“I see so much of me in you,” she said, “and quite frankly, it terrifies me!”

I chuckled, “Well, as it turns out, ma, this world is quite a cold place. And to survive in it, you have to be colder.”

Those words were what haunted my every breath, every step, down every ally. Trying to convince myself that was why I did this; the world made me, it wasn’t my choice. But it was.

I couldn’t do that, not then. Not on that job. So, I pushed it back down, down so far, I was scared it wouldn’t come back.

The last words, from my mother. The only words I had. The only memory I had. Everything else of her was gone. Her smell, her face, her hands, her voice. They even took the house. I had to rent, above the inn she owned, streets away from where she lived. She hated the inn, but it was how she lived. For me. She blamed me.

Only five years ago she lived. Five years it takes to forget. She left me to this life, she forgot about me. I would stand in front of her, and she would forget. She resented me, for my papa’s death, she couldn’t blame him, so it was me. That’s what the man said, the one that found me when I could barely see my hand in front of me. When my mother dispelled her anger in yellow and gold patches.

For two years that man taught me, everything from catching a rat to stealing a ring off a finger without them knowing. Two years he taught me, he taught me how to run, how to hide and how to survive. Then they killed him, he was too slow, too old. I came back from the markets, he was dead. They left me to fend for myself, to die alone and lonely. Then the boss found me and honed those skills into something else, something better and worse. A monster.

Rubbish and unimaginable things squished beneath my feet. The only light was from the buildings surrounding the alley, it’s lamplight. I barely saw the ground in front of me. I don’t think it would have helped if I could see; I don’t think I could go down there if I did know what resided beneath my feet. There’s no one. This alley is as clean, I told myself. I tell myself they all are.

The man, my boss, killed my papa and ran my ma to her grave. 2 years working for him, I was the youngest and the only girl he ever took on. I started below his slaves and worked my way to the top. More like clawed, killed, and fought until he truly noticed me, until he made me. Until he made his greatest, scariest monster. That’s what all the others say. I think they’re right.

My ma had barely made a dent in the debt, papa paid more than her in half as many years. I still don’t know how he lost it, only that ma told me he did, and he asked too many questions. So, they had to kill him. I think she lied. I think she was scared. I’m certain it was because I was holding her down, she couldn’t leave me. I think she blamed me.

After papa died, ma worked for the boss, I was only six then, I was barely ten when she left, I was alone and the town people rarely came up to talk, they avoided me. But it wasn’t my fault then, it was my mother’s. Though it did turn into mine. I made them terrified. She only made them uneasy. She knew some of their secrets. I know where they all live.

“Crap,” I tripped over a body, or what’s left. I could barely make it out. Tin cut into my shin. It drew blood. Gold blood. I tore off a strip of cloth from my shirt and wrap it around. Until no gold shows. It was only shallow, but even shallow cuts can dig your grave, I've seen it many times. I had to keep moving, only three hours until it was sun-up. Only three hours until my job had to be done. Only three hours until a body would be found. I could only hope it’s not mine.

The water rushed against my back, freezing it, chasing the voices away, the cries, the howls, the face. I closed my eyes to wipe it all away, but when I opened them, the water turned red. It happens every time I get off a job, every night, and I can never work out how to turn it back. Not after years, no matter how big or how small the job. The mornings are always the same. The pay does not even amount to the horrors of this job, even though no other job in this place would pay this well.

After every job, I barely walk home without falling. I shake, I stumble because I’m weak. At least three times a month I stumble to the children’s home. It smells and the lady there is rougher than any man on the street. Many times, I have seen those children steal, get caught and go away. I never see them again, no one does. It’s that lady’s fault and mine. But it’s better than the streets. That’s what I tell myself. I tell myself it’s true.

I can’t think. I can’t think.

It’s never quiet. The voices are vultures waiting for blood. Waiting for a weakness. I lie, that’s why they don’t go away. They know what I’m doing even when I don’t. Then they swoop. They’re showing me what I am, an ugly monster. A lying, ugly, outcast with a heart darker and colder than that of any monster.

They take all they can. They have time, they have lots of time. I give them the time. I can’t get rid of them; they are always there. Right above me, waiting to draw blood. The cold freezing burn of the water helps, it reminds me of the ice that is in the place where others’ have hearts. Only the water can chase them, catch them, kill them. The pain clears them, it scares them. If I die, they die. Ofttimes, I wish to die, just to be rid of them and sometimes to rid this horrendous world of another terrible monster and make my kind contribution to the people’s hope.

He barged through the door, smelling like the cheap ale at the miserable tavern downstairs. His face like an overripe tomato, gut bulging out under the stained moth-eaten shirt and a pair of shorts to match them. Greasy hair, so greasy the mites wouldn’t even live in it and a food ridden half-beard at which I shuddered for those poor souls having to clean it. “You feral beast,” he growled, and I shrunk back into myself, “He was a rich court person, not the gambler I told you, the bleeding King's advisor!” he yelled, “You got the King’s advisor,” he shook his head and I tried to hide my shaking hands under the table, “S’your mess, not mine. You fix it. ‘E’s after you. Ya better start runnin’, girlie.” When he had finished scolding me, he left with the door open, and a stink worse than those alleys he made me go through.

His runner boy delivered the pay for the last job I did. In the paper there was only half, the other half was to compensate him, for what I do not know. I thought the debt is paid or at least I am no longer in debt to him. Maybe he wanted nothing to do with me or anything that could connect me to him. He hones me then leaves me to die, it’s not very gallant but it counts towards something since he lives off other’s griefs.

I stayed. 97 days until he came for me. Well until his red-handed right-handed man did, the Hawk. I was ready. More than 3 months to plan for this. More than 15 girls had black hair, blue eyes, and honey coloured skin. Too many girls too eager to escape from their starving households. From the terrors inflicted on them, from the screams and pleads. I told myself I was doing them a favour. To stay sane, for the moment at least. I know it will not last.

I could hear his claws tapping my skull.

Tap. Tap. Tick.

It worked. It was executed perfectly; they think it’s me. They don’t know me; they don’t know it’s her, if they did, she would already be dead. Another 8 days until her public execution. No one noticed and if they did, they stayed quiet, maybe my reputation scared them. Maybe I am a monster. I push that down, down with the others.

217 seconds pass before he falls. The King, the eyesore that’s killed more than me. The square erupts in chaos.

The claws tap, tap, tick.

They checked everyone for danger, they forced everyone to come. To watch my execution. To make a show of it. To show everyone what happens when you go against them. It was a different show today. It was my show today, to show everyone another monster, to show everyone what this place creates. To give hope but handout fear disguised beside it.

The guard to my left caught my arm 4 seconds too late. Then they surrounded me; I knew a little about how this worked. This is what I do, I’m good at it. The King did not have an heir, nor any close relatives, he was too ugly for any pure heirs. I am sure he has many baseborn children; I am sure I have seen many of them, may have even orphaned a few.

I think I’m queen. I am queen, but I am no better than the last monster that rested his arse on that steel throne. Though, I may be an even bigger one.

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18 days since they brought me here. 34 hours since they last interrogated me. That’s what they called it. I know a better word but I’m not game to say it to them. That room has had worse than me, I saw the painted walls. The colour of water. My water. Bloody water. But not my blood, they didn’t draw my blood. Too many eyes, he hissed, not enough skin. Then they put me on the throne.

After the ceremony, they leave me alone. In a room large enough that I could get lost. So large I could almost hide, until they come for me. But it’s not large enough that they could not find me. Too large. Too much space. Too much empty space. In my head. In this room. When they come, I can’t hide. Someone’s screams. I think it was me.

The guards outside my door can’t hear me. The walls are thick, they built a second wall around my room and stuffed it with something that leaks through the bottom. They built it after all the ladies and lords complained of the noise. They did it so no one would know, no one would help me. No one would want to. That goes down deep to dance the others, I hope the claws aren’t there to welcome it.

Every day they leave me. In the large room. Every day I check the windows twice-over. Every day I wake with blood covering my hands, my clothes, my sheets, my face. I don’t know where it comes from, maybe the nightmares, maybe me. It disappears when the maids wash me with my eyes closed, I can’t shower or bathe without the water turning. I still can’t turn it back. The

only difference now is that the claws wash in with the water.

Tap. Tap. Tick.

I have to shower every day, steaming and burning. It cleanses. They tell me that. They hold me there. Even when I scream. Even when the water turns red. 9 people both men and ladies, I don’t care. I hurt people. I don’t get to care. They catch my punches and give me three extras, when I kick, they kick my knees, make me kneel to them, then they kick my back until they’re content. Until I obey and listen to them.

98 days pass. They put me away when they get sick of me. Sick of telling me what to do. Sick of looking at me. They get sick of me often. They tell me I’m to get married. They say to at least pretend I’m normal around other people. Do not cry, don’t yell, don’t talk unless we tell you. They say it’s because there are guests staying. So, they must lock me up or chain me down, I’m not sure. Only when I’m needed, they let me out. Only when they want me. Only when they need me, they never want me.

The vows they prepared for me are said in the hall, and we combine our blood before offering it to each God for a good marriage of happiness without sin, as are the vows he wrote. His name is Edwin. He told me. He came from a noble family, they said. He came with stability for the kingdom and money. He slept down the hall from me, they covered my mouth with a rag and tie my hands at night. When he comes to see me, it must be during the day. It’s when I’m better, when I’m not as crazy they say. He tells me he loves me; I never say it back. I don’t believe him.

They tell me what to say, the council do. Then they tell me what to do. They tell me so thoroughly I’m not sure even I could get it wrong. They treat me like glass, fragile and without a heart. I’m not human. I’m a monster. I put that with the others. The claws scrap my skull.

Tap, tap, tick.

They tell me to never ever cry in front of Edwin, or anyone. They dress me up, they start feeding me, shoving it down my throat. Telling me I need to eat more, it’s important for giving the country its next heir. They feed my stomach until it is upon breaking point. They all fuss about my weight and hips and lots of other things I don’t understand but I think it’s to do with childbearing.

They are making me run, making me lift rocks. They whip me, I’m theirs. They don’t see me. I’m nothing. I have always been nothing. I hope the maids don’t notice the gold blood; they might know. I might already have a planned burial or burning, depending on how much they value me. It’s not very much, it must be a communal burning then.

They trim my nails, for extra precaution they say. It’s so I can’t unbind the binding around my back. It’s so I can’t hurt anyone. The salt is a hundred touches shoved into the wound; I can’t get them out. Even soaking the bandages between wrappings can’t get them out. The bandages leave the water yellower, I hope no one notices.

67 days after the marriage the ladies invite me to a meeting, to sew. I can’t sew, but it’s my duty as queen. The council told me not to talk unless I’m spoken to, and I have to take one of them with me. The ladies don’t comment about my bad sewing, they might be scared that I’ll take their head, they mutter about me. The lady that came with me tries to teach me; it doesn’t help. I’m no good at it. No good at being Queen and no good at sewing. I am a good monster, but I don’t think that counts towards anything except for a reserved seat in the darkest hell.

They want an heir now. 134 days since I met Edwin. He’s a stranger, I have to have a baby with a stranger. It doesn’t matter who the father is they say, so long as there is a baby. There’s no one else. They say my body is ready. I have seen 16 summers. I was born in winter. I hope the baby isn’t, winter turns your heart to ice. It showed me with my own as well as my ma’s, she had barely seen 26 summers.

I liked the cold; it used to clear my head. For a while until I got a job, or they found me. They always do. They might not like the cold, but they hate me. I tell myself they don’t mean anything, I pretend, I’m not good at pretending. I should stop lying to myself, to everyone, but it’s my last defence before they see who I really am. Before I see who I am. That can’t happen.

241 days since they made me start trying, I’m with child. The castle healer confirmed it. They all hope it’s a boy, boys are better they say. They’re stronger, faster and they rule better. They are also better drinkers and they’re heartless from the power, the money, the runner boy tells me, he says he hopes it’s a girl. He thinks they’re fairer and nicer and men are ugly. I slipped him a gold, I nicked from the fat man, the boy is the first person who talked to me in 5 years as though I’m a person. Not a monster, not a deranged lady or a weak queen but a real person. I think he’s wrong to talk to me, I’m not good. I’m bad and cold-hearted, but some part of me is buzzing with something good. I’m surprised I even remember that feeling and even more surprised that I have still have this feeling.

The baby is growing, I’m getting fatter. They keep feeding me, they have stopped whipping me, I still must exercise, but it is not as hard as it was, and my legs are no longer sticks. That's what

the maid told me when I asked why I needed more dresses.

The exercise, it’s good for the baby, the baby isn’t going to be like you, they tell me. They make bets on its looks. They bet on my baby. Every time I see them exchange money; I punch them. They put me in chains for it. They keep the chains on me, so I don’t “accidentally” harm myself or the baby.

The chains are hidden in my sleeves when they need me to attend a meeting or a dinner. They chafe against my wrists leaving yellow blood around the metal, some of the metal has moulded into the regrowing skin. The maids have to peel it off while some guards hold me back, they keep threatening to leave it grow. They can’t, they have to fix me enough so it looks as though I’m sane and not dangerous. To make me look like a pleasant and honest queen.

The guards never talk to me whenever I say something. I don’t matter to them, I'm just another up-themself brat they must follow around and sometimes restrain. Or they could be mute, but I think the first one is right, they don’t think I’m worth it, worth their time, worth their respect or their energy. They’re right, I'm not.

506 days since they married me, I’m in the hospital wing. Screaming. Having a baby, Edwin’s baby. My baby. 8 hours, I was laying there. 8 hours it takes to birth a baby. They had me tied down to the bed, 8 hours since I last moved. The delivery lady tells me he’s a boy, the healthiest baby she’s ever seen. It’s probably from all the food they shoved down my throat, all the exercise they made me do. For the baby they said. Not me, they never wanted me. I push that down.

He was born in Autumn. My baby. They aren’t going to let me touch him without chains on, they say it as if I’m going to hurt him. Maybe they’re right. I don’t want to hurt him but I’m a monster, aren’t I? The wetnurse is going to feed him, love him. I love him too, I told them, they ignored me. They don’t believe me, they don’t want me, they don’t listen to me.

The lady takes my baby away before I can say anything, at least they unchained me. I count the seconds; I get to 659 before she comes back in. The baby isn’t breathing. My son isn’t breathing. I stare at her. Another lady comes in. He’s dead.

I can’t breathe, if this is what it feels like to need, I am never giving myself up to something so entirely again, ever. But I’m not sure that I did. I scream. Thousands of picks and claws are tearing at my heart. Plucking piece by piece, taking it away. I cover my face, trying to get the voices out, trying to breathe. Trying to rid the claws and picks. They just grow bigger and multiply. The tapping and ticking intensify, it’s bursting my head.

I think I killed him. My body killed him. I killed him. The only thing I ever wanted or needed; I can’t tell the difference. Screams fill the wing. My face is dripping, my hands are soaked. My head is about to explode into a million shards.

I take my hands from my face. They’re covered in blood. They show me my baby. Pale. Still. Dead. I scream, I’m clawing at the lady, telling her to stop. Telling her to wake my baby up. Telling her to bring my baby back, make him live. She doesn’t. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.

I have nothing left, no family, no hope, no life, only this monster inside me. Guards come in. They chain me up, like I’m a wild dog. They drag me away. I slip on my own blood dripping down my legs to the tiled floors. My golden blood. They keep going, I don’t know if they know. They will, maybe they don’t care.

This is their excuse. My husband is king regent. They call me insane. They say they are taking me to be with people like me. They tell people that I became too weak to rule from childbirth. They tell me I’m going to be a dead queen.

They say my baby died. They say it was too sickly to have survived. They want another baby from me. 2 hours after they left me here, they sent a lady in, she touched me where it hurt and prodded me in places that were slick with blood. My blood. After wiping her hands clean on my clothes, she said I could have another baby. I was lucky, she said. I think she lied. I’m their carcass, they only kept me because they need an heir, they need a baby. For as long as I breathe, that’s now my sole purpose. To breed.

They can’t kill me until there’s a living ‘heir’. If they do, they will never have a true ruler on the throne. One that they can control. One like me. Maybe they don’t care if the ruler is true.

I hope I never have another child. I hope my child-bearing days are gone. I hope that last baby ruined me. I know he didn’t, I know because that lady told me a week ago. I hope she lied; I hope they kill me before she’s proven right. I hope the voices don’t follow me to my afterlife. I hope I don’t have an afterlife; this one was bad enough.

I hope and I hope, and I pray to the gods and the god and everything and every being that people believe will help them. I hope that they get sick of me, and I pray that I die. Every day I pray, every thought is a hope.

I’m screaming and drowning in a cell when the King visits me. We never talk, I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’m pregnant. They all visit once a month, the King’s party made up of the men and women who used to council me, they wait outside, praying that a babe is made and chattering happily. When they leave the guards call me names. I cannot hear them, after a few short minutes, after the party leaves, the voices, and faces, they come back. Rushing at me, ripping, and tearing, screaming, and shouting. The men outside have heard my screams so many times they take no notice. They always find me. No matter how much I claw the door, no matter how raw my throat gets, I’m still trapped.

Hope has left me; I think they replaced it with despair. I failed. I failed myself. I failed the kingdom. I failed my father, my mother. I failed my child. My dead, dead child. I failed at everything. I’m a failure, I ruin everything.

The icy water in the bucket is already red when they drop it off, laughing at me shivering in the corner. Curled up into a ball, trying to conserve the warmth left in me. The room isn’t cold, but I am. I’m an icy, gold-blooded monster, they all call me. In the night, in the day, I don’t know the time of day or the date anymore. It’s just the heavy weighted darkness. It keeps trying to consume me, I think it might. Maybe that’s what they want; me to be consumed by the darkness. By my own heart, my own soul, my own head.

Now when I scream the guards ignore me. There are monsters all around me but I’m never getting out, the darkness keeps pressing in, keeps getting closer and closer and closer, even the claws left.

The tapping is gone with them, leaving my mind in such a state that only a raging fire could do.