What Will Be Mine by Avery Timmons (Illinois, 22)

          Rapunzel had been waiting years for this moment.
          She let the information slip casually, playing it off as a mistake, but knowing that Mother Gothel would be furious with her for allowing anyone else into the tower — especially a prince. Therefore, she was expecting a punishment. So, when Mother Gothel pulled a pair of shears from her cloak, Rapunzel acted quickly.
          She seized the witch’s wrist, twisting it as hard as she could. Mother Gothel let out a cry of rage, not only at Rapunzel’s defiance, but also at her unexpected strength. But Rapunzel did not falter; after a moment longer of struggle, she was able to tear the shears from Gothel’s grip and pierce them straight through her heart. 
          Rapunzel pulled the shears out of Gothel’s chest — allowing the body to collapse on the floor with a thud — and stood up, pushing her hair back over her shoulders as she admired her work, chest heaving with her heavy breaths. Of course, there was the matter of getting rid of the body and cleaning up the copious amount of blood before the prince arrived for their nightly meeting; she couldn’t have him suspecting anything was wrong — not with what she had planned for him. 
          It was exceedingly difficult, but Rapunzel managed to get the job done before nightfall. She dragged Gothel’s body to the closet that held her cleaning supplies — including the mop that she needed to clean the blood that was now smeared across the dark hardwood floors of the tower. 

          She lit a few candles for better lighting as the sun began to set outside, disappearing behind the trees that surrounded her tower, which also indicated that the prince would be making his arrival soon. She mopped the floors quickly but thoroughly, not stopping to even rest her aching arms until she was positive that every drop of blood was scrubbed off the floor. As for the body sitting in her closet — that wouldn’t be an issue for her once her plan was complete. 
          Rapunzel tucked the shears into the waistband of her pants, in the perfect spot so that she would have easy access to them when needed, but so that they wouldn’t be visible. Once they were safely hidden away, she brushed her hand across her stomach; she wasn’t very far along yet, but she had been ill in the mornings several  times and had enough of an unfamiliar curve to her stomach to suspect that she was, indeed, pregnant. And from the moment that she had realized, she vowed to take action — to give both herself and her unborn child a better life, far away from this tower, far away from the witch who had locked her in here nearly a decade ago, and far away from the scum who had impregnated her.
          ​“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” 
          She heard the shout of the prince from just below her window, and she allowed herself a moment to take a deep, slow breath and ready herself, touching the shears one last time for  reassurance, trying to steady the slight quiver of her hands. Rapunzel then plastered on the sickly sweet, lovestruck smile that she’d perfected over the months, and stepped towards the window. 
          ​She leaned out, looking down at the prince, who stood at the base of the tower, waiting, his thick, somewhat unruly brown hair blowing in the light breeze. Still smiling at him, Rapunzel fell into what had become their usual routine and tossed her hair over her shoulder and out the window. She watched it fall down and down and down, until it hung right in front of the prince. Just like always, he grabbed two fistfuls as if he were holding on to a rope, and Rapunzel began to pull with all her might, her scalp burning as she tugged her hair back through the window, even as he used bricks jutting out from the tower to help hoist himself up. Finally, through the window, along with her hair, came the prince. 
          He hopped down from the windowsill, letting go of Rapunzel’s hair and breathing heavily, as if he was the one who just did all of the work. As he offered her a smile, Rapunzel adjusted her top, brushing her fingers against the shears once again to make sure they hadn’t slipped out of place. She had to be careful; Mother Gothel was an old woman, and easy for Rapunzel to overpower. The prince, however, was everything a prince should be: handsome, tall, and muscular. Rapunzel knew that she couldn’t rely on her physical strength alone and kill him with the shears as she did Mother Gothel. 
          That’s why she had planned so carefully for so long, and why she had asked Mother Gothel to bring her flower seeds and pots and soil, claiming that she wanted to add some beauty to her tower. What Mother Gothel didn’t know was that Rapunzel didn’t just think the hemlock was pretty, but that she knew it was one of the deadliest plants, and that consumption would lead to death. That is also why she baked it into the prince’s favorite banana bread in preparation for today.
          He accepted the food without hesitation, claiming that he was starving. She watched him, smiling, as he ate it, completely oblivious, her hand absentmindedly coming to rest on her stomach. They were almost free, she thought. Symptoms would settle in any time from twenty minutes to a few hours, and then she could complete her plan and escape, using her hair and the bricks, just as the prince always did. 
          The shears rested comfortably against her hip as she listened to the prince talk, once he’d finished off his bread. It was also a part of their routine, and Rapunzel had loved it at first, loved the company, before she started to understand what kind of person he was, growing tired of listening to him go on and on about himself before using her body however he wanted it, night after night.
          But for once, she smiled genuinely as he talked, but not because of him. She wasn’t listening to him, after all. She was too busy thinking about how she was finally going to get what she deserved, after all these years, after she gave him what he deserved.
About an hour later, the prince was still talking, but he was standing up and beginning to unbutton his loose, flowy, white shirt, when it started to work its magic. He lifted a hand to his forehead, pushing his hair back as he stepped further apart, grounding himself, his eyes fixated on a point on the wood floor.
​          “What is it?” Rapunzel asked, her voice soft and innocent, just as she had mastered. 
          The prince blew out a long, deep breath, his lips puffing out as he did so. He lifted his gaze to meet Rapunzel’s, and she noticed, with satisfaction, that his pupils were extremely dilated — yet another symptom.
          “I got very dizzy for a second there,” the prince said, chuckling a little, but there was a look of nervousness clear on his face. “I hope I’m not growing ill. I really can’t afford to stay all night.” 
          Rapunzel hummed, trying to sound concerned as she stood up and stepped over to him. She put her hands on both of his forearms, gently pushing him back down into his seat, his shirt still half-unbuttoned. 
          “Sit, dear, and try to rest. Maybe you’ll feel better after a cup of tea.” 
          Rapunzel took her time in the kitchen. She stood over the counter, stirring the tea and smiling down into the teacup as she heard his gasps for air from the other room. She only exited the kitchen once the gasps and choked noises had stopped. She stopped in the doorway, holding the teacup, and gazed at the prince’s lifeless body, letting a small smile grace her lips. 
          Perfect, she thought. On to the next step. 
          She set the teacup down gently on the coffee table before getting to work. With the help of a chair from the table, a rope from the storage closet, and the prince’s body, she set the scene, but not without plenty of struggle. She decided, at the last minute, to drag Mother Gothel’s body from the closet, and place her on the floor near the chair. Rapunzel stood back with her hands on her hips, chest heaving, and admired her work. He found the tower and climbed it out of curiosity. Out of defensive instinct, he killed her, she decided, and then killed himself out of guilt. After all, a true prince would never bring such harm on someone smaller and weaker than him, now would he?
          After one last run through of the tower, collecting the few belongings that she wanted to take with her in a brown leather satchel, she secured her hair to the heavy desk that sat near the window, double-checked that she had the shears and her bag, and began to lower herself from the tower, brick by brick, the stones digging into her bare feet. 
          She lost her footing more than a few times, and the pain that shot through her scalp made her cry out each time, but when Rapunzel’s feet finally landed on solid, grass-covered ground, she let out a sob — this time, of relief. She pulled the shears from where she had carefully tucked them in her satchel, and without hesitation, haphazardly began cutting away at her hair. She stepped away once she was finished, putting away the shears before running both hands through her now roughly shoulder-length hair, watching the butchered remains of it wave in the breeze. 
          She’d let whoever found the tower figure out how that fit into the narrative. By then, she’d be long gone, and so would the remaining hair on her head.
          Rapunzel looked around, and though she couldn’t see much in the dark forest, it was beautiful. She didn’t think twice before running off, not caring about the stones that cut her feet as she ran through the trees, not caring about the low branches that scraped her bare arms. She didn’t care about anything except for giving her child the life that she never got to have, while getting to experience the world outside of the tower for the first time, outside of her dreams. 
          For the first time in her life, she’d be able to make her own decisions, and to live her own life. She would no longer be at Mother’s mercy, nor the prince’s. She would no longer be the girl with the beautiful, long hair, nor someone’s “perfect” daughter, nor their “perfect” princess.
          She would be a mother. An ordinary mother with an ordinary life.
          And that would be more than enough.





My name is Avery Timmons, I am 22 years old, and I am from Ottawa, Illinois. My bio is as follows: Avery Timmons is an Illinois-based writer holding a BA in creative writing from Columbia College Chicago. Her work can be found in Fterota Logia, Outrageous Fortune, and Mulberry Literary.