In Medias Res
Each one of them had their own “Happily Ever After.” Fairy tales always ended the same way: the dashing young prince vanquished the Evil Queen, got the girl, and inherited the crown. The people of the land, now freed from oppression, partied for days. They sang songs, toasted to the new king, and laughed in merriment as their lovable sidekicks cracked jokes. Fathers embraced sons in tears of joy and musical scores played, their chords of paradise reverberating in climax. It was a triumph of faith and living proof that Good can overpower the menacing force of Evil each and every time.
The sky is black. There is no storm approaching, it is not yet nightfall, and there is not a cloud in sight. But with every passing moment, a cloak of darkness covers more of the celestial sphere. Slowly but sweeping, the heavens are blanketed in sorrow, in doom, dripping over the world like ebony blood.
For now, they are drunk with rye and rhyme. Their candles, torches, and lanterns burn, providing temporary luminaries that carry on the celebration. They don’t even notice that natural light is gradually dimming into nothing, and in place of it rises a shadowy and collapsing mass of a faint moon. The stars have even stopped twinkling, but wishes continue to be made on the shining reflections of gold and double-edged swords. Their royal shimmers distract them from the realization that nothing is left but black tidings.
The wine of denial hides the bitter taste. The odor of party sweat whiffs away the stench of fear. They feel comforted, protected, and safe under the promise of Happily Ever After, the incorruptible law that says a pure heart is always rewarded.
But today, as they are forced to look above and then to their left, they will pray. They will pray for magic. Now, even as they celebrate yet another wedding, unspeakable terror comes from beyond the sky.
There—one thin princess stumbles forward, her frame perfectly starved, her feet wedged and bloodied into those tight heels. She walks clumsily, ready to walk the entire night if need be, eager to find a certain man that she might embrace him and put her mouth upon his mighty shoulder. The princess wears red; a satin bodice with pleated organza overlay, its trim and stretch fabric back shimmering with light, her top skirt of pleated peplum glowing like stardust. Her dazzling tiara and white cameo sparkle above her long flowing grey hair.
And her lovely face, her lovely rotted face, shivers with anticipation as flesh rips apart from her skull. Decaying muscle tissue drips out of every cavity. Her neatly curled hair diverts from the unfashionable maggots that dine on her disease. Age-old black tar spatters onto the ground, leaking from Madame’s gaping neck. Her rib cage bursts apart along with the waist-training corset until her intestines begin to cross-stitch with her lacey frills.
Even while spilling soil and gore, she stands with grace, with elegance, as if all eyes are still on her at the ball. She holds her arms with poise, like a lady of confidence, and her wedding veil—soaked in black crimson—still clings to her fractured jaw. The fabric has wilted and the colors faded, but her face still holds every twinge of dejection and dolor that she died wearing.
Her stubborn attempts to stand on what’s left of her legs create a dastardly sound, a sort of scraping rattle that becomes louder by the moment. Her bone hands trembling, her eyes boiling with red savagery, she focuses on the object of her affection.
Her mouth unnaturally widens, and her perfectly even teeth bite down repeatedly in anticipation of a century-long-awaited meal. Her lurching head doesn’t turn but seems to hang to one direction, then another, and then drops forward with no resistance. But her demonic red eyes never stop staring straight ahead. She dances dolefully towards her suitors—the beloved, the happily married, and the pure of heart. Amid her sepulchral rasps of rapid gurgling, only a lone chant could be heard throughout the commotion.
Come
Come out
Come princess
I cast this spell
Come out of your tomb
Better late than never
Not so happily ever
Take back what was taken from you
Black cats, bats, rats, snakes, vultures, and every other omen of bad luck scurries around in the madness, looking for a place to hide as the thickness of the overcast grows.
As the final layer of caliginous blanket falls in place, gently pushing away the last trace of an afternoon sunny sky, it seems as if two distinct worlds are placed beside each other. One quickly fading, with bright rays of hope and redemption, and the other blotted over with rebellion and violence.
However, for the next few moments, and as their flame-lit lights lead the way, everything seems safe and peaceable. With heavy frolicking and a few winks, they are distracted from the impending force. A biting wintery breeze passes through, with only a sniff of excavated soil, as the festivities continue. Faith has never been stronger. Beauty has never been lovelier. Love has never felt more fervent.
They pay no attention to the whispers in the wind since their own jubilant voices mute the warnings. For now, they all feast, marry, laugh, and sing. They enjoy their fleeting “happily ever after.”
