t stop what’s already started.
I stand outside that wooden door, the paint chipped and scratched and the winter wind whistling through my clothes. No matter how many layers I wear, the frigid air goes straight to my skin. It’s so cold that my teeth ache. My cheeks burn from the blistering cold.
I can’t count how many times I fell asleep dreaming about being in this very spot. It always held possibility for me. The moment before I knocked on this door was always like the moment before opening a gift—giddy anticipation that I knew would be followed by delight.
Now, outside Hansel’s door, I wish I was standing anywhere else.
I swallow thickly, trying not to think of all of his smiles. Isn’t there any other way through this?
There isn’t. I know there isn’t. I was up half the night pacing and trying to think of some other solution. In the end, I came up with nothing.
I wish I didn’t have to tell him.
I must, though. I owe him that at least.
And…
