The gentle throb of neon lights, pulsating with anticipation on my sweating palms. The air thick and heavy with deafening music, each unfortunate soul dancing to the rhythm of their demise. Every step a futile attempt to live and breathe, their vessels weakening in each second spent.

“Mi amor,” your gentle whisper masked within the echoing bass in a crowd of lonely, empty-shelled bodies, looking for purpose, trapped within the caging walls of this club.

“Mi amor,” the siren call beckons me, reverberating in my head. All hesitation gone, resistance disappearing as the fog fills my lungs. A force to be acknowledged within your concocted scheme to claim what is yours.

A tear escapes my finely painted, fragile porcelain face with one thought before you envelop me in your embrace: No one can save me now, a reluctant but treasured and revered queen of the dead.

Editor: Shannon Hensley