Facing The Throne: Part 1
Priscilla stood before the queen in a lovely dress made of lace and glitter. It’s long, flower-patterned sleeves- the color of a nasty bruise- hid the ugly splotches of blue and black painted violently upon her skin. It’s high neck hid the red marks brazenly scratched into her skin. But nothing hid her red-rimmed eyes or the mascara running down her face.
“Your majesty,” the young woman began but was cut off.
“Did I ask you to speak?”
The queen’s voice boomed across the near-empty room. When its shockwave hit her, she shook from its ferocity.
Priscilla shook her head in a clear no.
“Good. At least you have some semblance of obedience.”
The queen rose from her throne like a flower reaching towards the heavens, thorns and all. With a forceful swept of her hand, the queen dismissed the two guards which stood as still as statues beside her throne. She descended onto Priscilla like a predator stalking their prey. Priscilla flinched as the queen grabbed her by the chin. More tears fell from Priscilla’s violet eyes. Her lip shook, her hands trembled; the queen examined her as if she was nothing more than an injured animal.
After what felt like infinity, the queen let go. “Speak,” she ordered.
This is it, Priscilla thought, this is where I tell her I refuse to marry her son.
And yet- words failed her. Priscilla opened her mouth and struggled against the weight of what she needed to say. Open and close. Close and open. For reasons Priscilla could not fathom, she could not speak.
The queen turned after rolling her eyes and giving a sigh of discontent. “I really wish you were born mute, Priscilla. This wouldn’t be as annoying.”
But she wasn’t. Priscilla is the daughter of one of the greatest kingdoms in the world. She is the heir to a country who struggled, who fought, who never backed down in order to get where they were.
Speak! Priscilla’s thoughts commanded her.
This is your only chance. If you don’t say something now, you will never say anything. You need to-
“I will never marry your son!”
Her voice roared into existence and echoed in the giant room. It reverberated against the golden decor and metal fixtures hanging against the ceiling. Without second-guessing, Priscilla ripped the sleeves of her dress. Then she ripped off the material that sat against her throat. And then she fell to her knees and cried.
The queen’s expression didn’t change.