The Wicked Witch:
You might insist that I was in the wrong when I was the one killed by Hansel and Gretel, you could say that I was a cold-hearted witch who ate children for a living, you may be thinking that I deserved to die in the brutal way that I did.
Before you continue to point your finger at me, hear me out. This is my chance to prove to you that there is a story behind the one you are familiar with. This is a chance I shall greedily grasp.
Once upon the fairy tale days, in a land not too far away, a beautiful baby witch was born. When I first opened my eyes to the world, I saw Mother staring down at me, with those crinkling blue eyes filled with wonder and joy. “Mama,” was the first word I ever learnt to say.
With the passing of years, I grew like any other witch would, with Mother by my side. She was the one person I could talk to, no matter on sunny or rainy days. She was the one who played hide-and-seek with me whenever I was bored. She was the only witch mother back then who cared about her daughter instead of abandoning her. Needless to say, we spent many happy years under the same roof.
Despite living alongside laughter and shrieks of fun, we were never truly free. People were afraid of us, of our ability to concoct the most disastrous of all potions, and of our peculiarity. There were dark periods of my life when we were chased out into the woods by roaring men with sticks on fire and Mother carried me on her back as we fled. We were forced into hiding in the woods for the rest of our lives and to eat only the candy from our self-replenishing candy house in fear of getting caught if we ventured out to look for food. Oh, how we longed for another taste of meat from the village. No matter how contended we were together, Mother and I always felt a hollow hole in our hearts. We were just like anyone else, so why was it us who were forced to live in subdued freedom?
Then came my mother’s birthday. Being an innocent child wanting to surprise her mother, I decided to give her something different. With the excuse that I was picking herbs, I slipped out of the candy house and walked till my feet were covered in blisters to the village. Upon crossing the border of thick trees, the aroma of rich roasted turkey wafted into my senses. Following the familiar, tantalizingly delicious scent of the turkey with my head bowed to conceal my face, I knew exactly where I was headed.
Just as I was about to reach the restaurant where the roasted turkey was served, a pebble hit my head, “Hey, who are you? We’ve never seen you around, have we?” I turned and found a girl and a boy with snobbish looks on their face glaring at me. I stammered and tried to back away but they advanced on me like bullies would their victims. Afraid that my identity would be discovered, I ran like a frightened mouse from a fierce cat. Run, I told myself, lose them in the woods, you can do this. Thump thump thump, I heard their footsteps echoing just behind mine as I instinctively dashed back, trying to enter the welcoming embrace of the towering trees.
Suddenly, near the cluster of trees, I heard my name. I lifted my head and saw my mother, frantic and furious. “Where have you been?” she yelled at me. Then, seeing that I was desperately waving at her in hope of asking her to back away, she stopped in her tracks at the border of the woods. But it was too late.
“Witch!” the boy yelled, recognising my mother. At that moment, it was like an alarm that rang throughout the village and brought villagers streaming out of their houses. Angry and fearful shouts we thrown in our direction when the villagers recognised our faces. Within seconds, bellowing men carrying flaming torches were dashing towards us while we tried our best to wind our way through the maze of greens.
We were fast but the villagers were faster. They caught up with us and tried to pin us down to the ground. I tried reaching for Mother, screaming and clasping her hands while the furious villagers pried us away from each other. The woods were painted a glaring red by the flaming torches and the screams and yells of the villagers were tearing my ears apart. In the flurry of entangled limbs, I felt a burning sensation searing across my eyes and suddenly, the world went dark.
“Mama?” I called out weakly. I could hear neither the villagers nor the sizzling crackling flames. I tried opening my eyes but the world remained dark and it scared me. Following my gut feeling, I felt my way back to our candy house, expecting to feel the soft, warm, comforting hands of Mother embracing me when I got home. Nothing. I went back home to a hollowness and loneliness that engulfed me and only then did I fully absorb what had happened.
The truth came as a sudden shock and I wandered blindly around the house, crying and calling out to Mother. I tried to convince myself that this was just another game of hide-and-seek, that she was still waiting for me in a secret corner of the house, waiting to give me one last hug, one last kiss. But I never found her, ever again.
The world went on. I grew into a mature, shattered and broken witch, still living in the same old candy house. They say time heals wounds but I was never healed. With each painful passing day, my remorse grew together with my hatred towards children and the resentment kept snowballing.
Until one fine day, two young children, who looked so alike those who caused me eternal suffering, showed up. It was as if a calling for me to act, to take my long-overdue revenge. For the rest of the story, I trust you know it all.
Who ever said every story ended with a “happily ever after”? In this cruel, unjust world, this is my story.
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