Stepmother’s Narrative
The sun seems to be specifically angry today as it pours down its wrath in waves of intense heat. The market has a thick blanket of the aroma of spices coating it, sharp spices blended with the smell of labor. There is a pungent odor of sickly sweet wine as I make my way across the bar. Narrow lanes merge into each other, overflowing with people like veins crisscrossing over one other. Small shops in the market seek shelter from the sun’s outrage by erecting shelters of thick fabric. Although, these shades keep safe from the direct sun rays yet they only trap the humidity and create a suffocating aura.
A few carts roll around the city with the vendors convincing people of the quality of their things. To the right of the alley, somewhere someone is roasting meat. Rapunzel comes to my mind immediately. She turned her face away from the marmalade and freshly baked bread this morning, and I can only worry that my child must be hungry. She’s very adamant of whatever she wants, neglecting food as a means to her end. But I loathe it when she does that because my heart nearly warms up to accepting her wishes. Only that I am restrained not to listen to her by chains of responsibility that I have bound myself with.
The steaming heat from the cooking meat hits my face as I patiently wait for the cook to wrap the meal in a clean sheet of cloth. I head back to the tower that stands on the outskirts of the city, careful that nobody is following me or has an eye on me as I weave my way through the trees that outline the city’s southern border.
The tower looks abandoned, and as is its ritual, it groans open as I grapple against its weight. My eyes take a while to adjust to the darkness until finally, they follow the soft oil lanterns that light the entrance and the stairs that lead to Rapunzel’s room. I prepare the dish, sprinkling it with finely ground red herbs that would put my girl into a deep sleep and take the stairs one at a time to greet the king’s daughter.
Unlocking the door is slightly difficult as everything over here has the burden of the worn time etched in their physique, so I place the dish on the side and push the door with all my might. I open it, expecting to see Rapunzel tugged in her bed, angry that I did not take her to the market or staring outside the window, complaining to the skies; a trait that we both share. But, Rapunzel is facing the corner walls of her room, dipping her fingers in the fresh paints.
