Young Writers Society

Thousands of women had come through the same hall on the same day every single year. There was never a correlation to any of the women except one emotion, so pure and deadly it would kill every one of them eventually. That emotion was madness. A special kind of madness that belonged to the Queen.

Maybe it was the intoxicating beauty of the women when the golden lights of the hallway shone on their faces, or their shimmering ballgown when the Queen decided they might just be her heir and worthy of beauty. But beauty was vain, and so was wearing a crown.

The hallway was filled with perfumes so strong that any normal person would pass out, but Avida, along with the other women, had grown used to the scent of death. They had grown under the dark and omniscient presence of the Queen’s gaze, and showing displeasure in her castle was punishable by death. But Avida was ready to die. She had waited for the moment where she could stare calmly into the Queen’s gaze, on her very throne, and tell her she was ready for death.

Avida curtsied deeply in front of the Queen’s hideous throne. It was covered in gold and luxurious quilts of a thousand different colors, each quilt made of the dresses once worn by girls the Queen had slaughtered. The Queen wrapped the golden corner of a quilt around her finger, the silk shining in the light of a chandelier. The Queen’s dress was a navy blue, long and draping at the end, her porcelain skin glimmering against the dark fabric. She had a bored look on her face, her red lips pursed and her eyes dull and tired. Avida took a breath.

“Get on with it,” the Queen hissed, staring off into the hallway. “I have many other girls to speak with. Would you like to prove to me one last time you’re worthy?”

“I have much more than that to prove,” Avida whispered with a smile. “I want to prove that I should be killed.”

The Queen batted her eyelashes before tilting her head. “Killed? For what reason? Dear Avida, you’re kind, beautiful, funny. You are one of the top contenders for being an heir. Why end it all now?”

“You deserve better,” Avida said flatly. “You deserve your own child of your own blood to rule here.”

“I want no such thing,” the Queen hissed. “That will only lead to me growing old. How dare you insult me with such an idea.”

“Your anger does not change my decision,” Avida growled. “Execute me. I want nothing more to do with this palace.”

“Fine, then,” the Queen smiled. “I will punish you. But you will not die. That’s much too kind.”

The queen snapped her fingers and a few women appeared from behind her throne, each wearing an old dress that was nearly torn in two. They bent down on one knee, unable to look Avida or the Queen in the eye. Avida looked up at the Queen curiously.

“Pick one,” the Queen smiled.

“What for?”

“I said pick.” The Queen leaned forward in her seat and stared at Avida furiously before leaning back with her usual, pretty smile.

Avida studied them all carefully. Each of them was middle-aged, their beauty lost long ago. The first woman had greying red hair and sagging eyes, all of her zeal for life gone with time. The next woman was short and stout, raven black hair covering most of her eyes and the rest tied back in a bun. She was strong and vigorous, but she had let her body lay waist in the Queen’s castle. The third woman had chestnut hair, a long, elegant neck, and a tall demeanor. She held her head eye, just barely avoiding Avida’s gaze, and her thin lips were pressed into a smile. Avida smiled back. She didn’t even look at the fourth woman.

“Her,” Avida pointed, the brown-haired woman making a grunt of surprise. “I choose her.”

“Are you sure?” the Queen asked. “She is weak. I would suggest choosing someone stronger.”

“What do you mean? Am I sending her out to war?”

“Not exactly.” The Queen snapped her fingers again. A servant around Avida’s age appeared with a wine cup in hand. He had brunette hair and an evil smile that chilled Avida’s spine. He quickly bowed before the Queen and handed her the cup as she patted his head.

“Thank you, Samuel,” the Queen chuckled, nodding goodbye to the servant. She pulled out a needle from beneath one of the quilts and handed it to Avida, along with the goblet. “Would you give this to the lovely brown-haired woman?”

Avida nodded, handing the cup and needle to the woman. The woman sliced her finger with the needle, biting her lip as she began to cry. Her blood poured into the wine cup, the bitter scent mixing with the perfume of the room to create a smell even more vile.

“Poison calls for only four ingredients,” the Queen said softly. “Blood, sweat, tears… And a little bit of magic.”

Tears and blood mixed in the cup. The woman held the cup up to her chin, sweat pouring from her until the cup was halfway full. She let out a quivering sigh as the blood from her cut stopped pouring, and she swirled the disgusting mixture around with the needle. She handed it back to the Queen and smiled.

“And now for the last ingredient.” The queen stuck her finger in the mixture, blue light glimmering from it as the red liquid turned to purple. She leaned over and handed the cup to Avida.

“Drink, dear,” the Queen whispered. Avida looked up at her with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

“This? I’m no vampire.”

“You’re no” the Queen cackled. “You’re better. You’re my personal torture device.”

Avida frowned. Slowly, she brought the cup to her lips, tipping the cup so the liquid flowed into her mouth. She gagged, taking one quick sip and swallowing before she threw up.

“Now, go to bed, both of you.” The queen got up and headed behind her throne. “Only one of you is getting any younger.”