It’s a wasteland…. An endless, unforgiving wasteland… I see nothing but sand and steel. Grains of dust, and chunks of reflection. Blank, blue sky and a blank of yellow desert that is nothing other than what she chose. It houses the gates of her Eternal Thorne. The most to be seen is one shrub a few miles away. This is the desert she decided upon. The desert that The Red Queen fashioned for herself. This used to be a rainforest. An endless expanse of lush greenery. It housed the oldest tree on Earth. The rarest of the species. This was the house of paradise. Now it’s nothing.
Now all I see before me is sandy desert. A nothingness of wind and dust. It hurts to know what this once was. The trees in her courtyard are painted in blood because there is no other liquid to paint their steel shells with. I stand before the Red Throne. Guilty of buying into her future.
Then our star rushed in; feeling like a child, but looking like the woman. She was no longer a soul. She was the Red Queen’s pawn. Another pawn used over the centuries. She screamed and cried. The press cried out. She invited us to a beheading. We felt like butterflies by the flame. We dashed to the site. Eager. Hopeful. A celebrity had been forecast with an attempt to kill herself. The ending had not tested well.
But no one cared.
We watch. We wait. We hope the blade will fall. We long to hear the sound of shearing flesh. It slices through the skin and scales and bone. But as her head fell… We felt our horror mirrored in the sundown of her blank stare.
We had sold our souls to The Queen. We were now her. Nothing but morbid husks of flesh. We were all the stranded and the spectators of the great coup. We bought into the future without ever living the present that led into it. We were the slaves. We are the pawns. We bought into Her fame. Bought into the fame she granted to others. And sold our own to facilitate her infinity.
We sold our souls for the spectacle… And found the lonely sound.