Warning: Gore

She clapped at the songs of those humans who dedicated their whole lives to this craft. Ashes fell onto her pink hair, staining it black like her heart. Someone should guard The Queen from such disgrace the world showered onto her. The key word is ‘should.’ She was only queen because of that ridiculous fool called a “king.” And he spent more time on another woman's thighs than on the throne.

I carried the king's head and a dagger. A prostitute cowarded in the bedsheets.

Her sagging skin swayed with the bickering wind, yet she stood straight under flaming whips from Satan’s playground; the burning landscape once called a kingdom made of flax buildings and citizens. She sighed, “honestly, I’m speechless; isn’t this lovely, my dear darling?” She turned, facing me. “Ahh... Tell me, did you enjoy witnessing such a dramatic scene?”

Her shimmering blue eyes glanced over mine, and she smirked. Of course she smirked; she above such things like ‘compassion’. I walked up to her, the flames tried touching the sky, but The Queen would never allow that. Afterall, she’s the poet who painted this scene with her pen.

“Tell me,” I said,mimicking her. “Did it feel nice throwing me away, thinking you rid yourself of a burden, oh dear mother of mine?”

And now she smiles, “I always knew you’d under-” I slit her throat.

But her eyes already said it all. Her icy gaze sent rushing torrents clashing into my skull, inscribing the poet’s bitter words. “Like mother, like daughter…

Like my only granddaughter.”