Justifiable: A Dark Retelling of Snow White’s Tale

They call me a wicked queen now. They whisper it as I walk past, spitting the word with as much venom as they can muster. They clutch their children closer when I pass, as if they expect me to curse them with a glance. They believe I tried to murder sweet, innocent Snow White out of jealousy, desperate to rid the kingdom of her beauty so that I might remain the fairest of them all.

But let me tell you what truly happened.

Snow White came into my life when she was just eight years old, a pale child with dark hair and bright eyes that never seemed to look at me without a glint of cruelty. When my husband, the King, was around, she was sweetness itself, speaking softly, smiling, and even giving me shy compliments that made the King beam with pride. But when we were alone, the child became a demon. She would pinch my arms hard enough to leave bruises, pull my hair, or slap me across the face if I dared to step too close. She would hiss insults at me, threats that grew sharper with each year that passed.

I tried to tell the King once. He laughed and ruffled Snow White’s hair, telling me that she was just a spirited child and I would grow to love her. How could I explain to him that the child he adored would watch me with cold satisfaction as I nursed bruises on my arms, or that I had heard her whisper threats into the night when she thought I was asleep?

And so I stayed silent.

I had worked too hard to return to the life I once lived, a life of brewing potions in the damp corners of villages for people who could barely pay in coin, offering scraps of bread instead of gold. As Queen, I had access to libraries filled with ancient texts on sorcery, rare ingredients for my craft, and power that I had earned through cunning and knowledge, not by birth. I would not let a child destroy everything I had built.

Snow White grew, and so did the love the people held for her. They adored her innocence, her beauty, her kindness—never knowing that kindness was a mask she wore like a well-fitted cloak. In the privacy of our home, she was anything but kind. Her threats turned darker, promises of what she would do to me when the King was gone, how she would rule the kingdom herself one day, and how she would ensure I was never there to see it.

One night, when the fear was too heavy for me to carry, I turned to my looking glass, a mirror I had crafted through long hours of study and careful enchantments. It did not lie. It had never lied to me before.

I asked it to show me the truth of Snow White’s intentions.

At first, all I saw was her face, pale and beautiful, eyes bright like morning stars. But as the mirror pulled back, I saw her covered in blood, her hands dripping with it, her breathing heavy. She stood over a corpse, and it took me a moment to realize it was mine. My face was unrecognizable, caved in from a brutal attack as I lay in my bed. The mirror showed me her smiling as she turned away, stepping over my lifeless body as if it were nothing.

I had seen my death at the hands of Snow White, and I could not allow it to come to pass.

I could have fled, run into the forest, disappeared into the shadows to live as I once had, fearing for my life every day. But why should I run from my own home, my own kingdom, and my own power, simply to allow a child with a cruel heart to take everything from me? Why should I abandon the work I had done, the magic I had mastered, the life I had fought to build, simply to save myself from her violence?

No. I chose to fight.

Yes, it is true that I used the huntsman. Yes, it is true that I disguised myself, bringing Snow White poisoned gifts: the lace that would choke her breath, the comb that would send her into a deep slumber, and the apple that would finally silence her.

But these were not the actions of a jealous woman fighting for her vanity. They were the desperate attempts of a queen fighting for her life, trying to stop a murderer before she could strike.

When Snow White tells her story, she leaves out the threats she made to me, the cruelty she inflicted, the way she would smile when she saw the fear in my eyes. She tells the people I was driven mad by her beauty, that I wanted to be the fairest in the land, and that I tried to murder her to keep my place. The people believe her because it is easier to believe in a tale of a vain queen than to accept the truth: that their beloved Snow White was capable of darkness, that innocence can be a mask, and that even queens can be victims.

It is easier for them to hate me than to accept that the girl they worship could become a monster.

Today is Snow White’s wedding day. I can hear the bells ringing from the tower where they keep me, waiting to see what judgment they will pass. Perhaps they will execute me before the wedding feast, offering my death as a gift to their princess.

If that is what they choose, so be it.

Let them call me wicked. Let them call me vain. Let them call me a murderer if it makes them sleep easier at night.

But in the end, I know why I did what I did.

It was not jealousy. It was not vanity. It was survival.

And if my death is what they need to believe in their fairy tale, then at least my death will be justifiable in their eyes.

Lesson / Moral of the Story:

There are always two sides to every story, and sometimes, the villains we fear are simply survivors fighting for their lives. Before judging others, seek the truth beyond appearances.