The Write Thing

There she was, in the middle of a well-known corner, ready to seize her next prey. Glorious, glamorous, golden layers of final touches had passed before the mirror a few moments before, as she was to look her best. Her chosen victim must never suspect, for that is the prerogative of a queen. It would not matter what her counterpart might look like, as long as she was unaware of the game the queen was preparing, backstage, as a last homage to the stolen beauty of younger years. A last glance, an approving nod, and off she went to her meeting.

The chosen one seemed an interesting match. She looked and sounded simple, yet smart enough to be somewhat of a challenge. The queen would have to be clever, act slowly, sell her own version of herself without giving up on a tentative bid. The stakes should always be higher…The adrenaline of this game was in the excitement of the chase, in the fleeting moment when you were onto the hopeless victim, looking into her surrendering eyes. Your prey was lost if she failed to see the real queen, made of alabaster, impenetrable and cold as ice.

For a while, the queen was unsure of the image she was projecting. It was as if her counterpart had a certain wisdom. That would be hard to play by…and yet, breaking that barrier would make the game much more exciting.

The secret of a good chase lies in knowing when to strike. You hit firmly, in the right spot, destabilizing your victim, confusing her into your own mechanism of not being, and drowning her into your delusion. In a delusional state, all beings cling to the future and become devoted to the instigator of the farce. No move is made without the queen’s consent. She rules, uncontested and ruthless, and she commands everything, but soon she gets bored. If there is no challenge, there is no fun. Once your victim feels the passion you infused in her veins, once she feels your soft, dark, confusing kiss, she falls into an abyss. That is when they capitulate to your power. You, the queen, are now in control, with all the weapons at your disposal to hit the final blow. The sentence is called when you are ready. And now you are, because your victim is hopeless.

Satisfied with your victory, having exercised the power of destruction you so laboriously achieved, you leave her bed a renewed woman. Upon your return home, you turn on the lights and look at the worldly possessions that decorate your flat, savoring each of their memories, breathing in as you softly touch the pictures on the mantelpiece. Another battle has been won against yourself. Someone has just paid the price of feeling something for you, the majestic queen. There is a full moon outside, and your neighbors have turned off their lights. It is late, and the summer breeze should be good to sleep to. You take off your clothes, and your naked body goes inside the big empty bed you have persistently refused to share.

There may be some thinking to do, but you do not want to know. There will certainly be a tomorrow to look forward to, and a new victim to find. The story might be repeated, with more or less variety. Regardless of the day ahead, you sigh with relief, rejoicing in your hard-earned eternity as the blood gradually dries in your hands. You feed from it, as the scorpion that cannot help its nature. Once more, her majesty was able to conquer before she died.

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