After her death they called her a Queen. She was loved by all, yet she’d not always been easy to love. Not when substances blinded her and her subjects, reducing them to heartless cannibals. Their souls sold to a moment of ecstasy, kush, white lines snorted from tables, bottles drained like their bodies. Pushing back at all those who could not bare the weight of their house sigil. Nor the toxicity that had shackled them to the castle walls. I was never respected in the eyes of the people around her. I resent that. More than I can stand. I’ve lost sleep over it. I’m angry that her people who were once mine see me as a worthless beggar, a villain that began an era of hate and anger, unforgivness. I did nothing to deserve it. I could not save them from themselves and thus I am the only one who does not bare ink in the name death christened her with. For I did not know the one they named Queen. I loved and missed the girl I knew hidden deep within. The one who’d disappeared a long time prior to the reapers call. The one I once called friend. Her name now an echo in time.