Not the Villain - The Evil Queen's Retelling of Snow White

Nine Months and 15 Days Ago

Nine months and 15 days ago:

I flipped the page of The Complete Collection of  Potions and Poisons, one of the three books Veneficia gave me when I returned to the palace, what seemed like a thousand years ago. I never had the chance to read this one, though I had gone over the other two multiple times. I would never admit it, but something about the way my heartbeat quickened thrillingly at the word 'poison' made me wary of its contents.

But this time I was on a mission. I knew something bad had happened when that guard I sent to take her far away never came back, and Snow White was still "the fairest of them all". I didn't ask the mirror what had happened, for fear of what I might see.

And I had heard whispers of a poison growing in the West, in the middle of the forest where only dwarves lived, and its tentacles were starting to spread all over the land. I had to get rid of Snow White's demon, no matter what it takes.

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear it if this teddy bear who wormed her way into my heart left me, like everyone else I cared about before her. Especially if I was the one who killed her. I can't take my own daughter's life.

So I was skimming through this book, looking for any mentions of demons, and expelling them from a human body. I was about to flip the page once again when a note at the bottom caught my eye:

"The only way of detecting this fatal poison is if the victim's fingers and toes turn bright red and puff up after the liquid infects their bloodstream. This is the trademark of Death's Lace, and no other poison or potion has this remarkable quality."

My breathing quickened, my thoughts a storm in my head.

Ronnie was sipping daintily from the blue teacup... her eyes started bulging... She clutched at her throat, trying to get words out, her knees bent and she collapsed... Her fingers were puffed up, and they were a bright, bright red...

Don't think about that. Stop caring, stop hurting. It doesn't matter anymore, you already knew it was poison, it doesn't matter what poison...

The storm outside our mansion walls... My mother, watching us with the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Her head bent a little to sip the soup... She was staring at my father, choking on the words she was trying to say, but only gurgles came out... She slumped forward, her head banging into the table... Her hand had been reaching out across the table, and her fingers were puffed up and a bright, unnatural red...

No, no. It can't be.

My eyes jumped to the top of the page.

"Licixiarra dMortrphyn means Death's Lace in the Ancient Tongue, a fitting name for this rare and deadly poison. This poison comes from flower Verxmicxa Licixiarra, a flower that would be identical to a scarlet rose if not for the obsidian tinge on the inside of its petals, and, of course, its poisonous nectar. The rose blooms only in the winter on a blue moon, and can be found deep in the mountains where no other flower could hope to survive. The nectar of this flower is colourless, odourless and tasteless, almost impossible to track, and virtually unheard of, as it is so scarce that its use has only been recorded twice in the history of witchcraft. The poison is so lethal that if even one drop is swallowed, or if one drop touches an open wound, the victim will die. Death's Lace can either be ingested or injected into the victim through a wound, no preparation required priorly as it could be collected raw from the flower. It never expires and can be kept for hundreds of years. It intoxicates the bloodstream, and the victim dies a relatively painless death within thirty seconds to two minutes after the poison enters their body, depending on the dosage. There is no antidote for this poison. The only way of detecting this fatal poison is if the victim's fingers and toes turn bright red and puff up after the liquid infects their bloodstream. This is the trademark of Death's Lace, and no other poison or potion has this unique quality."

I read and reread the passage so that I could almost recite it verbatim, then I staggered to the wall where my mirror hung, almost panting. "Mirror--" I choked, "Mirror, mirror, hear my plight, what was my father doing that fateful night?"

And in the mirror I saw him, the man I once called father. And I watched him poison his own wife, my mother, so he could marry Dahlia.

No, no, no, no, no. I don't believe it, I can't. Except I do, in fact I've known it all along, but I could never bring myself to face it. The truth. All that time I was hiding from the truth, and now that I was staring right at it I still couldn't believe it. So I just said it over and over again in my head, forcing myself to believe. The man I once called father is a murderer. Murderer. Murderer.