Once Upon a Time

There was a prince who dreamt of being a hunter, and a girl who wished to be his next kill

Soft soil sunk under the heel of his leather boot, twigs, and dried leaves from the last autumn snapping and popping as he traversed the rough terrain. Climbing up the risen hills and descending between the dips in the trees, he followed his normal path while the blood slowly dried under his nails and clotted like oozing candlewax from his hip, where his most recent kill swung lightly. It was a pale morning, the light between the trees seeping into the forest a misty blue that still clung to the grey shadow of a black night, a dusting of frost highlighting the protruding rocks and twisting roots from the last snowfall. Eyes as dark as plums trailed this ground a few feet in front of each step with a heavy step and sloping, rounded, strong shoulders leaned forward with the persistence of the hunt; hooded by ink lashes that matched straight, stern brows, the lavender staining beneath their pitted gaze turned to the blush of candy apple red cheeks, its pigment blotting the tip of his pointed nose from the cold as well as the ends of his hard-knuckled, thick fingers. Besides the tangled web of fluffed brown hair matching the very darkness of the damp land that he stepped over or the thickest scabs of bark wrapped around the trunks of the surrounding trees or the richest bite of chocolate from the most wealthy merchant that was perfectly bitter and laced with a slight hint of coffee extract, and despite the hardness of his eyes alongside their sharp shadows that cast a predatory watch over his surroundings, the man’s features were pink. Pink and its warmer, redder hues, reminiscent of eager fruit in the spring, of desserts coagulated with these syrupy fruits and their pastel colors. That was his greatest weapon—he was pretty, and most of his prey, because of it, came willingly, came eagerly to the glinting edge of his polished blade, comforted by his apparent sweetness. But no one should ever trust a man who wanders the woods, and especially one as handsome and charming as he.

She was fearfully aware of this, especially that day when she first looked up to see him lurking behind one of the trees bordering the well. He leaned against its sturdy side and kept his gaze on the ground once she looked up from the shimmering water beneath her, although it had already become trained on her oblivious features, drinking her in slowly and with a calm that made it so when she did notice him, she believed he’d somehow not seen her. So, she swallowed despite the sudden dryness of her throat and redirected her attention back to the water she was supposed to be pulling back up in the leaky, old bucket she’d been tasked to venture into the woods with, the same as any other day. It would be four more nights before she saw this stranger again, his disappearance back into the trees leaving her with her hands shaking, causing her to splash water the whole way home and arrive with more than a quarter gone from the whole bucket. Four more nights she’d spent thinking of his features, tracing them over in her memory until the colors began to blend together, and she could only recall the shape of him, allowing these features to melt easily to their place in her dreams due to her expectation it’d be the last time she’d encounter him, a passing wanderer, as so many others were. It was this memorization, however, alongside the shock of his initial presence, that caused, upon that fifth day, her to scan the surrounding woods as soon as she arrived at the clearing and spot him almost immediately; the catching of her breath in her throat causing her lungs to seize against the tightness of her bodice, causing her veins to grow cold as it would take a few startled beats of her heart to catch back up to itself as if she’d just stumbled upon a ghost, or a memory of a ghost from her past—something forgotten, yet so deeply ingrained in her that it was only left to reflexes and instinct for her to react.

Her reaction to him was as primal and elementary as hunger. And it would be this hunger that dominated all logic or reason or any other rational thought telling her to stay away from him, to go to a different well for water, or go at an earlier or later time she’d know he wouldn’t be there. But in the months that passed, she’d wake in the morning with splintered and chewed nails, shaking from excitement, and she’d go hours too blissfully caught in the remembering of the previous day—the way his eye would pierce hers and linger for just a little too long, or how she’d catch his gaze from the corner of hers, already taking her in, or the way he’d turn his chin over his shoulder and follow her movements when she got too close—beginning to dance around him and see if he’d follow—the way his lips would quirk upward into soft smiles or how she’d realize he was trailing her farther from the well until disappearing back from where he came, how he’d watch her reflection in the water they both stared into when he approached the stone, the drifting sound of his voice speaking on her features to surrounding friends—that she’d go these hours without food; satiated on his attention alone, on this proximity, his presence, and that no matter how many days past, she still found him at that well, amongst the trees, waiting for—looking for—her.

No other well, no other clearing saw him, at no other time did he visit the well, all the while no other caught his eye, no other got his attention, no other was able to make his face glow so rosy or eyes get so dark; so she dressed in her best or spent what she could on new clothing, she washed twice as often and spent time getting ready every day before her trek to get more water, to see this man, who just as soon as she’d returned home from, she’d begin devouring whatever food was available because of, stale, grey, ripe, rotten, or fresh. The previous abstinence in the name of anticipation he’d caused soon being replaced by a startling, similarly passionate appetite. That is, until—once the frost had melted and the snow cleared, a new breeze replaced the winter chill, and the word of her affections had reached him alongside a short disappearance on her end as a result of finding out that she was not the princess, but the prey of this prince charming—the days from which she’d last seen him at her well became longer and longer, and this hunger he’d caused began consuming itself.

Endlessly chewing at herself, she spent longer and longer at the well, hoping he’d show, catching the eye of the acquaintances he sometimes brought with him and hearing their whispers replacing his yet equally as confused toward his disappearance as she was until the spring air polluted her lungs and the summer sun began blistering her skin, drying her tears and coating her tongue in green, infecting the cuts on her taste buds as she lapped at the stone for any hint of his sweat. She’d chewed the soil for the taste of his boot polish and swallowed the rocks, hoping to find in her sweet blood the aroma of his scent, gnawed on the bark from the trees for traces of the oil of his skin, or a loose hair caught in their sap. She’d cut herself open to find in this possession his presence within her, she’d slaughtered the lambs and cows and gulped down the silken red meat of their innards and musculature in hopes of finding through her hunger more of his details, to remind herself of her hunger for him and the satisfaction he brought her. She’d licked and suckled at and swallowed pieces of the well and its surroundings, trying to find him still remnant in its material despite the changing of the seasons and his absence, until her own blood, sweat, and tears began to soak the ground and smear around her, so much so that the others who visited the well could only smell the faint stench of her need, her grief, her suffering. And when sickness struck elsewhere, she’d return to the well, lie under the sun amongst the grass, and let the insects nibble at her scabs, and the flies tickle her lashes, finding that pain was what brought the most vivid memory of his presence in his absence.

It was on one of the worst days of her insatiable hunger, two months and in the full maturation of summer, that she next heard a word of him and felt the newfound sharpness and claw of her desire, spoiled over that summer to a rot, slice into her tongue, glinting in her smile as she thanked the speaker of this word and disappeared forever from that well, having since become acquinted with the ways of a hunter and realized the prince had never been one, not truly.

Although he had the pace and looks of a predator, his eyes were the same darkness of a doe or a cow, and just as wet, just as fearful, just as wondrous. Although his frame was thick and ropey, built as would expect a hunter would be after years of activity and being well-fed from its rewards, it was as if he only sustained himself on the rewards of a singular, previous hunt; milking it bloody and then bleeding it dry until he was popping cartilage between his molars and gnawing on dried, preserved skin turned jerky, then wondering why his stomach growled so ravenously and why his eye twinkled at the sight of such fluffy pink and white offering as a lamb that’d become sacrificial for his blade. More accurately, she found he hadn’t even known the game of hunting before her, but had had the dreams of a hunter since his youth when he’d play with and study traps, yet never seeing them filled. He was a prince who’d been given a nameless princess with no presence, and as the prince grew accustomed to this arrangement, preparing for and fantasizing about the day he’d finally taste blood, it was the prey who sought out his hunt, teased the game out of him—a natural occurrence—and ignited the thrill of the chase he’d so long forgotten, and so longed to taste ever since his days of trapping and book reading. It was just as he’d read, after all, just as all the hunters would come back and talk about, something he’d been so afraid of all his life, as if they prey would turn around and start hunting him back, as if out in those woods, what the men spoke of, this “hunt” wasn’t for the mindless animals the boy was reading about, although the same principles were applied.

Her name had been carved into the wooden hilt of his blade. Although she’d never know the way he went forth from the well since the late days of autumn when all the foilage had already yellowed and browned and fell from their stems, that all his game since laying his eyes on her, he imagined were indeed her, that each arrow that pierced the thighs, hips, and shoulders of fleeing prey, he imagined laying her down and feeling the ends sink into her soft parts, too, spreading her open like ripe fruit, digging out the pit of her desire and sucking off the frayed, meaty barbs, cutting himself on it then filling her mouth with his blood and feeding both their appetites for destruction, he thought he’d be able to acquire a fondness for other meats than hers, despite never having even tasted it, and spent his time looking for her in the foods he ate. Nevertheless, he did visit that well again, twice in fact, on impulse, and waited for her just as he usually had.

The first time, however, she arrived only after he’d already disappeared back down into the trees to hear of his presence. And the second, on a day she’d gone earlier and left earlier than normal—beginning to accept he was gone—on passing by the well later on that evening, she spotted his belongings not far off from the trail—raced home to change and ready herself—then, upon arriving, missed him, again. She’d continued back toward home soon after, stopping by the market on the way with her stomach in knots and bile slick at the back of her throat yet an inexpressible excitement that he was still there, alive, and in good health, and looked up to see him walking a little ways ahead. It was the first time she’d seen him, and watching the way he walked with his trades hanging from his fingers, shoulders sloped down and friends walking ahead of him, another squirt of acidity from nausea burned the roof of her mouth due to the undeniable frustration and hunger that loomed around her hunter, tracing each of his movements and stiffening them. He’d missed her, too. And he’d gone back hoping to see her. He was alive, oh yes, but hearty? Satisfied? At ease? Far from—he looked not just hungry, in the way she’d seen her hunter before, but starved.

She began looking for him everywhere, sniffing him out, desperate to catch just a hint of him until she began stalking the woods and enjoying the act of searching for her hunter as much as she’d imagined him enjoying the act of her being right where he wanted. But just like always, she remained at the well during the times he would have known she’d be there—then, came the day of the word, and the news that he had found a new well, and despite his previous two visits to her well, she knew there was no use in staying put. So the hunter became the hunted, having abandoned his game in the middle of the chase to grow an urge and longing, a dependency on her own defeat at his hands, and it was at the new well she waited until he emerged from the cool morning, appearing between the trees in the same wear she’d so often seen him in before, a small creature hanging from his hip, still warm, his polished boots wet with mud and curls glistening slightly from the sweat beading along his hairline.

His eyes were already on her when she looked up to see him making way, those big brown eyes already full of what looked like fear and a certain pride, happiness, yet dread at the prospect of being found. She’d found him, returned to him, and although she were the one still shaking as prey often do when faced with their predators, his nose lowering to catch her perfume when he passed where she stood the same moment as her gaze fell to her shoes and the two immediately falling back into previous patterns, there was a suspicion that made the practice of indulging in it even worse, and even more addicting. Although it was as if no time had passed between their last encounter, something had now deviated between them; both had learned certain behaviors and traits from one another, the predator since becoming more prey-like and the prey having grown a craving for the predator that was carnivorous, fashioned and tailored only for its predator.

From this only one thing was certain. They’d sooner tear each other apart and give themselves up to being consumed than either go home with any separate prize. And if you look to the woods, or follow the old splashes of sweet mahogany stains from the stone well into the trees, run fast enough and you can almost catch the distant rustle of the on-going chase between the prince who dreamt of being a hunter, and the girl who made him one by becoming his rabbit. The rippling reflection of their lingering eye contact and the shimmer of the sharp edge of his blade, perhaps an arrow poised at her ivory skin and a single flower digging into the softness of her fur and held by her her own delicate fingers as a single droplet of blood then ribbons through the water, asking, what is one without the other? What would become of them? What is love without this consumption, this violence?