Fairytales

A memory passed my mind: I was sitting at the back of  car, bored and tired, and was holding a book, or thinking about the book. The book was a story book, The Little Mermaid. I remember it distinctly. It was an old copy, not worn, really, just yellowing around the edges. It’s a typical story book, the size of those small storybooks with only one story in them. Thin.

I remember how I got the book. I was in a house, and because I was left to amuse myself while the old people talked, I went and found a bookshelf, or a library, I can’t really remember. I read to pass time. I must have read a few books before I chanced to read The Little Mermaid. I have seen the Disney version, so I thought I knew it. I remember being fascinated with the story, because it was different. I am to find out years later that it was the less altered version of Hans Christian Andersen’s tale.

I have almost finished reading it when I was told it was time to go. I really wanted to finish the story, so I held on to the book wondering if I can borrow it, while the old people said their goodbyes. I must have been staring hard at the owner of the house because she noticed me. I can’t remember how she looked like, but she asked me if I like reading and if I like the book. I don’t know how I answered her, but I suppose I nodded or said yes, because she gave me the book.

We got into the car and I finished reading the story as we were driving home. After that, I sat at the back of the car thinking about the story. That’s the memory that flashed in my mind.

I don’t remember where or when the memory took place. I can’t remember where we went, or who we visited. I know the woman wasn’t a relative, or if she was, she wasn’t a close relative because that’s the only time we visited her. I am quite sure I was with my parent/s; I can’t remember if my mom was there, too, because I can’t remember if she was still alive then. Maybe she was, because then it will make sense. I have this theory that I buried my memories of when she was still alive; I can’t remember much about myself and my life before her death. I guess I just blocked the memories from my mind because it was painful to remember, and because I’ve blocked them for so long, I can’t “unblock” them even if I wanted to. I was just protecting myself; I don’t think it was a problem.

I suppose the story disturbed me. I wasn’t used to that kind of story. Moreover, I was used to, was made to, believe that the Disney version was the only version. I was made to believe that it was a happy ending. But it’s not. The little mermaid didn’t get the prince, and she’s going to have to work in the hope of having a soul. I suppose it was a good ending, but it wasn’t what a child is used to. Don’t get me wrong—I was young but I wasn’t stupid—I know that there wouldn’t always be a happy ending. But at the time, it seemed like something suddenly caught up with me, or like a rug was suddenly pulled from under my feet. I guess it was too much of a shock for my young self. I don’t think I cried, but I was moved enough to tear up. Or maybe not. I don’t really know; I can’t remember it clearly.

It will be wrong to say that that was the start of my cynism, but it will be correct to say that it contributed. Fairytales aren’t always happy. People modify things just so it’d fit in the preconceived notions that society has. Life isn’t fair, even in fairy tales, and truth doesn’t always triumph. Self-sacrifice and Love. The story of The Little Mermaid is the first time I’ve encountered such great, unconditional, unrequited love.