Maria Habanikova
Snow White and the Seven Daisies
I wrote this short story as a tribute to all the beautiful, strong, courageous women who have faced the most intimate of hardships - verbal, emotional, physical, and/or sexual abuse perpetuated by the men they trusted wholeheartedly - and managed to break through from the depths of darkness, despair, and hopelessness. In writing these words, I also thought about all the brave women who died at the violent hands of their abusers or have seen no other way of escape but to end their lives prematurely. My heart goes out to them, wherever they may be.
Snow White and the Seven Daisies
She was Snow White, but he wasn’t Prince Charming. He wasn’t the evil queen either. He was the beautiful red apple. She finished it all in one sitting, it tasted fresh, sweet, and juicy. Poison sneaked its way into her bloodstream.
Treated like a gemstone at first, she was oblivious to her state. Soon she became dispensable, her worth always at his mercy. Her mind, overtaken by toxicity, ignored the chunks of time rolling clumsily around and away. She was losing herself - the sparkle in her eyes, curls in her hair, bounce in her step. Soon, she had nothing of her own but a little patch of colours in the corner of the balcony.
Seven yellow daisies.
She would talk to her flowers, sing to them, nurture them, caress them. Her voice was love; her touch was gratitude. They were her companions.-
“Make yourself useful for once!” He hissed at her as he grabbed his briefcase and keys off the side table. Glaring, he slammed the door behind him.
Breath shallow, hands folded in her lap, she digested the morning dose of distress and shame. With humiliation on her cheeks and hatred ringing in her ears, she walked out on the balcony. She felt trapped and relieved, a familiar aftertaste of breakfast. Her eyes landed on the small flowerpot. The daisies bloomed.
She gazed at the flowers, as they swayed innocently in the breeze and felt an inexplicable urge to name them:
Afraid.
Submissive.
Weak.
Silent.
Obedient.
Gullible.
Inferior.
Suddenly, she was plucking all seven of them out, binding them with a string she’d found in her pant pocket. A humble bouquet. She observed them with pity and disdain, the same look he gave her earlier. She slid the balcony door open and put them in a plastic vase. No water.
She set it on the coffee table, seven yellow eyes looking up at her expectantly. Backing away, she sighed: “They’re just flowers.”
She left them there, staring longingly at her. She could almost hear them whisper, “We need water.”
“I am done watering you.” Hastily, she packed up her few belongings, and without turning she shut the door behind her.
In the empty flowerpot outside, a lone green bud broke through the soil.
About Maria Habanikova
Maria is an avid reader and a budding creative writer dabbling mostly in creative nonfiction, micro fiction, essays, and short stories. She hails from Slovakia and has lived in Canada since 2004. She moved to Toronto as a teenager and upon finishing high school, she made her way to Canada's capital city. A proud alumna of the University of Ottawa, she studied international relations and public policy and now works for the Government of Canada. Maria speaks five languages, teaches Zumba Fitness at her local YMCA, and facilitates writing workshops for the Writers Collective of Canada (formerly known as the Toronto Writers Collective). A passionate advocate of gender equality and prevention of violence against women, she volunteers with a second stage women's shelter, Harmony House.