The Queen

by Nick Cutter

How do I get back to that place where the world made sense? That time when I felt loved and understood by at least one person? If the key is dipped in poison, well, so what? I seek entry, anyway. I’m human.

The impulse came to fling the door open and hurl myself out. At this speed I’d go rag-dolling across the concrete. Would I unravel like a bloody ball of yarn? The urge passed.

The snap of broken teeth was the sound of a three-hole punch going through a stack of paper.

This is how it goes. The parent does their best to hold up the child until they can hold themselves up. For some time, they walk as equals. Then the shoe inevitably winds up on the other foot.