A Girl Retells Her Tales

[TW: mention of SA.]

One night, next to a campfire, I recited an old story to myself. The Muses did not fill my words with beauty, instead I forced myself to make the tale beautiful. My eyes watch my mouth as I begin the long trodden path of my narrative. 

Once a beautiful girl was brought to a palace at the edge of a lake.

She was young but had a face that would force any grown man into loving her. She wore bangles that clinked as she moved and shimmering clothes so that when she spun around you could see the impression of her body under them, begging to be explored. Most people in her village only ever saw her in glimpses through windows as her mother had confined her to their house, fated never to walk outside among men. They knew her as he Enchantress, for none could resist the innocence in her eyes—even if seen in glances or fragmented refractions. 

The girl had never seen a man until she came to that grand palace one faithful day. When she entered the vast ballroom a single figure was there to meet her. The King of the land had heard the tales of the village folk; he knew of their exceptional girl whose mother had locked her away in the hope that it would prevent the innocence in her eyes from being sullied. It was a sweet thought on the mother’s part—but no one can refuse a king and so, for the first time in her life, the girl came face to face with a man. She cast her eyes over him. He looked odd. Tall, a body made up of straight lines unlike her own which curved and refused to be contained. His eyes were deep-set and caressed her from across the hall. 

The girl made hesitant steps towards him. When they were close, almost close enough to touch, she curtsied and let out a laugh. 

“You are not what I expected,” she grinned. 

A smile grew onto his face and he responded, “You are exactly as I thought you would be.” 

The two began to speak and came to an agreement. Each evening the girl would come to the King’s palace and they would discuss any matters she wished to explore. He would introduce her to the world that she had only ever inhabited tangentially and he would ask her for nothing but her friendship in return. 

And so the days passed. Each evening the girl would come to the grand ballroom and sit on the floor as the King explained the ways of the world to her. He told her of the other countries their nation bordered; of diplomacy; of servants; of the life of luxury he led; of the other life. One day, she asked him what the room they were in was for.

“It is so big and there are no tables or chairs. What reason do you have for so much empty space?” 

“To dance,” he explained. “You need room to dance.”

“I have never danced in a place like this.” Her eyes explored the room and she tried to imagine what it would be like, to have all this just for dancing. 

“Would you like to?” The King offered her his hand. She took it without question. 

At first the dance was awkward and ugly but the King eventually made the girl understand that she was dancing the wrong way. She needed to be stiff and formal, no flowing bodies, no stamping feet. She simply needed to follow his lead. Although it felt wrong to her, the girl followed and allowed herself to become the exact reflection of what the King expected her to be. He moved his feet and she moved hers. He lifted his arm and she spun. No one could claim she did not look like she belonged in a ballroom such as this. At the end of the dance he moved his face towards hers and greeted her lips. 

The girl pulled back, “Why did you do that?”

“All dances end with a kiss,” he explained. “You should have expected it.” 

She had not expected it but, too embarrassed to admit mistake, she simply nodded her head and sat back down on the floor. 

After that day the King made sure to always practise dancing with the young girl. Every waltz or quickstep—or whatever dance the King deemed appropriate— ended with that inevitable kiss. The girl pretended it did not shock her until, eventually, it truly didn’t. He still taught her things but they stopped being subjects the girl wanted to learn about and began to be whatever the King wanted to speak on. He told her about courting; about the arrangements his parents had made for his marriage; about how he had eventually rejected every princess he was offered. 

“Were they ugly?” The girl asked. 

“Ugly and old. The worst combination.” 

Months passed and the King spent each day waiting for evening to come. Eventually the day came for the kingdom to celebrate the Mabon: the day when the town square flamed alive with chanting and singing and roaring and feasting. . The King did not debase himself by appearing at such events—but, this year, it did not matter, for he had his own celebration in mind. That evening the girl came to him as she always did. She was wearing a white satin dress, one he had ordered to be made for her. She looked like a cloud that had taken the shape of a girl. Soft, weightless and incorporeal. He wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace: flesh on flesh. 

“What is this for, my King?” 

“I am excited to celebrate this Mabon with you,” the Kind responded as he continued clutching her. Eventually he released his grip and whispered. “Tonight I will take you to see the garden.” 

“But it is Autumn, are not all the flowers dead?”

“Most are, yes. But not my roses. A foreign Queen once brought the seeds of these exceptional roses to me and since they bloomed, nearly three years ago, they have never wilted. Would you like to see them?” 

The girl blushed at his offer. The King had never invited her to see any part of the palace other than the ballroom; it was a great honour that he would allow her this glimpse of his garden. Such a lowly girl like herself, allowed to see something that magical! It was like a fairytale. So she nodded her head and let him lead her towards the garden. 

They passed through dim corridors and spinned down spiralled staircases, moving further and further into the heart of the structure. With each turn the girl wondered how she’d ever find her way out by herself. Even though she was chaperoned by the King, she couldn’t help herself from trying to memorise the way back home. 

The King slowed as they neared two ornate doors of oak wood carved with images of sirens and faery women. Each figure protruded as if yearning to break through the door and run far, far away. The King caressed his hand over the little figures, letting his fingers dance their way over each curve of their bodies. The girl didn’t dare to touch them; they looked better being left alone. His hand lowered towards the handle, iron and meticulously cast to replicate a fish’s tail, twisting it so a little click could be heard, like a knot surrendering itself to being untangled. The doors burst apart and suddenly the girl was confronted with a modest walled garden. 

As she expected, most of the plants were wilting. A few vines crept up the walls towards a glass roof as though trying to make their way  to the stars. The flower beds that circled the edges were full of decaying corpses: victims of changing seasons who had not yet given themselves back to the soil that bore them. Her eyes roamed the private Eden her King kept here. At the centre was an overflowing nucleus of life. The roses, in spite of nature, held themselves proud. Arrogantly alive. 

“I thought roses were red,’ said the girl. The roses the King kept were a dusty pink, nothing like the vibrant flowers sold in town. These flowers were too delicate, too soft. They had muted themselves somehow. 

“They can turn red,” the King smiled. “Would you like to see them like that?” The girl nodded. The King led her closer to the midpoint of the walled garden, putting his hand on the small of her back, pushing her forwards. 

“How do you make them red?” 

The King looked at her. His smile, which had once been kind, was twisting into a sneer. His eyes seemed cooler; the gleam in them no longer welcoming, but narrowed into the shine in a predator’s eyes as he realises he has trapped his prey. 

“Blood.” The pressure on her back increased. She felt his hand like a chain, like a knife. She tried to step back, put distance between herself and the roses. She saw their thorns now, thorns that were waiting for her, anticipating her. 

“My King, they are beautiful indeed, but I really ought to go back to the ballroom now. It is getting late, and my mother will want me back home.”

“You said you wanted to see them, dove. Did you not?” His voice did not allow her to deny the fact. “This is what you wanted, I am giving you what you wanted and I must let you see just how brilliantly red they can be, just as you desired.”

He pushed her down, his arms stronger than all her body. That force was irresistible. She tried to steel her body upright but she was unable to deny that greater force. And so her body united with the roses. Her face was in the bed and each way she turned it she could still not see the man standing above her, her body closed in by thousands of flowers. The thorns were pricking her gentle skin: ripping, ripping then tearing it apart. She felt the blood pouring out of her but each time she tried to get up there was the hand (or was it a foot? It felt different from his hand) on the back of her head keeping her in place. The more she moved and fought off the flowers’ attacks the more excruciating the pain became. It was burning her, she thought, lighting a hellfire which was kindling in her chest. Tears were mixing with blood now, the spindles, those tiny daggers, cutting around her eyes. Her eyes wouldn’t open, or maybe they were open and she just wasn’t able to see through them anymore. She imagined her lovely white dress: the one he had picked for her; the one her mother had complimented her on hours ago; how spoiled it would be. 

She tried to scream but her lips were sewn shut. Do you know what she would have said if she could talk? I do. I can imagine each word that would have clawed its way out of her mouth if she had only been a little braver. She could have said something, really, but a coward will always allow herself to be pushed down. Can you hear what she’s trying to say? Listen, isn’t it lovely: 

Stop this, please! I know I asked to see the garden but you gave me no choice. I didn’t know you would force me to feel it. I didn’t know that this is what it would feel like. Not this, rosebeds should be soft, in the lullabies my mother once sung to me they were always soft. There is nothing soft here, only the gaps in my body. Please—I am scared, I cannot move— everywhere I go the stems cling to me. I want it to stop! Let me get up, you aren’t playing fair. Why does the pain burn within too? Why does it eat through me? Fire fangs ripping me apart—deeper and deeper burns the throb of pain. Why won’t it stop? Please, please, please—

I thought it would end differently this time—oh God—there’s so much blood. Will it ever stop? I can still see it in my hands now. I thought it would be prettier like this but that ugliness is still there. The roses are so red… Why is it still here? This is not the story I wanted! The story I thought I wanted...

Eventually the force on my back subsided. But the phantom of a force still pinned me into submission. I lay there and waited for him to push me back down. The girl knows that if plays dead and hides her tears it will ease the pain but——

The fire has dwindled and I don’t have time to finish my story. It doesn’t matter; my audience doesn’t want to hear it anymore. I look at the charred remains of the campfire, all things become ash, don’t they? Oh well, there’s always tomorrow night. I’ll try the story again. 

**If this story speaks to you, you are not alone. So many people feel powerless to tell their stories. this powerlessness is not your fault. The truth is that coming to terms with sexual assault is difficult, you are put in a position where you must not only navigate the assault itself but what your next steps are going to be. You are put into a position where you must adapt and respond to a situation that was not your fault. you may want to speak out and seek support but find yourself unable to figure out how to do so. Speaking out is daunting but it is not impossible. you have the right to decide how to approach support following sexual assault and it is never too late to do so. You can speak out anonymously, named or in a group. The most important thing is that you never need to be alone. Support is available and you deserve access to support that works for you. If you want to speak out and receive support anonymously, RSACC operates an emotional support line for survivors who live or work in Darlington or County Durham. Here you will be connected with highly trained volunteers who will respond and support without judgement. If you are a student at Durham University who has been sexually assaulted by another student, you can speak out through Durham University’s Report and Support process. This process can feel incredibly intimidating, but you will be supported every step of the way. if you want to speak out with other survivors, RSACC holds Trauma-informed support groups for women affected by sexual assault. these groups are a safe and confidential place for you to speak out without being judged. If support is something you want but are unsure how to obtain, please reach out to the DUASA Instagram account @duagainstsexualassausalt where we will be more then happy to direct you to support that works for you.**