His blood on my hands

Kendra eleven

The preparations for the ball have started. My father has hired hundreds of people just for this party. The decorations are mostly dark green, gold, and black.

Charise shows me a few ideas for dresses. There are so many options and I'm not sure why it's such a big deal. It's weird to choose a dress based on looks and not mobility. I eventually chose an all black dress with silver detailing. It's a sleeveless corset on top and it has a big, long, puffy skirt.

I don't bother to try on the dress and I walk to a balcony. Both my parents are sitting, drinking black coffee. One more shot. I'm not sure why. But one more shot.

"So, is he dead?"

"Who?" my dad asks.

"Cadrian." Who else would I be asking about?

"Oh, right. I doubt it."

"What?"

"Kendra, I couldn't care less if that boy was dead, in fact, I think he's coming to the ball. "

"Darling!" My mother yells at him.

"What does it matter now?" He says.

She looks confused and angry.

What does he mean he couldn't care less? Why did they send me away for four years if they couldn't care less?

They both share a look and my mother speaks. Not in a caring tone. But in the tone of a messenger whose only purpose is to convey the message, with a hint of cynical.

"It was never about killing Cadrian, dear. Don't be so small minded. Surely you didn't think one person's death would bring down the guard of an entire nation?"

"Then why did you send me, mother?" I raise my voice a tad.

"Don't raise your voice at your mother!"

"We're sending a nuclear attack in two days. Then everything will fall under the great kingdom of england." She says.

What? What nuclear attack? Since when have we had access to bombs? Why didn't I know about this? I feel dizzy and I begin to see patches of white. I shake my head to clear it and my legs start to feel wobbly.

"Have you guys been lying to me?" I say, my voice slightly shaking.

"We couldn't have you as a hindrance and this gave you something to do. Somewhere to be." He says, taking another sip of his coffee.

They don't look a bit remorseful or sorry. Why would they be? After all, I am the burden.

I walk to my room and sit in a corner. I don't feel like thinking, but I do anyway. Not about the fact that they didn't trust me. Nor about the bombs. Nor the constant lies for years, just to get me to leave. It's about how I never questioned it. Not for a second. I did what they told me without a second thought. How gullible does one need to be for that? What an idiot am I? How desperate for validation I must be.

But regardless of what's done and what's real. What are lies, and what I believed. I want to kill him. I don't care if I don't get the honor I was promised. Nor the high rankings I had dreamed of. I just want his blood. His blood on my hands.