by Angie Bee
And then, so smoothly it was as if watching a distant image in slow motion, the maddened eyes rolled up into chalky whites and she fell, legs folding as the switchblade slipped from senseless fingers to clatter once more to the floor.
"Snow," Regine murmured, hand closing gently around the clenched, shaking fingers that grasped the gun. "Snow, look at me."
She did so, her breath shallow and labored.
"It was necessary," she said, sympathy in her voice, stamped across her face. "She was sick, in a way that nothing could cure."
Snow nodded numbly. "She was my sister. And I loved her."
"And now she's at peace. You made a choice. I doubt anyone would say it was the wrong one."
"Regine. You're all I have left."
"No. No, that's not true." At the questioning spark she smiled, cupping the earnest face with her hands. "You have yourself."
"Yes. But ruling alone would be very empty."
SOMEDAY WE WILL SEE A WOMAN KING
The funeral was sparsely attended. And it ate at Snow, that her father's had been the center of a media frenzy, overwhelmed by attendees, while her sister's was ignored and ignominious. The rain that drizzled and soaked through the black lace of her dress was warm, and still she shivered.
"She could not help what she was," Snow said. "Mad. A woman. A bastard child. Chance and sin and society conspired against her."
"You gave her love and kindness when others turned away. Understanding. And a quick end. A mind like hers, the proclivities she had... she could have ended far worse," said Regine. No pity in her voice. She stated facts gently, but would stoop no further.
Snow looked out over the graveyard, where at last everyone was equal and genderless, rendered into square gray stones and marble plinths. She straightened, stiffened, her shoulders settling into a regal bearing. The last traces of indecision faded away in the wind, replaced by the strength of full acceptance. "This world is rotten. For all its beauty and goodness, there is still a festering pit beneath the glossy skin. I can't ignore it any longer; turn a blind eye to it. I will not suffer to live in a world that warps and maims, that drives us to extremes in pursuit of dignity and love and respect. The dark choices you made before, all done in the name of survival and the pursuit of ambitions denied to you because of your sex. You made yourself a weapon because it was the only option the world gave you. And my father would have made me a doll: unthreatening and malleable. Neither way is right."
"What will you do?"
"Tear down the columns. Crumble it all to dust and ash and rubble. And build everything anew. Make a world—by force if I must—where female does not equal less than. Where male does not automatically take precedence. We fight battles our great-grandmothers fought. This repetition cannot be allowed to continue. This will be the line drawn. This will be the beginning and the end."
Regine's hand slipped into hers, fingers intertwining firmly. "Then let us start."
LONG LIVE THE QUEENS
About the Author
Angie Bee is a novelist, freelance writer, and pop culture pundit. She has four tattoos (so far), has lived in the Midwest and New Zealand, wrote a thesis on the socio-political commentary in zombie films, and dreams of one day meeting Guillermo del Toro. Her ultimate goal in life is to be the lady all the neighborhood kids suspect is a witch (but a good witch, who gives out full-sized candy bars every Halloween). By day, she's a mostly-mild-mannered bookseller for a major retailer. Find more of her fiction and media critiques at theangiebee.tumblr.com, and follow her on Twitter @therealzombres.