She knew of the palace
chef before she met him. To eat what he made was like a dream come true—he was
famous around the world for his wonderful pies. She didn't ask a single
question, didn't think to wonder what the ingredients might be, before gracefully
shoving a forkful into her mouth.
It was apple.
Immediately, she was back in that
cottage, being tempted by everything she had ever hoped for. She could taste
the bittersweet juice, that vague twinge of pain at the back of her throat,
before the poison took control and sent her tumbling to the ground. Her last
thought was of him—her wish, her dream, her biggest desire.
She awoke to the soft brush of his
lips against hers. He gave her his breath, renewed her life, brought her back
from the dead. In the end, she had gotten all she had ever wanted. The apple,
it seems, had done everything the witch said it would.
But that twinge remained every time
she took a bite, and that fear of eternal sleep kept her awake for far longer
than it should have. Her new life, her dream, was now a living nightmare.
Death was not the witch’s punishment—it
was waking up after.
