Fragments

ss:: The Hood, the Inept, and I

THE HOOD, THE INEPT, AND I

I was twelve when I stopped believing in fairytales. There was no death that triggered it, no unfortunate event occurred. It was just a spontaneous thing. I remember packing all of my storybooks into a sturdy cardboard box I had labeled the books of liars in Sharpie marker. I can't remember feeling a distinct emotion—I was neither ecstatic nor nostalgic about my childhood. I don't want to say it was emotionless, because I'm sure there was at least one involved, but it wasn't significant. It was almost empty and bland—like the taste of my mother's eggs. I stored them in the attic, a place where no one willingly went.

But here I was, three and a half years later, in the attic. The storybooks weren't even on my mind as I entered the dusty room. My mother had sent me up here to get a box of old toys for my one year old sister, Macy. It was by pure luck—and a bit of my clumsiness—that I found the books. I had reached to grab a container off the wooden shelf, which I decided to collapse onto me, sending the three boxes sitting atop of it flying down. Among it, memories of the days I had spent as a youth.

Apparently I hadn't taped the flaps down well enough, so most of the books toppled out. One—Little Red Riding Hood—opened to page three, where Red was just entering the forest with her basket of goodies. I sighed, reaching to close it back up, when a voice cried out, "Stop!"

I immediately froze at the unfamiliar voice, the book slipping out of my fingertips. I slowly turned around, thinking of objects I could use as weapons. I did the first thing my instincts told me to do; ball my fists up and swing.

Unfortunately, that plan didn't go as I had expected. I had imagined that the culprit would fall flat on its back, hopefully unconscious so I had time to call the police. But the person I had envisioned in my mind was the complete opposite of what reality had in store. The big, tough culprit turned out to be a little girl no older than eight years old. I could see the outline of her blonde hair, which was sheltered in a red cape with a hood attached—like my Halloween costume in the third grade. She was holding a basket defensively out in front of her. Her eyebrows were scrunched up in a glare, her mouth curled up into a pout.

"I...I'm so sorry!" But then it occurred to me that there was a person that I didn't know in my house. "Wait a second, who are you?"

"People call me Red," she replied, still hugging her parcel close to her tiny body.

"Okay, Red. How did you get in here?"

She looked at me as if I was a complete idiot before letting out a heavy, tired sigh. "You're new to all of this, aren't you?"

I looked around the attic before squatting down and making eye contact with her. "New to what? You still haven't answered my question yet."

"I don't look familiar to you?"

"Are you the Carson's daughter?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm Red." She bent down to pick up my copy of Little Red Riding Hood from the ground and held it up to her face. "See the resemblance?"

"You...you're her?"

She nodded and threw her hands in the air. "Finally. Progress."

"I...I don't understand?"

She groaned and let her arms drop. "Great. Now we're back to square one."

"How is this even possible? Did I hit my head on something? Am I conscious right now?"

"Don't be such a drama queen."

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"Anyways, I need your help."