From the Desk of an Evil Queen
I am a queen. One of those fairy tale queens that spend a lot of time sighing over their reflections in front of magicked mirrors. Needless to say I am tremendously beautiful. Which is probably why I am also evil. Evil and beauty, you know, go hand in hand. I am also decidedly not pure; I enjoy sex a bit too much for all that nonsense. I am an earthy woman; beautiful and powerful. Of course I am evil. How could I be anything else?
The times I am not in front of the mirror squeezing the zit that has dared to invade territories forbidden to it, and others of its ilk, I spend fawning over dresses made of silk imported from countries so far away that the people there speak a different language and look unlike me. Though there are few (none) who can match the perfection I am. Whatever little time I have left over from indulging in these hobbies, I run a country. I run it smoothly. Like a well-oiled machine. Nobody’s starving and crime rate is down because I am the greatest criminal of them all and no one wants to compete with me.
My husband died. He was old; he was going to die anyway. I may have helped him on his way. Sometimes I am merciful. I even cried at his funeral. Not a lot but still, he did make me a queen. Truthfully, I can’t be too sad. He married me when I was but ten years old. Tried to rape me when I was thirteen. That’s when I started slipping him some poison, which had interesting effects on his potency. That is to say, he wasn’t anymore. Even at thirteen, I was evil.
My dead husband has a daughter. Dead kings usually leave behind things like that. Poor kingdoms and helpless daughters. The kingdom I rescued but the daughter? Her I can’t stomach. She’s one of those pure kinds; the kind who treasures her virtue beyond anything else. She’s beautiful, I suppose, if you like the bland unspiced milk type. No fire in that one. No spark. She sits by a window and she moons. Some call it grief. I call it a distinct lack of imagination.
I have heard whispers from the courtiers. That the peasants want her on the throne and not me. That they think I am evil. Well. I am evil. They say I am jealous of the way she looks, of her youth. This last accusation I don’t understand. Why would I be jealous of her youth when she is not doing anything with it? I asked her this morning at breakfast what she wants to do with her life now that she is unfettered by her pedophile father and she blinked her bovine eyes at me and whispered, “I want to be a wife.”
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a wife. In these times, a husband comes in handy when a woman wants to eat. My next question was “Is there someone you want to marry?” To which she replied after blushing for a long minute, “Oh no, I couldn’t presume to choose for myself. I shall wait for him to find me.” “Him who?” I asked not a little baffled. “My prince,” she said with a sigh that sounded like someone was strangling her.
I am forced to admit it here: I do not understand the dead king’s daughter. The woman is only two years younger than me. How can she be so complacent? Does she not understand the dangers that lurk about her? I have seen the way that men, noble or not, look at her. It is not love that lights up their eyes when she passes by them.
At least I have the cover of evilness. But why should I concern myself with her? She brings her end to herself and worse yet, she welcomes it.
Yet. I couldn’t do nothing.
So I called the woodsman. He and I have spent many afternoons together, getting to know each other in ways that would make my ladies-in-waiting, had I still any, swoon. I told him to take the princess outside. To leave her in the company of seven dwarves, friends of mine, who will teach her things (not that kind of things, not if she doesn’t want to) about the world; who will let her taste the freedom of making choices about her own life. She will thank me someday.
Now I shall go and have some prisoners executed. I am an evil queen after all. My people expect me to do things like that.