Queen of broken hearts

Heart of the queen

The hem of my cloak drags behind me, gathering twigs and dirt as the screams echo in the crisp autumn air around me. My brows twitch, the only sign of discomfort on my otherwise stoic face. People with dirty faces and drab clothing are pulled out of their homes by soldiers and thrown into the street. A woman throws herself forward, using her body as a shield between a soldier and her child and it tugs at my heart slightly, but I look away. I stand with my chin high at the edge of the village. Blood fills the grooves of the cobblestone streets in front of me. The chaos around me intensifies around me as I move through the town I called home over a decade ago. The spirit of my father I expected to feel in this land is absent, but memories still flood my mind. The glass from the windows of the bakery, where he spent money, we didn’t have on a birthday treat for me, is scattered at my feet. I can almost feel the rough skin of my father’s hand enveloping mine.

I run my thumb over the palm of my other hand. The action is covered by the thick, royal blue cloak around my body, but I still force myself to keep my hands to my side and square my shoulders. My reflection stares back at me from one of the unbroken windows of a house to my right. I certainly look the part of a queen. My silver crown, adorned with blood red gems, glistens in the fading sunlight. My soldiers, dressed head to toe in black, bustle around me, but I ignore them. I slowly make my way through the streets from memory. They look exactly as I remember, down to the cracks in the stone I step over. I move around the butcher shop on the corner, and that’s when I see it. My home. Time has obviously not been kind to the old house. The roof has started to cave in on itself and the wood of the walls has begun to rot. The sight feels like a punch in the chest, but I maintain my composure and head for the old porch. The wood creeks under my weight as I make my way up the old steps. Any valuables were no doubt cleared out years ago but that’s not what I’m here for. The space is so small it feels like the walls are hugging me. I step around the red stain of my father’s blood that was never cleaned. It will be here forever. I glance up to the loft where I slept, and my father held me when I woke in the middle of the night screaming. The sagging roof has destroyed the little room. Tears spring to my eyes and I bite the inside of my cheek to will them away.

The memories of the only person that ever loved me is overwhelming. I force myself to sit in the discomfort. My father deserves that much. He deserves a moment of silence. I deserve the mourning I was never granted. But that’s all I can give him, a moment. I take a deep breath in and out before exiting the way I entered. The town before me is now in complete disarray. I see him a moment after the breeze hits my face. It takes every bit of strength not to retch when his eyes meet mine. He is running from part of the army that I command. He is older, with lines etched deep into his face, and thin from a life of hunger and struggle but I recognize him. He stumbles and my men pounce, grabbing him by his arms and dragging him over the stone.

My mind is violently ripped from the present to my bloody, forgotten past. He was younger back then, and strong. He and his brothers were much stronger than my father and I. The stew I had been inhaling for supper spilled and burned my thighs when he startled me, kicking in the front door with his black boots. My father moved to protect me, but they overpowered him. Two men held him by his arms while the third struck him repeatedly. My tiny heart raced, and I hugged my knees to my chest as I watched helplessly from under out kitchen table. He turned to me and smiled an ugly yellow grin before taking out a hunting knife. Candlelight glinted off the clean metal and he slowly ran the blade across the delicate skin of my father’s throat. Time froze for me as my loving father slumped over in a pool of red. Then he came for me. I struggled and screamed as he pulled me from beneath but a seven-year-old is no match for three grown men. I sobbed and begged to be released while they held me down and he inserted himself into me. His rancid breath made me feel sick, but the pain was unbearable. After he finished, they left my broken body in a heap on the floor next to the corpse of my father. I stayed like that for two days praying for death to come and take me. On day three he came back to claim what was his. Me. As his wife. He, along with the help of a midwife cleaned me up and forced me to eat and bathe. Someone came to dispose of my father’s body.

He slept in my father’s bed that night, I ran from my home to the swordsmith’s wife and begged for assistance. I begged and pleaded for her not harbor me, save me. But she dragged me back by my hair, kicking and screaming. None of it mattered. He violated me and now I was his in the eyes of god. So, I waited until two days before we were to wed and ran. I took nothing and fled to the woods. I didn’t stop moving until my body forced me to. I laid in the tall grass, half dead, miles from my home. I looked to the sky and thought this would be a beautiful place to die. When I heard hoof-beats heading towards me I tried to weep but had no tears left. To my surprise the face that looked upon me was a stranger, dressed in the finest fabric I had ever seen. He draped me in his cloak and took me back to his country of Biralta, nursed me back to health and raised me as his daughter. Raised me to be queen. He said he could feel the anger, the hate, radiating off me, and that I was exactly what he was looking for.

“Your majesty.” The voice snaps me back to the present. The man is forced to kneel at my feet. I fix my eyes on his face, pathetic tears leave streaks down his dirt-stained face and snot runs from his nose.

“P-please, spare me.” He sobs. This beautiful image of this man on his knees begging me to spare his life has fueled me for years and now that it is a reality, it is every bit as sweet as I imagined. I want to wait, to savor it. Recognition fills his eyes quickly, taking the place of the fear. “You’ll always be a sullied whore.”

A sick smile spread across my face for a moment, before I wave my hand as if he is nothing. A guard steps in front of me and slices his blade across the soft meat of his throat. He steps back so I can watch the life drain from this worthless man. I wave my hands at the soldiers holding his arms and they release him. He claws at his neck and lets out a gurgling sound before falling forward. And just like that his life is over. I step over his body and let the hem of my gown trail through the blood surrounding his worthless corpse. A buzz flows through my veins, and I can’t quite place the feeling. Peace?

“Ready the carriage,” I call to the men behind me, “I’d like to go home.”

“Your majesty, what shall we do with the rest of the village?”

I turn to face the general of my small army. “Burn it to the ground. Show them what suffering looks like.” He nods and trots back to his men to relay my orders. I make my way back to my carriage and close myself inside. I peek out the window at the small village, relishing the sound of screams and the beauty of the flames.

Blood and soot stain the bottom of my gown. I will not wash it off; I picture the spot on the wall of my chambers where I will hang it, as a reminder, a trophy of what I accomplished here today.