BREATHE

The first thing I heard was my mother’s laughter, bright and delicate as tiny bells chiming somewhere in the dark.

Then beneath the warm glow of a lamp, my bedroom emerged, washed in shades of pink and gold. The faded flowers on the wallpaper came into focus, followed by the little ceramic horse on my dresser with one ear missing that Viktor had broken and blamed on me.

Mamá sat propped against the headboard beside me, a book of fairytales resting open in her lap. My cheek lay against her thigh beneath a mountain of blankets while her fingers moved lazily through my hair, gently separating strands whenever they tangled together.

“Una más,” she said, amusement tickling every syllable. “Y después, a dormir. De verdad esta vez.” One more. And then you go to sleep. For real this time.

“Está bien, Mamá.” Okay, Mamá.

Story time was my favorite. Every night, I begged Mamá for one more so I could stay a little longer in worlds where princesses wore beautiful dresses and monsters lived in dark forests where everyone knew to be afraid of them. Nobody ever got the two confused.

When she read, I could curl beneath the blankets and pretend nothing scary lived inside me at all. I could be good and beautiful and ordinary, someone worthy of a happily ever after.

“¿Qué historia, mi princesa?” What story, my princess?

“Blancanieves.” Snow White.

“¿Otra vez?” Her gray eyes crinkled. “Mija, esa pobre niña ya debe estar cansada de morirse para entretenerte.” Again? Mija, that poor girl must be tired of dying just to entertain you.

I giggled. “Pero vuelve.” But she comes back.

“Ah, bueno. Entonces supongo que está bien.” She flipped to the story. “Morirse no cuenta si se una vuelve después.” Oh, well. Then I suppose it’s fine. Dying doesn’t count if you come back afterward.

I curled closer into her warmth. Beneath the blankets, with Mamá playing with my hair, I felt completely safe from every scary thing that lived outside my bedroom.

The first illustration showed a queen sewing beside an ebony-framed window while snow drifted beyond the glass.

“Mientras cosía, se pinchó un dedo, y tres gotas de sangre cayeron sobre la nieve.” While she was sewing, she pricked her finger, and three drops of blood fell onto the snow.

Three brilliant drops of red stained the white page.

“Entonces deseó tener una hija con la piel blanca como la nieve, los labios rojos como la sangre y el cabello negro como el ébano.” Then she wished for a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair black as ebony.

I touched my hair. “Se parece a mí.” She looks like me.

“Sí, mi amor.” Mamá smiled. “Se parece a ti.” Yes, my love. She looks like you.

Mamá continued the story exactly as I remembered it. The queen asked her magic mirror every day who was the fairest in the kingdom, and every day, the mirror chose her. But Snow White kept growing. Page by page, she changed from a little girl into a beautiful princess with shiny black hair, rosy cheek, and fancy dresses I wished I could wear. After that, the mirror stopped giving the queen the answer she wanted. Snow White was the fairest now. Furious, the queen called for a huntsman and told him to take her into the forest and kill her.

That was when the story began to change.

“La reina le ordenó que le llevara los pulmones y el hígado como prueba.” The queen ordered him to bring back her lungs and liver as proof.

My head popped up. “¿Qué?” What?

Mamá’s finger rested against the page.

The picture changed beneath her touch. The huntsman’s knife no longer looked painted. Light gleamed along a wet blade as though someone had pushed a real weapon between the pages.

“Mamá, tú nunca dices esa parte.” Mamá, you never tell that part.

“No.”

“¿Por qué ahora?” Why now?

Her fingers resumed their slow path through my hair.

“Porque hay cuentos que cambian cuando creces lo suficiente para entenderlos.” Because there are stories that change when you grow old enough to understand them.

A cold draft slipped beneath my blankets.

I didn’t like that answer.

Mamá continued reading. Snow White ran deep into the forest, leaving the castle, her father, and everything she knew behind. Eventually, she found the little cottage and thought she was safe there. But the queen found her anyway. She tried twice to kill Snow White and failed both times, so the third time she came carrying a poisoned apple.

“¿Por qué sigue abriendo la puerta?” I demanded. Why does she keep opening the door?

“Porque lleva mucho tiempo sola.” Because she has been alone for a long time.

I scrunched up my nose. “Entonces es tonta.” Then she’s stupid.

Mamá brushed my hair behind my ear. “No, mi amor. Confiar en alguien no te hace tonta. A veces la culpa es de quien decide engañarte.” No, my love. Trusting someone doesn’t make you stupid. Sometimes the fault belongs to the person who chooses to deceive you.

The old woman raised the apple, and my eyes widened when her hand began to change. Wrinkles smoothed away. Her bent spine straightened beneath the cloak. Black hair replaced the gray, and when she raised her face toward Snow White, two red eyes burned beneath the hood.

“Viktor?”

I sat up straighter, surprise quickly turning into a smile.

Viktor wasn’t supposed to be in Snow White. Maybe Mamá had changed the story and put him in it just for me. I wasn’t worried anymore. Vik would save her. He always helped me when someone was being mean to me.

“Mamá, mira. Es Vik.” Mamá, look. It’s Vik.

I waited for him to drop the apple, but he didn’t. Instead, he held it out to her.

My smile faded.

“¿Qué está haciendo?” What is he doing?

Snow White reached for it.

Anger rushed through me.

“¡No!” I screamed, shoving the book away and scrambling into Mamá’s lap. “¡Vik no haría eso!” No! Vik wouldn’t do that!

Mamá wrapped both arms around me.

“¡Cámbialo, Mamá! ¡Quiero el cuento bonito!” Change it, Mamá! I want the pretty story!

“Tranquila, mi amor.” Easy, my love.

I buried my face against her chest, but eventually curiosity won over fear. When I peeked again, Viktor was still there, holding an apple nearly as red as his eyes.

“Es su hermano,” I cried. He’s her brother.

“Sí.” Yes.

“Él debería protegerla.” He’s supposed to protect her.

“Sí.” Yes.

“Entonces, ¿por qué la lastima?” I sniffed. Then why does he hurt her?

Sadness settled over Mamá’s face. “Porque había algo que quería más que mantenerla a salvo.” Because there was something he wanted more than keeping her safe.

My lip wobbled. “¿Qué?” What?

“Eso solo él lo sabe.” Only he knows that.

I didn’t like that answer either.

She turned the page, and Viktor disappeared. Snow White took one bite of the apple and fell to the floor. When the dwarfs came home, they tried everything they could do to wake her, but nothing worked. So they laid her inside a glass coffin beneath the trees to watch over her.

“¿Ahora llega el príncipe?” Does the prince come now?

“Sí.” Yes.

“¿Y la besa?” I asked hopefully. And does he kiss her?

It was my favorite part of the story.

Mamá shook her head. “Hay un príncipe, pero no la despierta con un beso. La encuentra dentro del ataúd y decide que no puede soportar dejarla allí.” There is a prince, but he doesn’t wake her with a kiss. He finds her inside the coffin and decides he cannot bear to leave her there.

I frowned.

The prince appeared beside the coffin and leaned over the glass.

As I watched, his shoulders grew broader, his skin turned a deeper brown, and his body stretched taller as his clothing darkened. This new prince was way more handsome than the one who’d been there a second ago.

“Les ruega que le permitan llevársela,” Mamá continued. “Dice que no puede vivir sin poder verla todos los días y mantenerla cerca.” He begs them to let him take her. He says he cannot live without being able to see her every day and have her close.

I pushed my tongue into the gap where one of my front teeth used to be. “Eso es raro.” That’s weird.

Mamá’s mouth twitched. “Sí. Un poquito.” Yes. A little.

“No. Mucho.” No. A lot.

“Bueno. Mucho.” Fine. A lot.

I looked back at the picture. The prince had both hands pressed against the glass now, staring down at Snow White.

“¿Pero ella quiere ir con él?” I asked. But does she want to go with him?

“Él todavía no puede preguntarle.” He can’t ask her yet.

I huffed in annoyance. “Entonces no debería llevársela.” Then he shouldn’t take her.

Mamá didn’t answer. On the next page, the servants lifted the coffin onto their shoulders. The prince followed so closely beside them that his hand never left the glass.

Then one of the servants tripped.

The coffin jolted, tossing Snow White against the pillows. The piece of poisoned apple caught in her throat flew from her mouth.

I clapped my hands. “¡Despertó!” She woke up!

“Sí.” Yes.

The prince stepped closer to the open coffin and held out his hand, but Snow White made no move to take it.

Beneath the picture, two little words appeared.

El fin.

The End.

I frowned. “Ese no es el final.” That’s not the end.

“Sí, lo es.” Yes, it is.

“Pero…¿se va con él?” But…does she go with him?

Her gray eyes met mine. “Eso depende de Blancanieves.” That depends on Snow White.

“¿Por qué?” Why?

“Porque el príncipe puede ofrecerle su mano, pero solo ella decide si la toma.” Because the prince can offer his hand, but only she decides whether to take it.

My bottom lip pushed forward. I didn’t like this version of the story at all. It felt all wrong.

“¿Entonces ella puede elegir?” So she gets to choose?

“Sí, mi amor. Su vida es suya.” Yes, my love. Her life is hers.

When Mamá touched the page again, the picture shimmered beneath her fingertips. Snow White disappeared, replaced by someone who looked like me, only grown-up. But she wasn’t awake. Her eyes remained closed, her skin nearly as white as the sheets, and not one part of her moved.

I burst into tears again. “Mamá, ¿estoy muerta?” Mamá, am I dead?

She pulled me against her and kissed the top of my head.

“No, mi amor.” No, my love.

“Entonces, ¿por qué no despierto?” Then why don’t I wake up?

Mamá brushed the wet hair from my cheek. “Tal vez todavía estás buscando el camino de regreso.” Maybe you’re still looking for the way back.

The lamplight dimmed, and I tightened both fists in Mamá’s nightgown.

“No te vayas.” Don’t go.

Her palm cupped my cheek. “Mi niña…” My little girl…

A man’s voice came from somewhere beyond the bedroom.

“Angel.”

The sound of his voice made me whimper and I pressed closer to Mamá’s shoulder, but her arms no longer felt as solid around me.

“Todavía está aquí,” she whispered. He’s still here.

I lifted my head. “¿Quién?” Who?

“El príncipe.” The prince.

“¿Esperándome?” Waiting for me?

“No.” Mamá lifted me from her lap and set my small bare feet on the floor. Her hands lingered around my waist for one more second. “Buscándote.” No. Looking for you.

Then she was gone. The comforting scent of lavender and baby powder lingered after everything else disappeared, fading slowly until only the prince’s voice remained.

Behind me, a door creaked open.

Warm light spilled across the floor and stopped at my feet.

Before I could take another step, the darkness wrapped around me and hauled me into its depths.