Curly Locks

Henry wants me to sew exactly fifty-eight billion seams on his silk blanket. But every time I try, the blanket rips or I lose count, and I have to start all over again. And every time I do, Henry yells and screams and calls me the most horrible things, but then he gets so sad and says, “Darling little Curly Locks, can you forgive me?” And I look into his watery gray eyes and I just have to say yes. Because if I don’t, he’ll cry and beg and tear my heart apart.

Oh darling Henry, can you forgive me, though?

My bottom aches and I try to shift as gently as possible, but Henry’s head whips around and I can feel the anger radiating off of him. “Darling little Curly Locks, what is wrong?” he asks pitifully.

“Oh nothing, Henry,” I ask as my voice quivers fearfully. “I have simply dropped my needle.” And indeed I have. I reach down to grab it, but a moldy boot stomps on it.

“Why are you so clumsy, darling little Curly Locks?” Henry asks. His throat is clenched tightly; I can tell by the way his words stretch out and linger with every syllable.

“H-Henry—”

“Why does your voice shake so, darling little Curly Locks?” he says with a profound curiosity.

“Because I love you so much, Henry,” I answer in a small whisper.

“Why is your voice so quiet, darling little Curly Locks?”

“Because you take my breath away, Henry,” I answer back shakily.

Henry bends down to meet me on the wooden floor. He gazes at me with his patronizing glare and looks down at the small, yellow cushion I sit upon, day after day after day. “You lie.”

“No, Henry! I would never!” I cry as my legs gasp in pain to stand myself up. Henry pushes me down. I have disobeyed. I have left the confines of the cushion.

“You dirty, swindling bitch!” he shouts. My eyes tear as he grasps my arm tightly. “I will make you wash the dishes and I will make you feed the swine!” Broken plates and bloody hands flash through my mind. I grasp at my scabbed hands and reminisce on pink flesh squeezing me into the fence post and dirty hooves climbing over my stomach. I squeeze my eyes together as the silk rips once again in Henry’s hands. He stands silent and still, but when I open my eyes, he lashes out at me much angrier than before.

“It is your fault that my money has gone to waste!” My face burns as I feel Henry’s calloused hands scrape against my pale cheek. My golden curls bounce wildly as my head races to the floor in panic. Henry’s shrill voice pounds against my eardrums and I pray and pray that I will not cry.

My erratic breathing is loud and afraid. Henry places a hand on my back and I involuntarily whimper. “Oh, darling little Curly Locks, will you forgive me?” I carefully remove my hands from my face and look up at Henry. Henry with his gorgeous gray eyes and luscious brown hair.

“Of course I will, Henry,” I answer timidly.

He pats my head and smiles. “Darling little Curly Locks, it is noon!” he exclaims as the mocking bird in the grandfather clock chirps and pops out of its little hole on the wall. I smile thankfully.

“Let me bring you your supper,” he says innocently, forgetting the terrible moment only seconds before. I watch as his bright eyes peer into my very own and I answer with an even wider smile.

“Oh, how I’d love that, Henry.”

Henry jumps up and flounces into the kitchen. As I listen to him pull out the sugar jar and cream bowl and slice up the strawberries with the butcher knife in tow, I pick up the needle and wipe it against my apron.

“Darling little Curly Locks, you do have a sweet tooth,” Henry teases as he places a spoon into my outstretched hand. He cups the bowl in his large hands and holds it in front of me. I look into his eyes, trying to catch a look of deceiving, but all seems fair. With a content smile, I reach my spoon out, and place it in air. Henry smiles as he holds the bowl away. “Come now, darling little Curly Locks, I’m sure you have better aim.”

“Henry…” I mumble as I try again. I must try, because this is all I ever get. Henry laughs and pulls away at the last minute. My eyes grow misty and I try to make it so my hair covers my face, but Henry can tell. He tugs at my hair and I choke down a whimper.

“Why do you always cry, darling little Curly Locks?” he asks, his voice rising once again. “Cry and cry and cry, all day and all night. What else can those puckered eyes of yours do but cry?”

“Oh, they can do so much, Henry,” I plead, trying to push in a last minute of salvation. “They can gaze at your gorgeous face and look at you with the most innocent of love.”

Henry throws the bowl down, splattering cream and sugar and red, red strawberries all over my dress. “Lies! Lies all the time! What else can you do with that withering mouth, darling little Curly Locks!” he screams.

“Henry, Henry, they can call out your name in the sweetest tone and give you kisses that you love so much,” I beg.

“Kisses?” he asks, a look of wonder crossing his face.

“Yes, kisses, Henry. Do you remember them?”

His eyes melt into mine and I remember the first days of Henry, all smiles and love.

“Darling little Curly Locks, will you be mine?” he asks shyly.

I clutch the spoon in my hands and say, “Forever, Henry.”