The True Crime Story of the Evil Queen
Have you ever wondered about fairy tales and their biases? Was Snow White so innocent? Was the queen as evil as we’ve been led to believe?
I’m the Evil Queen. Evil is my name. Destroying innocent, virginal girls is my thing.
It’s not true.
But it is the truth everyone wants to believe and so it has become our society’s reality.
Still, it’s not my reality.
They say there are two sides to every story.
Except that sometimes, there is truly an innocent victim. I’ve watched enough of the ID channel to know that decent people have been killed for insurance money, children have killed parents for less than a grand, and step-moms get murdered A LOT.
If you want to shatter preconceived judgments keep reading, otherwise, STOP. Go back to your pseudo fairy tale and live “happily ever after”. If you’re one of the brave read on.
I was young when I met the infamous Snow White’s father. I didn’t come from a rich family. My father was a merchant, which equates to an upper-middle-class income. I wasn’t a spoiled child. My parents were prolifically fertile, and I was just one among fifteen children. We were a large, loud family.
Another tidbit worth mentioning is that I was beautiful, but I was unaware of this fact. I was born into a family of beautiful people, and my seven older sisters were much prettier than I. It had become a tradition for kings who treasured beauty over blue blood to choose from my father’s flock of beauties, and I was the youngest and, therefore, the last among my sisters to marry.
King Harold White arrived at our home with young Snow in mid-December. I was young and naive and fell instantly in love with both the king and his adorable daughter
We married on Christmas day in a palace decorated with crystal snowflakes and blood-red poinsettias.
Snow was our flower girl and smiled sweetly as she dropped red roses down the aisle.
I was happy beyond measure.
When we married, Little Snow White was five years old. The next five years passed in happy harmony. I loved Snow and doted on her.
Sadly, I was barren, but that allowed me to focus on the poor little princess who had lost her mother. As she grew, she became more beautiful, but I started to notice disturbing behaviors.
When she was eight, I found her standing over a dead bird with a secretive little smile stretched across her lips. She began to cry as I approached, so I disregarded the incident and chalked it up to my imagination.
After that moment, I often woke to her standing beside my bed, watching as I slept. I sometimes dreamed she was standing over me with a knife. I knew something was off, but Snow was always so sweet, and I loved her, so I overlooked it.
A month before her tenth birthday, Harry and I sat our daughter down to tell her we had decided to adopt a child. She cried joyfully and claimed a little sister was all she wanted for her birthday. Harry shook his head and said that he would like a son.
Snow’s smile faltered, but she said, “Oh, a brother will also be perfect, Daddy.”
We decided to wait until after Snow’s birthday to adopt. Everything was going wonderfully. I had a loving husband, a sweet daughter, and soon I would have a baby boy.
I woke the morning of Snow’s tenth birthday and stretched my hand out to shake my husband awake. He didn’t move. I propped myself on his chest and was startled to find his sky-blue eyes open and devoid of life. What happened after that is a blur. I know, I screamed. I felt the servants pull me away from his inert form. I heard Snow wailing.
My closest sister, Bell, appeared the day after his death to console me and oversee the funeral plans. I was numb. Snow popped in and out to check on me. She was always smiling and kind. She liked to bring me warm tea, and I always felt calm and sleepy when she left.
Two weeks after Harry’s death, Bell came to my room. She opened the heavy curtains and allowed the sunshine to stream in.
“We need to talk,” Bell said.
“I’m too tired.”
“And I know exactly why you’re tired,” Bell said.
“My husband is dead!” I yelled.
“You have bigger problems than a dead husband to worry about,” Bell said seriously.
The look in her eyes was startling. What could be worse than the death of my husband?
Bell had a lot to say. For one, it was apparent that Snow had been drugging my tea. Secondly, Bell suspected that Snow had been involved in my husband’s death. She wanted the body exhumed. I wouldn’t have it and couldn’t believe what she was saying, so, I politely asked my sister to leave. She smiled sadly and complied, assuring me she would be there when I needed her.
I wasn’t completely unaware of Snow’s behavior and politely refused offers of tea or snacks after that day. As the years passed, Snow became more withdrawn. The palace staff often complained of cruel statements she’d made, and there were a few incidents in which she slapped or pinched one of the maids. When I confronted Snow, she would lie, and I could not prove the princess was untruthful.
My sisters sent me a magic mirror the year Snow turned fourteen. The mirror revealed the truth.
Initially, I was afraid. Did I want to know the truth?
Contrary to popular belief, I did not ask the mirror if I was beautiful. I was nearing thirty and being a single queen I had more suitors than I could count. Beauty couldn’t bring back my beloved husband or give me the love of a child.
I asked the mirror to tell me the truth about Snow, and all was revealed. I watched as she dropped amber-colored poison into the king’s wine, I watched her treat the staff with cruel disdain, and I watched as she tip-toed into my room with a knife hidden in the folds of her dress.
I was horrified and bewildered. Why hadn’t she acted on what she so clearly desired? Why hadn’t she killed me?
I met with my legal counsel to inquire about the legalities of my queendom and the scenarios resulting in my death. If I were to die, my husband’s brother would assume the throne until Snow’s eighteenth birthday. If I lived past her eighteenth birthday, Snow would not have become queen until my death. I could only assume she had allowed me to stay in power because my love for her made me easy to manipulate. By my count, I had the next four years, and then Snow would also come for me.
I was scared. I panicked. I should have asked my sisters for help.
Instead, I summoned the huntsman, and this part of the story played out exactly as you recall. I asked him to kill my stepdaughter; he became enthralled by her beauty, and she was able to persuade him to trick me.
The sad thing is that I still loved her. I loved the evil child who had stood over me with a knife while I slept and poisoned her father.
I grieved her death.
When I found out she had found a home with the dwarves, I felt relieved and went for a visit.
The chef baked her an apple pie. It was NOT poisoned. When I arrived, the dwarves were away at work.
I knocked.
She answered, and a sweet, soft smile played across her lips. I gave her the pie, hugged her, and begged her to come home. She wrapped her pale arms around my waist and laid her head on my chest. I sucked in a deep shuddering breath.
I must have been wrong about her. She loved me. This was my daughter, my child, my sweet Snow White. Tears of joy streamed down my face, and I softly kissed her forehead.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at the sharp pain that sliced through my back. The look of rapture on her face shouldn’t have shocked me. I should have known.
She must have thought me dead.
I awoke in a deep ravine. I told one person about my plans to visit Snow.
Bell was holding me when I awoke, and she nursed me back to life.
Snow White became queen, and I never returned.
And that’s the true story of the Evil Queen.
