A QUEEN'S GAME

TIANA CHAHINE '26

I’ve killed a man. I have no clue how else to say it; I’ve killed a man. Looking down at his slumped body, I feel a hint of laughter coming on, a laugh bubbling out from my mouth. Don’t start thinking that I’m “insensitive.” This wouldn’t be funny if he wasn’t head first in food. On top of that, the man fell face down into a plate of fish. Personally, I believe it looks like a good meal. I did make it, after all.

Looking at him looks like I’m looking through an artist’s eyes, and frankly I would buy this painting. His Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon 1992 wine has been knocked over, spilled all over his hands, clothes and tablecloth. It’s a red, crimson color. With a sigh, I lift his head up by the oily strands of his hair, grabbing a towel to wipe away the fish grease that coats his eyebrow. His strong jaw has suddenly gone slack. His lips, still slightly pink despite how pale the rest of him has gone.

I will admit he’s a rather handsome man — well, a corpse now. He’s tall and sweet. He does have a soft spot for children, especially the ones he’s dreamed of having with me. They would have curly blonde hair like me, but with eyes a dark stormy gray. Another smile makes its way onto my face, crueler this time. Oh how he used to be so wonderful to me, I thought. I thought about the times he would take me for strolls along the estate, picking roses for me so delicately, pinning them in my hair.

I will admit he’s a rather handsome man — well, a corpse now. He’s tall and sweet. He does have a soft spot for children, especially the ones he’s dreamed of having with me. They would have curly blonde hair like me, but with eyes a dark stormy gray. Another smile makes its way onto my face, crueler this time. Oh how he used to be so wonderful to me, I thought. I thought about the times he would take me for strolls along the estate, picking roses for me so delicately, pinning them in my hair.

He would always compliment me, whisk me to my room when it was time for bed. It was like a game, one that I loved playing, hoping it would never end. We used to ride the horses together, we would read in the November winds or watching the snowfall in December. Every Valentine’s day was a day to remember, one that brought gifts and chocolate. The necklaces, rings, the dresses and the candy.

I grip his hair and toss it back so his body flings against the chair. His head hit the wood with a bang. So, I’ve never committed murder before. Never. I’m the definition of the perfect lady, I like to keep things clean. Blood is rather the opposite. So is cleaning up a murder. It’s like playing a game and killing him was just the first level.

It wasn’t very hard if you’re wondering. My husband is quite naive, and me being the genius I am made killing him a piece of cake. I’m up there in this world, so if I want poison I can get it from wherever I want. That’s what I did, although cliche, but it was worth it. I laced his wine and his meal, which I admit may have been a tad overdramatic. Regardless, they won’t be able to trace it back to me.

The poison has been disposed of, and it’s off of my hands. Besides, I’m me. I’m the lady of the court, I could never be a suspect. I’m going to play this smart. I’m going to start a new game, my game. One that I’ll beat everyone at. It’s my world, they’re just living in it.

I have to clean this mess up, dispose of the body, and just do something. I clean up the plates, setting his plate on the ground for my dog, Poppy, to eat. Halfway through, I pick the plate back up. I can't have it look as though a dog ate it. I pet her smooth golden head as she whimpers. Poppy is the most loyal mammal in this Abrine estate.

I decided that it would be much better if I made it look like someone attacked him. I make sure to have it seem as though he —I mean, we —were caught unawares, forcing tears out of my eyes to drag down my mascara and ruin my makeup. I frizz up my hair, leaving strands curling in front of my eyes. I tug an earring out of my ear, tossing the diamond studded piece on the carpet. Women in distress don't look pristine, you know. It's a classic 'my life is falling apart, please help me' look. All the best women have mastered it.

I never thought I would go this far for power, but life always goes where you never expect. This will be everything I've ever wanted. No one would kill the innocent lady, she is of no use and already claimed by their enemy, and taking her would result in having her father come after them. I'm not a natural born killer, I just have intent. I have a reason for doing this. My handsome, stupid fiancé, made of sweet promises and nice intentions, was cheating on me with some rosy-cheeked summer girl who picks apples for a living.

He would always slip away from the palace, claiming he had things to do outside of the castle. I noticed. I realized how he smelled when he came back, I noticed the bits of hair on him that weren't mine. Despite my already confirmed status, this infuriated me. He chose her, with her cotton dresses and apple pies and copper coins. Which is just stupid because, well, I am me.

I was planning from the start. I've been putting up with it for months, getting all my evidence in order, organizing my framing methods. I had to get it right. I'm an artist. I have made a beautiful setting, and the characters, both bathed in red, from all of it. When the door to my parlor opens, the maids' mortified expressions do much more justice than their words. I hide my smirk as they all scream and rush over.

I know what they see: A lady, bent over her future husband with despair that he is gone. Her dress is bloody, her hands the same sticky crimson shade. Her eyes painted wild with fear, her hair with frizzy strands stroked by a fine brush in the most steady hand. Her soon to be husband laid on the chair, his head lolled back, death in his face, death scribbled on his body with a sloppy ink. It's horrifying.

"Someone's killed the King! The King is dead!"

I let them drag me to my bed, dropping my head in my red hands. It's all I can do to contain my joy. What a wonderful sentence to hear.

"We--We were j-just having dinner!" I stammer, keeping my voice thick and wobbly. "And h-he just got in, somehow! He- he killed-" I layer on the sobs, drawing sympathy and a slow resolve to my maids.

"He's really dead." The King's advisor murmurs. But even better than that?

"...You're the Queen now, Miss." One gasps. "We've got to get you ready!"

"The-- The first ever sole Queen?" I gasp. "O-oh, no I can't do that. I--"

"But you must!"

I shrug along with insistence, for what simple court lady would want to take over the kingdom on her own? What selfish woman would kill her own king out of spite to earn his power?

This one.

Oh, have I changed the game? They're all going to wish they never wronged me.