by Amber Wazacz
I stepped out into the forest, walking slowly, dressed in black, face covered, head down, cheeks wet. I slowly lead the group of people behind me, also dressed in black, head down, cheeks wet. The silence that rang throughout our group was impossible; we were being so quiet, with our sniffles, with our sobs, with our footsteps, so quiet that you could hear the birds chirping. On any other occasion the birds chirping would have been nice but not today, definitely not today.
I looked down at what was in my hands. They were shaking. Her eyes were still open…they were so very beautiful, a gorgeous green that matched every leaf in the forest. They were so big and looked even prettier against her pale skin. I looked into them remembering all the other times I had stared into those emerald green wisdom pools. Her ginger hair contrasting smartly against her pale skin and green eyes, her ginger hair that was plaited back loosely, looking beautiful as always, a few of her gorgeous curly ginger locks spilled over and onto her face. I sighed remembering the many times I had wished I was as pretty as her. My sigh sounded louder than it actually was because of the silence.
After a few more minutes of walking, the priest beside me announced that we had arrived. I looked around me. We were in a relatively large clearing somewhere deep in the forest where no civilians could accidentally come across the eternal resting place of their kings and queens.
There was a grave already dug, waiting for her coffin to be lowered down into. When done, the priest looked at me. I slowly nodded my head knowing what he wanted me to do. I gently kissed my mother’s forehead, slowly brushing a few strands of her ginger hair out of the way before lightly throwing the head onto the coffin. It landed with a loud thud. As the priest started to say his prayers, I picked up the first fistful of dirt and as I gently sprinkled it over her coffin, I made a promise to myself. A promise that I would get back at all of the Protestants that existed in England and Ireland, as I was Queen now. It was my unspoken duty to avenge my mother’s death. Although it may have been only a small group of Protestants that beheaded my mother, I knew they must all pay, so that I could teach any Catholics who were thinking of turning a lesson.