[Episode 96] - The Snow White Story (2)
It was nice to have returned to when I was one year old, but honestly, there was very little I could do at that age. At most, I could only throw tantrums at the maids or babble at them.
But a baby’s tantrums were surprisingly effective. If I simply cried, the maids or attendants would figure out what I wanted on their own. So getting close to Mother was fairly easy.
...When I saw Mother’s face for the first time, I truly cried—not the crying I used to throw tantrums at the maids, but real tears. It was the first time I had ever seen the face of the mother I had always known only through portraits.
She really did look exactly like me. So much so that I wondered if this was what my face would look like when I grew up. Beneath hair as black as ebony were embroidered crimson eyes. That was the haggard appearance of my mother.
It seemed she really had been ill. The room was filled with a mixture of the smell of medicine and the musty odor peculiar to the sick. Looking at Mother as she stared out the window with melancholy in her eyes, I made a vow.
I would live this twelfth life for my mother. In this life, I would save my mother, Aurora. Honestly, I could guess why Mother was sick. No, I would have been a fool not to know.
The person preparing Mother’s medicine was one of Vivian’s minions. After dying around eleven times, I had been able to identify all of Vivian’s agents hiding in the royal palace. Finding the culprit was easy.
From then on, I moved with precision. Unless I was at Mother’s side, I cried until my throat was raw, and whenever the apothecary who prepared Mother’s medicine came around, I threw every toy within reach at him.
Naturally, all the maids found it strange. Why did I, a baby, behave so oddly whenever the apothecary came? It was enough merely to make them suspicious. After that, the maids took care of the rest.
‘It’s a real problem that the princess dislikes the apothecary... Why does she cry and even scream like this whenever he comes?’
‘It can’t be because she dislikes the smell of medicine on him. When the doctor who came to examine the princess and another apothecary visited, she stayed perfectly quiet. The princess only acts this way with Her Majesty the Queen’s personal apothecary.’
‘But why...?’
As I had expected, the maids who had watched my strange behavior began to suspect the apothecary. That suspicion spread to everyone’s ears like ripples caused by a stone thrown into a still lake.
The head attendant heard the rumor and began to suspect the apothecary as well. She started asking for the opinions of other apothecaries. I do not know what happened to that apothecary afterward, but he never showed his face in Mother’s room again.
Instead, the apothecary Father found himself prepared medicine for Mother, and she slowly began to recover her health. By the time I was five, Mother was well enough to go on walks.
And so, Mother regained her health. She became so healthy that she was even able to appear in public. Seeing Mother in good health made me happy as well. Because at last, I thought Mother might look at me.
...That’s right. In truth, Mother did not look at me until I was five. She would not even meet my eyes. As soon as I learned to walk, she sent me away, saying that she did not want to share a room with me.
At the time, I thought it was simply because she was ill. That made sense, didn’t it? When you are sick, you care about yourself. Other people do not matter more than you do. So I thought that was why Mother would not look at me.
I truly believed that was the reason.
...I suppose I had not died enough back then.
I learned the truth afterward. Mother simply had no interest in me. She did not hate me or despise me. She just had no interest in me at all. The only person Mother loved was Father.
She had no interest in the child born between them. Even when I chattered beside her all day like a baby bird, even when I followed her around like a chick trailing after its parent, Mother paid me no attention.
And then, when I was six years old, Mother asked me to sleep with her for the first time. She told me to come into her bedroom, and I was so happy at the thought of sleeping beside Mother for the first time that I did not know what to do with myself.
The thought of sleeping beside the mother I had only ever dreamed of was so blissful. I even prepared a storybook for Mother to read to me before going to her bedroom. Although I was already too old to have a storybook read to me...
Listening to Mother read me a story had been one of my small dreams. Lying in the same bed beside Mother, falling asleep as I listened to a fairy tale—that was my dream. Such a trivial and adorable dream, wasn’t it?
I knocked softly on Mother’s bedroom door, and she told me to come in. Seeing Mother already lying in bed and waiting for me, I smiled brightly and climbed onto the bed.
Once I lay down, I could feel Mother’s warmth so clearly. I was so happy that I could not help but smile, wondering if this was how a chick felt when held in a hen’s embrace.
I asked Mother to read me a storybook, but she refused, saying that she did not feel well. It was disappointing, but there was nothing to be done, was there? I did not want to become a wicked daughter who threw a tantrum when Mother said she was ill.
I was happy simply to be beside Mother. I liked being beneath those blankets, where I could feel her warmth. I was happy just to hear her breathing beside me.
But why?
I suddenly felt as if I could not breathe, and I began to struggle. Even when I opened my eyes, everything was dark, and something was pressing down on me so hard that I could not breathe. Unable to speak, I could only flail my arms and legs.
Even when I tried to cry out for help, I had no breath left. I grabbed the arm pressing down on my face and raked it fiercely with my fingernails. Save me. Please, save me. I’m sorry.
But the more I struggled, the harder the thing pressing down on my face pushed against me. When it took too long, it began strangling my neck as well. Die. Please, just die. You have to die.
As my consciousness began to fade, I heard it clearly.
‘Why did you have to be born? Because of you, he...!’
It was Mother’s voice, as though she were lamenting my very existence.
Only then did I realize my mistake.
Why I had to suffer this.
Why I had to die like this.
The only time Mother ever showed interest in me was when Father loved me. Because of his position as king, Father could not often meet Mother and me. He came to see us about once a week.
Mother had thought that I was taking away that precious time they had once a week. The more attention Father paid to me, the less time she believed she had to receive that attention herself.
She had killed me so she could spend that time entirely on herself.
She had killed me so that she alone could be loved by Father.
It took me three repetitions to realize that this was Mother’s true nature.
Mother never used anything like poison. She killed me through things that looked like minor accidents—suffocating me with a pillow, or pushing me overboard when we went boating together.
After realizing that even the mother who had given birth to me did not love me, I simply wanted to die. I truly did not want to live. There were countless ways to die around me, weren’t there?
All I had to do was fall headfirst from the terrace, and I could die without fail. But I was too afraid. No matter how much I thought about it, it was clear that I had not the slightest attachment to my life, yet I did not have the courage to die.
After realizing that I lacked the courage to take my own life, what I desperately wished for was to slowly die on my own. That, at least, seemed truly possible.
I would return again even if I died. There would be another chance anyway. Thinking that way, in my twentieth life, I stopped eating anything and shut myself away in my room.
With no food in my stomach, I had no strength. With no hope—or anything else—in my heart, I could feel my body dying with startling clarity. Every time I looked in the mirror, watching myself slowly die gave me a strange sense of pleasure.
I died that way, then Vivian killed me, and then I died again. Even after repeating it around thirty times, the oldest I ever lived to be was fifteen. Until then, I had never once become an adult.
And then came my thirty-fourth life.
I returned at Father’s funeral.
Throughout my thirty-three regressions, Father had never once died. But the moment I returned, Father was dead. Mother had, of course, already died. Which meant that the only person left by my side was—
‘So, starting today, I’ll be raising you.’
‘......’
‘Aren’t you going to greet me? Goodness, what an ill-tempered girl, considering whose daughter you are.’
‘...I look forward to your guidance, Your Highness, Queen Consort Vivian II.’
Vivian, who had become my guardian.
Since this had never happened before, there was nothing I could do. Until then, at least Father had been by my side. But now Father was gone too.
At the time, I thought I would not last long in this life either. Whenever I became involved with Vivian, I always ended up dead. And now Vivian was going to raise me? I thought that living for even a week would be a long life.
Back then, I was apathetic toward life, and death meant nothing to me. I acted as though I were telling her to kill me if she was going to. But contrary to my expectations, Vivian did not kill me. Apparently, I had some kind of ‘talent.’
And now that Father was dead, Vivian seemed to place significance on the fact that I was the person closest to him. Honestly, I still could not understand what Mother or Vivian was thinking.
Father was dead—what did I, a person related to him by blood, have to do with anything? I wished they would direct their obsession solely at Father, please. Being the object of Vivian’s obsession was nothing but disgusting and irritating.