Camille

The gates of the royal estate loom ahead, etched in gold, polished to perfection.

I used to hate that perfection, used to want to scratch and blemish and defile the smooth surfaces so that the outside of the palace looked as messed up as we were inside.

Now I look at it with a new appreciation.

With a reference for the accomplishments I clawed, and lied , and snuck around to obtain.

Now it is a reflection of my accomplishments.

The guards bow low as I approach, heads dipped, eyes averted—just as they should be.

I don’t spare them a glance.

Not today.

I walk through the grand threshold...