Her Golden Curse

• Anna Wang, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2022

It had been the wavy tresses she had prized so much that had morphed into gold first. She did not quite notice it then, as her satin locks had always been the colour of sandy shores. But when she attempted to lean further into her father’s embrace, she observed, in a bewildering storm of strange calm, that her curls weighed heavily against her shoulders, sculpted astray by the north wind.
A golden rose quivered within her, setting her lovely cheeks aflame. An expression of shuddering horror settled on her father’s face, and distantly she became aware of her father’s lingering touch, then, in her peripheral vision, the god Dionysus’ intoxicated smile.
So, it had been that. She always knew Midas was desperate for wealth, but she had never thought for even one second that he would exchange his daughter for gold. A muted sadness chipped at her gleaming heart, but she could not bring herself to weep. Every single unshed tear was left at the brim of her shining eyes, converted to gold. Now, with everything fading away, she felt terribly, dreadfully lonely.
A biting cold seeped into her bones, but she did not know if whether that was because of the curse or the overwhelming grief that sank into her heart. Why had her life been so easily snatched away from her? She was not quite ready to go, yet.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she could still discern, though indistinctly, the silhouette of a butterfly, fluttering to settle on the tip of her frozen fingers. A wistful melancholy engulfed her, and she longed awfully for the life that she could no longer experience.
Bitterly, she wondered if her father was now wealthy enough to acquire the ruby chalice he had always wished to obtain. Betrayal suddenly weighed her down heavier than her own golden figure, the feeling as if she had reached for a spoonful of sugar yet instead tasted a biting tartness.
But now, as she was gradually swept into the darkness, she could not help but hope, as she had years ago, when she was but an innocent child, that her father would finally love her now that she was simply gold – beautiful, frozen in time; that he would, perhaps, just perhaps, cherish her forever, and ever, and ever; that he would look at her soulless statue the same way as he had always looked at his beloved ruby chalice.
Love. What a fickle, fickle thing it was. She knew she hated what her father had become, and yet, what she hated even more was the certainty that despite everything, she still loved him so.