I’m 58 now and I no longer work for the queen. It’s been two decades since I killed her, since I held her soft, beating heart in my hands and I still can’t sleep at night. Two decades later and I haven’t gotten over it; what a drone I was. I try to convince myself that under my circumstances, any man with half a brain would’ve done it too but I know I’m just saying that to quiet the guilt in the back of my head.

Everyone’s heard the story of Snow White. Mothers read it to their children while putting them to bed and then place the book on a shelf and never look at it again. The kids drift away, dreaming of their happily-ever-afters, being married and safe and peaceful, when none of them know what actually happened. No one else was there except for me.

The queen was always temperamental, but on that day I thought those narcotics she’d been taking were really getting to her. She’d blab on about talking mirrors and being the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. She’d scream and throw a heck of a fit. Most of her guards would’ve turned to mockery, but they were all too familiar with the wrath this woman carried. She was storming through the castle, knocking over statues, house maids, flowerpots and yelling at the top of her lungs about how she was going to kill her. I had no clue who “her” was until I was called by one of the royal guards, saying the queen had a special assignment for me. I know I should’ve been thrilled at the sound of that, yet a precautious weight clung onto my coat as I trudged up the stairs to her throne.

“You know Snow?” She demanded once I kneeled before her.

“Snow White, or as in the snow that falls outside?” I inquired facetiously, immediately regretting my decision as her guards stepped towards me, swords drawn close to their sides.

“Joseph, darling,” the Queen began, ushering the guards away, “we both know you’re too smart to play these games with me. My step-daughter, Snow White, do you know her?”

I claimed that I’d seen her throughout the castle. It was inevitable due to the fact I’ve worked at the queen’s command since I was 18, but I never actually knew her. Snow White spent most of her days in the courtyard while I was out hunting game.

“Oh really? I thought you would’ve known Snow since apparently every man in the kingdom is crazed about her! She’s the cutest girl in all the land!”

I coughed slightly and kneeled further down. “I- um, your highness. I do not pay much attention to women… they’re not really what I’m into… anyway. What do you need with Snow White?”

“It’s not Snow White I need something with. It’s her heart. Have it cut out and brought to me tomorrow by noon or else it’ll be your daughter’s. You are dismissed.”

It was in that moment that I should have rejected the mission and turned away. To ensure no harm would’ve been done to my family, we could’ve fled to a different kingdom, a different country. There were plenty of other hearts I could’ve somehow found, claiming it belonged to the girl. All the doors were open before me, all my opportunities to back out and flee; I did the cowardly thing and I killed her. I killed Snow White. I held her soft, beating heart in my hands, felt her warm blood slip through my fingertips while mine grew cold.

I know this is where it diverges from your storybooks, where writers have been trying to erase what really happened so it would be bearable for others to consume. That’s the worst part about it I think, how unbearable it was to actually be there. People think the story’s sad… how a mother hated her child like that or how evil magic can mess with someone’s head. They think I’m a hero; they don’t know I killed a girl in cold blood.

The walk down the stairs from the queen’s throne bore down ten times worse on my shoulders than the antecedent. In my coat pockets was the weight of knowing she could hurt my adopted daughter, the only family I had. I thought of watching her play through the forest, with living deer and living rabbits, out of the harm of my job and I knew what had to be done. I chose the lesser of two evils; I chose to be cowardly.

As I exited the palace that day, I prayed to find Snow in the courtyard. I prayed to see faces there, blooming, excited and alive. I prayed that someone would stop me. But she was nowhere to be seen. The courtyard, no, the whole village, seemed to be empty, save the occasional stray dog limping through the streets. Doors were locked and windows bolted shut while the wind blew up hillsides and shadows danced under trees. It was as if everyone knew what I was up to, as if my every move belonged to some sick script no villager wanted to partake in. I couldn’t blame them, sure, but who would want to be alone when they’re about to kill a girl?

I know why they do it, though. Nobody likes their children’s stories to be filled with cruel drug-addicts and murderous followers, since history’s already heard enough of that. People want to feel inspired, to feel safe knowing there’s others out there who wouldn’t put a bullet to anyone’s head, regardless of what authority figures say. We read fairytales and forget we’re not living in one; most people don’t know what kind of kill they’re capable of until they hold a knife in their hands. I was the same way.

The forest was for hunting game. It was for shooting down birds, plucking their wings off on the way home and knowing you really made your money’s worth. It was for killing deer, and feeling weightless as you carried them on your back because your daughter had food to eat for the next few days. I never imagined myself hunting a girl in it, holding her soft, beating heart in my hands like a trophy, an ache lifted off of my own heart because my daughter would be safe when I came home to her. Snow White was no one’s daughter after all; her birth parents were dead and the queen was too crazy to even take care of herself. But there would be people who sensed her loss. There would be people who felt like her parents and who would mourn for the rest of their lives, thinking there was something they could’ve done to prevent it. Those poor fools don’t understand how unpreventable death is.

I’d read my daughter bedtime stories every night, just like her birth parents used to before they died in a fire. I’d tell her about ferocious beasts and courageous princesses who conquered the world by storm. She didn’t want to be one of the princesses, though. Agnes held onto my thumb with her whole six-year-old hand and talked about how she’d write stories like that too someday. How she’d write them about me: the brave dad who took her off the streets after her real parents died, the dad who taught her how to draw and hike and who woke her up early to watch sunrises with him. Happy stories made me cry harder than the sad ones sometimes.

I hid behind the bushes that day, watching Snow White pick flowers and play with nearby rabbits for nearly two hours before I finally stepped out. Before, I mainly just sat there and wept. I looked at the back of her head; black like my daughter’s. Black like the smoke that engulfed her parents. Black like the empty slot my mind comes to when I ask myself why I did it. I imagined a bullet through it and then I sat there and wept for two hours. Despite my prayers, the girl didn’t hear me behind those trees. She didn’t hear me until I was a few feet away from her but screaming was futile once my knife was at her throat.

There were twenty-three stab-wounds where her chest used to be, warm and seeping as flies gathered around the corpse to have a taste. One, two, twenty-three stabs, however, would never be enough to satisfy the hatred I felt. There were never enough wounds to describe the pity I held towards everyone. The queen, my daughter, myself, Snow… I yanked her heart out with one deep incision, but twenty-three stab wounds weren’t enough.

I suppose that’s why I only actually stabbed her twice, one cut at her throat in order to kill and the other to pull out the heart from her once she was actually dead. Her skin was frail under my grasp as I held onto her throat and her pale shell tore like paper at the touch of my knife. Pale like the look my daughter had when she was sickly and I found her on the streets. Pale like her parents’ corpses. Pale like the ghosts that haunt me when I’m trying to get some sleep.

It’s been two decades since I killed her, since I held her soft, beating heart in my hands and felt myself slip away as the blood dripped onto my boots on the way back to the castle. It’s been two decades since Agnes saw Snow’s remains on my shoes and asked me if I had a busy day at work. A few months later, when I read her a story about how a princess had to kill her mother who was an evil witch, she’d asked me if I ever had to kill a person. I thought about the boots and the blood on them and the twenty-three stab wounds which were actually two and the hole in Snow’s head and the fire that engulfed Agnes’ parents and how I started the fire with a careless gunshot on a hunting job and I replied “no” through gritted teeth. I told her about how I’d been ordered to once, keeping the Queen’s terms very vague. I told her I did the courageous thing.

I’m 58 now and I no longer work for the queen. It’s been two decades since I killed her, since I held her soft, beating heart in my hands and I still can’t sleep at night. The queen died from an overdose, spluttering how the mirror betrayed her between puke-filled breaths and Snow White’s body is still decomposing in that forest. If not, she haunts it. Agnes and I moved away to a different village and she writes children’s books now. Most of them are about thieves clawing their way to redemption, beasts, or princesses. She has some about the father she was old enough to know. A few days ago, Agnes mailed me her newest story, Snow White, and I wept for two hours after finishing it. Inside the cover, she told me she wanted every kid out there who read it to grow up into a hero, just like her father was.