Red Riding Hood stares across the woodland cabin.
The wolf breaths heavily
and for a moment
there is relative quiet.
Grandma’s kitsch porcelain trinkets,
skipping children and obedient dogs,
tremble and tinkle to a gentle stop
on the dresser
as feathers from the shredded bloodied pillows
hang in the air.
Red locks eyes with the wolf.
His hairy chin is sodden,
soaked
in deep
scarlet dripping.
Red’s eyes narrow.
The wolf snarls.
They lurch at one another.
Their bodies thud against the floorboards.
Red screams a guttural scream
through gritted teeth
as she plunges a kitchen knife
deep into the wolf
who whimpers and yelps
and scuttles across the floor,
legs cycling,
claws anxiously scratching the laminate,
to hide underneath the bed.
Red stands
and watches a lake of thick
crimson blood
spread silently,
like long evening shadows,
out from under the hideous floral bed skirt
Red takes a shower and sings loudly
watching swirls of dirt and grey wolf hair
orbit the plug hole
and disappear.
She emerges clean, wraps a towel around her head and pops some bread in the toaster.
She sits at the dresser and idly applies layers of moisturiser and eye cream
and, without a glance, flings a half-eaten slice under the dust ruffle.
She hears the careful, pained chew of gigantic jaws
and snaps her head to the side with a frown.
It stops.
She nods and returns to her skin routine
without a word.
On day five Red will throw Wolf some trousers and gesture silently to a chair in the corner.
By day ten she will allow him to eat at the table so long as no eye contact is made
and he does the dishes afterwards.
By day twenty she traces her fingers along the words in a children’s book and helps him mimic the sounds.
And by day sixty she strides into town, dressed all in black, hissing at the townsfolk, as Wolf trots obediently alongside, tethered, protective, and growling at those who dare a second look.
They wear matching jewellery made from Grandma’s bones.