Red ignores the enquiring honey-coated mouth beside her and dashes into the trap.
It was hers, the dye for the cloak. Cheeky little girls, well, yes, and Little Red had been the cheekiest. So the wolf said, It will be dyed a new color, your pretty white cloak.
Red was not always Red. Once, she was Red only by name and not by design. Once, the cloak was white.
Too bad Little Red was a cheeky little girl. Too bad the cloak turned red. Too bad that the white disappeared with the innocence.
As she suffocated in the red heat of the wolf's stomach, she thought, Help me.
As she suffocated in the red heat of the witch's stomach, she thought, Help yourself.
So we progress, Red thinks, but is it progress? She's gone from damsel in distress (And how she envies the princess for getting that position!) to huntress, a woman who can take care of herself.
She wishes, sometimes, that she couldn't take care of herself. That she could be sure that someone would always save her. That the woodcutter would always be in the nick of time. But this is so rarely the case, and Red is so sure that nobody is watching her from above or indeed wants her safe that she has given up on that.
However, on the really dark nights, when wolves stalk through hot pulsing red dreams...
She prays and curses God by turns, wishing for something besides an axe to fall back on.