Red as My Hair

It’s strange that nobody tells you about dreams.

Everyone knows the good bits: the longing, the waiting, the fancies and the euphoria. I remember it well. Sometimes I look back on those days and wonder if the current has carried off the last of my treasures: the remaining bits and pieces of my carefully curated life. It’s hard to imagine the grotto now, knowing no one cares for it, and that I’ll never be able to return.

I longed for land and love. But nobody told me about the fish. They bolt at my approach, terrified by the sound of my legs. Did you know they eat them here? Hundreds of them: little lives served up on silver platters. I used to cry about it but now there’s only numbness. About everything. Senseless, everlasting numbness.

The few fish who trusted me have passed.

I wish fish lived longer lives.

I wish humans didn’t live so long.

Nobody told me fire hurts. Or that walking on sidewalks leaves blisters on your feet. Mine are covered in painful sores. Shoes are horrible things.

Eric doesn’t understand. I am a doll to him. I am the princess from the sea and nothing more. The diplomats from other countries look at me with sorrow, or pity, or shame.

Nobody believes it. Not a word. They think I’ve lost my wits. I am the insane princess from the unnamed realm that Eric married out of pity. I couldn’t see that at sixteen.

My father stopped visiting years ago. I suspect he’s gone and nobody bothered to tell me.

I don’t sing anymore.

But I’ve learned things. Pain has an end, and so does sorrow.

I know the difference between a dinglehopper and a knife.

And I know before the end of the night, my throat will be as red as my hair.