Mary Christof, Queen of Hearts

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Let Them Eat Brioche/I See A Burning Liver

“I mean, really. Just ply me with more, and I’ll be delighted to do anything without argument. Even tame his self-hatred and bring him to you alive, you know. He did apologize to me...practically begged.” I explained to her, as she pondered the situation, her smile turning into a little smirk. “I mean, sweet Saint Trinian, I could trade my place for his. You don’t want my covetous, greedy ass in there mucking up the joint. He’s got potential, dammit. I didn’t even actually realize you were talking to me until so many tries at contacting! I curse, I yell, I project worse than a drive-in...and so many annoying questions about life! I’m like stand-up. Terribly bad standup.”

Her hands cupped my chin, attempting not to giggle. “I can’t promise that, dearie. And you’re fine...you just have to bring him to me, is all...can you do that? Read your Bible and bring him to me...”


I sighed. Three weird daydreams in a row. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to start reading, especially after a tumultuous weekend.

“Si mater. Volo. Ego adepto illic, placet?”

That is, if I could wake up early enough to start reading it and tell my brain to stop tergiversating. It was a very nice book, with giants and heroines and heroes all in it...it had a nice end.

“Paenitet me quod clam Campanie. Valde bona elit.”

“Bona puella.”

“Cum quo me beatum, quae oblitus sum confusus ignoro quid viderim. Erat unus vitro mundo.”

One glass, and my stomach felt odd. I at least hoped my feet were a little warm tonight. Self-made warmth seemed...distant.

“Te amo, regina.” I sighed and said, bowing to her as one was to do unquestionably in the Queen of Hearts’ presence before retiring to my chambers, an insouciant natural grin upon my rosy cheeks as I began to hum a jaunty little tune to myself before remembering my avowed silence in front of her.

I had left the Queen to herself and her thoughts, and with that, I didn’t want to assume anymore. I had done enough in a single weekend worrying about a boy. A boy. A totally self-hating projection of myself, gender-flipped...and she had to help him.

I just had to deal with whatever mental breakdowns I was having right at this moment, and maybe tomorrow and the next week, too. Faireachdainnean deoghal. Feelings suck.

At least he wasn't a pretentious douche like the last one. Or maybe he wasn't. At this point, I didn't know.

I didn't want to care anymore than needed to, or even commanded to care. Now you see why I wanted the alcohol, though I could sense my liver burning?




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