She knew many versions of her tale, enough that one of them must be true; or perhaps all of them were true, in a sense. She did not see a distinction between these possibilities, because to her, there was just one story. It went like this:

She had done something wrong. The witch had cursed her to sleep forever. She had eaten a poisoned apple. Swallowing the fruit, she had felt her senses departing her. Because she was pure of heart, the poison did not cause her death; instead, she slept, perhaps forever. She had to wait for her prince to come. Only his kiss could awaken her. Only he could awaken her. Ages came and went, and still she slept. She never lost patience; she never lost faith. Someday her prince would come to wake her with a kiss. The cruel and vengeful witch would try to keep him from her. The valiant prince would persevere through all obstacles, through frost and fire. He would climb to her high tower. He would see her, nestled among the roses. His kiss would free her.

Or so she believed.

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