The Ogre, the Witch, the Prince and Mira

The Witch

March 12, 1964

The lambs woke me again before the light came up. The smallest one kept crying like it thought someone would answer. I named him Jonah. Bess, the brown cow, chews loudly. I like listening to that.

They made a place for me in the barn when I came here. It isn’t really a room, but it has boards and a door that leans the wrong way. The cot is narrow, but it’s a bed. I keep a tin horse Mama gave me on the shelf and a book with the cover torn off. The blanket smells like hay and I don’t mind that.

Before this, I lived with Mama. She worked nights and slept days, and sometimes she came home tired enough to forget my name. When she died, there was nowhere else for me to go. I was sent here because I belong to him, even though I am not wanted. I know the word for that. Everyone here uses it.

I am not part of the house. The woman who lives there makes that clear. So do her children. I eat after. I speak when spoken to. I sleep where I am told. I do not use their names and they do not use mine unless they have to.

I go inside for work. Washing floors. Peeling potatoes. Carrying water. Sometimes I am allowed in for supper on Sundays or when people come over, but I sit where I won’t be noticed. The house is warm and smells like bread and soap. It is a home for them.

I know when the Ogre is near because the sound of him comes first. His steps are heavy and slow, like he wants the floor to feel him. The house changes when he is close. The walls feel tighter. I keep my eyes down and my hands busy and my body still.

He never comes into the barn. He says, “the barn is for animals.” Out here, nothing reaches for me. Inside, I am careful not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have learned where not to stand. I have learned when not to move.

At night, when the barn settles, I listen anyway. Even though I know I am safe here, I listen for the Ogre. It is hard to stop.

Sometimes I dream about running. In the dream I get as far as the road. Then I wake up and Jonah is quiet and Bess is breathing and it is dark.

Tomorrow I will go back into the house. There will be work to do. When it is finished, I will come back here. The barn will not ask me questions. It will not touch me. It will let me sleep. This is my home.

The Witch

August 3, 1970

I am leaving tomorrow.

I have said it out loud, so it feels real.

I am a woman now.

I am done with the house and its rules that change depending on his mood. I am done with pretending there was ever anything holy about what he did.

The Ogre is an ugly, vile creature when you see him clearly. Not big like I thought when I was a child. Just snarling and loud, certain he could take what he wants because no one stopped him and no one ever will. He calls it discipline. He calls it God. He calls it my fault. I know better now.

The house looks different when you know you are leaving it. Smaller.

Every room has taken something from me. I would burn the house to the ground if I thought fire could fix it. But the animals are sleeping out back, breathing in the dark, trusting me. I won’t become the kind of thing that hurts what is innocent.

I am carrying a child. I knew before I admitted it to myself. My body told me. I don’t know if it is a prince or a princess, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is that this ends now.

I think about my mother more lately.

Tomorrow, before the sun comes up, I will take what I can carry and I will go. Into the city. I want somewhere that doesn’t go quiet.

I will never raise my hand to my child. I will never make them sleep outside. They will be strong enough that no one ever mistakes them for something that can be used.

I am not afraid of what lies ahead.

Tonight I will sleep in the barn one last time. I will miss Jonah and Bess and these innocent creatures.

The dark is the same dark it has always been.

Tomorrow, it will be someone else’s.

The Ogre will rise, and I will be gone.

The Prince

November 18, 1983

The Witch says the city isn’t safe for boys who wander. I come straight home after school.

I help with the bags and the trash and whatever else she needs. When I forget something, she says I don’t think enough. That I’m dumb. When I ask to ride my bike, she says I’m needed in the home. I don’t ask much.

The kids in school make fun of me for always having to go home. They call me a mama’s boy. I don’t know what to say back. Sometimes I think of punching them in the nose. But maybe they are right.

School is the best part of my day. I like knowing where I’m supposed to be. I like to see my teachers. I like Taylor ham and cheese on a roll for lunch. I like my friends.

The kids play in the street after dinner. I watch from the window while I do my homework and chores. The Witch says games make boys careless.

She tells me I am all she has. Then she tells me I’m nothing. I don’t want to be the reason she is sad and alone.

I have to hide you so she doesn’t find you. She would get so mad and yell at me. She might throw you in the garbage or burn you. I can’t say these things out loud. I can only say them here.

The Prince

May 27, 1990

I don’t even know why I’m writing in this. I found this notebook while I was packing my things. It was hidden under a floorboard beneath my window, wrapped up like something dangerous. It feels strange to hold it again. It’s been years since I opened it. I flipped back through the pages from when I was a kid and couldn’t believe how much of it I thought was normal.

I didn’t have friends because of the Witch. I didn’t go away to college because of the Witch. I didn’t learn how to be with someone because of the Witch.

It’s time to live for myself.

I met Madelene. Being with her feels easy. Quiet. When I’m with her, I don’t feel small.

The Witch doesn’t like her. She says Madelene isn’t good enough for me. She says she’s trying to take me away. She says I owe her everything. She always says that when I choose something she didn’t choose for me.

Tomorrow I’m moving out. I’m engaged. We’re getting married and starting our own life. The Witch can say whatever she wants. I’m done asking.

I will never do to my children what the Witch did to me, and I’ll give them everything they need.

I know how not to be.

Mira

April 9, 2007

I’m supposed to be valedictorian of middle school. I still might be, if that little bitch Molly Chance doesn’t edge me out by half a point. It’s close. Everyone keeps saying it’s “an honor just to be considered,” which is stupid. Second place is just proof you didn’t work hard enough.

I’m the oldest of four, so I’m expected to know better. I do know better. I always do. I get the grades. I help at home. I don’t drink or smoke or sneak out. I’ve never even tried a cigarette. I’ve only been to second base. I follow the rules because I understand how things work.

Someday I’ll be a cardiothoracic surgeon. I’ll live in a big house with an in-ground pool. I’ll drive a BMW. I’ll marry someone hot, maybe an investment banker.

None of it seems to matter to the Prince.

No matter what I do, it’s never enough.

Straight A’s don’t get a “great job.” Being responsible doesn’t get an “I’m proud of you.” Instead, I hear about other kids. His friends’ daughters who speak three languages. Boys he grew up with who didn’t even try and still aced everything. My younger brother’s test scores, how smart he is naturally, like effort is something to be embarrassed by.

When I point out that I did everything I was supposed to, I’m told to stop talking back. When I get a grade below a ninety, I’m grounded. I don’t know why my siblings don’t feel this pressure, why it all seems to land on me.

Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest.

Maybe it’s because I should know better.

Maybe it’s because I’m just not good enough.

This house feels like a castle with the drawbridge always up, a moat around it. The Prince on his throne, and me trapped in the steeple.

Sometimes I think about running away and telling the truth about this family, about how perfect isn’t real. About how we’re all under this weird, dark, fucking curse.

Sometimes I think if I just do one more thing right, he’ll finally see me.

Probably not.

Maybe someday I’ll make him proud.

Mira

December 23, 2019

My therapist suggested I start writing things down.

I have a habit of turning everything into a performance, even my pain.

I can see now how being “good” became a way to disappear without leaving.

None of that makes me weak.

I don’t believe in fairy tales or monsters anymore. I don’t need to.

My father was not a Prince. He was a person who did what he knew how to do, shaped by fear.

Understanding that keeps me from carrying it forward like a family heirloom.

I am good. Not exceptional. Not finished. Just good.

I am enough.

Tomorrow I will see my parents and my siblings for Christmas Eve. I will go as myself.

If I decide to have children someday, I won’t ask them to carry what was never theirs.

There are no curses or spells.

I don’t need to break anything.

I just need to stop.

For me.

And for whatever comes after me.

***

Mira places the journal on the nightstand, the pen resting inside.

She turns off the light.

The book remains open.