I’m the Third Grimm Brother, and I’m Not Bitter

The name’s Lancelot Grimm. Yes, I’m the less famous Lancelot, and, yes, I’m the less famous Grimm. And I’m not bitter.

Sometimes though, it just really blows because I was always the smart one. Jacob Ludwig and Wilhelm are just plain dense, but everyone loves them. Everyone always nods their little airheads and says stupid crap like, “Oh really, Wilhelm? The frog turned into a prince, and then what happened?” Sure, it was cute when they were five. But they’re adults now. It’s weird. Whenever we’re at a dinner party and I try to bring up politics or have a discussion, I always get shushed by some busybody who wants to listen to the two nutcases struggle to string sentences together about fairies with pretty wings and shiny hair. It’s just wrong to let them babble on, with their shirts stained and buttoned wrong, and their eyes unfocused and wide. It’s like keeping a one-legged dog around because he’s just so cute.

Take an average Monday at the Household Grimm. Wilhelm will be in his room, staring at his favorite floorboard. I have to visit him every couple of hours to wipe the drool from his mouth, neck, and chest. He’ll usually be muttering some nonsense word like “Cinderella!” or various phrases like “pumpkin house!” or “mouse friends.” He likes to record his outbursts. I guess it breaks up the day. Jacob will be across the hall, trying to sharpen his quill by blowing on it. If ever I try to talk to him nowadays, he stares at me with squinted eyes and pursed lips until I speak slower and use exclusively one-syllable words. And then he’ll ask me some unrelated question, like, “What’s the word for ‘gold’?”

And it’s not even as if my parents and I can bond over the charity cases. Just yesterday, they were talking my ear off about how surprising one of Jacob’s stories was. Yeah, things tend to be surprising when you live in the real world and you hear something UTTERLY IMPLAUSIBLE that violates EVERY KNOWN NATURAL LAW. But what can I do? Everyone is enchanted with the little idiots, while I’m forced to content myself with translating Aristotle and repeating positive affirmations.

I know my story may not be extraordinary enough to make it into my brothers’ collection, but at least it makes an iota of sense. Not that I’m bitter.

—M. Henry

This piece is from the Myth and Legend Issue. Like it? Read the whole thing here!