A folklore tale (continued...)

As time passed, the friend kept no promise, paying infrequent visits to little Rose, who kept her secret from her mother. It was not due to mischievous intent, but for fun and enjoyment, as Rose called her friend her friend, and her friend called her her friend.

And the next time the friend saw Rose, she wore a face reddened.

“Eve…” Rose called, with a face flushed. Redder than usual rose blush highlighted her cheeks.

“Yeah,” the friend replied with a curious eye. The friend had long taken to the nickname Rose gave her with a fondness. All too familiar with every manner in which the word rolled off the young daughter’s tongue.

“I need your help,” Rose said, terribly shy, but there was no one to whom she could turn. “Can you… Can you teach me to be smooth? There’s someone I sort of like…”

The friend smiled—a sly smile filled with mischievous joy.

“Man or woman?”

“A, m-man! Of course, it is a man!”

“It’s never obvious, you know. Had to ask.”

“Wait, y-you’ve been with both?! No, no, no. This isn’t good. You’re a vixen! Mother spoke of folks like you. I have come to the wrong place. Please forget I said anything.”

“So why haven’t you left?” The friend asked. Shame was written all over the daughter’s face, making it clear she was embarrassed. “Walk that rump into that little cozy cottage home of yours. Leave me be, child.”

“Just… smooth words. Nothing that will warrant me looking like a harlot, please.”

The friend chuckled with the most gorgeous smile. Their fangs were on full display, which the daughter neither cared for, despite only noticing now. Her friend was her friend, and her friend called her her friend.

“Tell me about him.”

“Okay, so…”

The story told by little Rose left Rose being little no more. Her friend, who was equally beautiful and cunning but far more experienced, gave her advice. The advice proved to fatal, like a sharp dagger ready to kill. It did not kill, for even a dull blade would have done the job.

While Rose was smart, she was young. Doing the best she could, her acting skills struck a chord of a rather intriguing blend of goofy, seductive, aloof allure. With such advice, the little Rose had a little rose herself.

When the friend saw their friend again, questions stirred. They were out of curiosity at first, but soon they became out of concern. Rose was no longer as bright and cheery as she once was. Gone was the flush of red that usually saturated the girl’s cheeks. Gone was the subtle smiling that lit up the room.

“Is it the child? Would you like to be rid of it?”

“No, it’s not the child. I love her deeply, but…”

‘But,’ that was the question. By the time the friend had returned, they had not known all that had come and passed for their friend, the little Rose. The father was no longer present, as Rose had to leave him. Rose distanced herself from him for his safety, since she was cursed. Should she love too greatly, a sickness befell her. One that spawned a wheeze and a series of coughs, her body too frail to even support her frame. It started with the man who brought her smiles. It then came again when she stared into the eye of her own flesh and blood that came into the world.

“I can’t love them. The more I care for them, the sicker I get.”

The words Rose spoke brought tears to her own eyes as well as her friend.

The friend could not recall the last time they had shed a tear for anyone other than themselves outside of a game or an act. She called her friend her friend, but now she believed the little Rose was indeed and truly her friend.

“Would you like me to…”

“No, I promised my mother I would not. Nor could I do that to you,” Rose confessed. The friend had hidden their secret when they first met their friend, the little Rose. But the Little Rose was no longer a little rose. She was smart, and she was stunning, even with the sadness in her eyes. The truth eventually came, where the day the friend spoke of what they were. Their nature, their urges. Their kind.

Heeding the little Rose’s words, the friend took time to leave, their minds filled with thoughts. They promised not to turn on their friend and held to it, but the same could not be said for those lurking about. Following the friend was a curious entity, who could not believe a normal girl had changed someone of a similar kind.

This curious one was jealous, hungry, and mean. They were their father’s child after all. Curious, selfish, and ruthless, the curious one took to taking the girl for themselves. They wanted what they wanted when they wanted it, and right now they wanted the little Rose for themselves.

However, unaware of the curse placed on the little Rose, the little Rose’s thorns prickled back. Her blood tasted sweeter than any fruit the curious one had had before. But like any garden, this fruit was forbidden, its thorns pricking back. Cursing the curious one with a form that was more befitting of their nature.

Angry, the curious one thought, “If they could not have what they desired, then none shall.” The curious one was just like their father after all.

By now, the little Rose’s little Rose was nothing more than a tiny bud. Grown enough to stand and hear the terror that took place of their mother’s death at the hand of the curious one. Yet still too young and unaware, scared, and angry, they neither knew nor could understand.

Just like their mother, a curse befell them. Should they love something too deeply, they too shall fall incurable disease. Of course, with the mother gone, the mother’s mother had to step up. The love the two had was fond and caring, and time only strengthened such bonds. The little Rose of the little Rose bloomed into a dazzling flower, only to wilt from a sickness.

Unable to stand the sight, the mother of the mother, now a grandmother, called for help. She could not lose another bud in her garden to the will of nature and torrential storms.

“You want me to turn her?” The friend of the little Rose asked

“Please… I need her safe.”

The friend of the little Rose took this request without question, promising to look after the little Rose of little Rose, as she was her friend.

The friend had to speak their mind, telling the tale of what could be and what may happen. Unlike werewolves, who pass their curse on by simple means of a scratch or bite, their kind—the vampiric kind — must drink the blood of those who shall turn. They have to return the blood they consume and mix it with the blood of the person who drank their blood. Seconds to hours, to even days, some lose all sense of self. The hunger that beckons forth is like that of a raging tidal wave. A thirst that is never quenched.

Regaining one’s sense of self could take weeks. Some never do, the hunger taking over far faster, cutting away memories lost to the wind of who and what they were before such exquisite bites.

The Little Rose of the Rose, who had just barely blossomed into a ravishing sight to behold, was no different. What was a life of death and eternal sickness to that of an undying one? The Little Rose of the Little Rose wilted and died, blossoming with far more thorns than it was planted with.

Screams and cries, whimpers and snarls of pain and hunger. The poor little Rose of the little Rose never got over her mother’s death.

Unbearable, the Grandmother could only stand as the door remained closed, with the friend on the other side handling what they had promised.

On this day, the friend learned of the grandmother’s secret. Grimm, not Grimes, is her proper name. The curse will never be repeated. She told the truth about how she was a witch, one who had left the covenant behind—a covenant that did not leave her behind.

Therefore, everyone had scorned the Grandmother. She shall live but never forget her choice of ignoring her own hunger. For you see, like every living creature requires food, a witch requires children to survive.

Unable to stomach the idea, the Grandmother had made a choice now that she bore her own child. To leave her past, to leave her name.

Her journey alone was not exile, yet the covenant took to believing it was. It was a punishment deserved and served by another, who took great pleasure in serving it. To curse such a beautiful flower and its roots to such an extent that no bud would ever grow crimson strong in this garden again was a true curse.

Sacrifice is law.

And when a law is broken, it must be punished.

It would be best to revere this tale of the Grandmother for another day. Though tales are always told one way or another, whether they never end happily ever after…”