No one bothered to visit the loft apartment at the end of the hall. No one bothered to knock on the forest green door, not that they’d get an answer if they did. Beyond the thin door, that was a different story. It was a castle to her, herself the queen, but, unfortunately, to the ignorant sceptic’s eye, it was labyrinth of trash and mess. The unending clutter served only to make the studio seem ever smaller. If it were clean, one would see the small kitchen and breakfast nook, the old burgundy futon, the exposed brick walls, the ancient, thin floorboards. But, as it should be stressed, it was not a clean apartment.

The gorgeous, old apartment, the kind with charm and character that many girls can only daydream of living in, was a masterpiece covered in a thick layer of mess. The floors could not be seen through the strewn clothing and blankets and wrappers and anything else one would expect to find at the bottoms of a teen’s closet. Only cracks of the the maroon brick walls were seen behind paper after paper of sketches or undecipherable words stuck up by scotch tape. When she was especially bored, or especially eccentric, she would draw over the brick in chalk, in long, graceful strokes.

The only real form of storage were a few floating shelves on the back wall, and as they were stacked on and stacked on with papers and books and more papers and folders and knick knacks of all sorts, they were obviously still not enough, for every other surface in the room was also cluttered with these objects.

And she lied there, on here loft bed, looking over her kingdom. And she smiled in such a subtle way, only the corners of her mouth curling up.

Her pajamas were her velvet cloak; her messy bun was her adorned headdress; her bed was her throne; her hood was her crown; her laptop was her scepter; her tub of ice cream was her royal banquet; her apartment was her kingdom.

And, of course, what the Queen says goes, so what she said went. The Queen does not worry about other countries’ affairs, nor the monsters that lurk beyond her walls, no, she worries about herself and her people, who in this case were just her.

Now, unfortunately, not all respect a Queen of this sort. In fact, many despise her and question her ways as if they even had the right to. They accuse her of isolation and corruption and all other evils. They are determined to burn her kingdom, to overthrow her. And the best way to overthrow is from the inside. That’s why the Queen has a very important number one rule: no one can climb over the stone walls or swim through the deep moat or knock down the heavy gates, no one.

So, naturally, when one makes the decision to attempt one of this penetration tactics, they are met with the full defense force.


He knocked on the dark green door at the end of the hall, a bit more nervous than he had anticipated. Nothing. He knocked again. Nothing. She never leaves. Again. And again. And again and again and again until he was sure his hand was no longer capable of making a fist, and to his luck, he heard a shuffling and the clicks of the lock as the door opened just a crack, the gold chain still keeping it closed.

A girl appeared in the doorway. And yes, she was a girl; although she was old enough to be called a women, she simply was not one. Her pale face showed annoyance. Her long, dark strands were held up in a bun, the chewed-up end of a lollipop hanging out of her mouth. Her eyes sagged, but were not tired, her lips pursed, but did not frown.

“You need to stop,” was the blatant answer to the knocking. She started to lock-up again as he grabbed the door, using his remaining energy to hold it open.

“Hey, come on, I need to talk to you.” She reached for the handle and pulled it toward her fiercely, starting a tug of war between themselves and the door.

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Leave.”

“El, come on.”

“...Wha...” She slapped on a pair of dark, thick frame glasses and studied him for a brief moment. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I said, I need to talk to you.”

She squinted, “Who sent you?”?
“No one.”

“bs.”

He bit his lip for a moment, then sighed. “Your dad.”

“That’s what I thought, yeah, get out and tell him he can-”

“Wait!” He sacrificed his grip for a moment to pull out a little pice of loose leaf out of his coat pocket. Written on it were the the letters “IOU” in writing not so different from the writing sprawled her walls. She paused, let out an overdone sign, took down the chain, and opened the door all of the way.

“You’re lucky I like to keep my promises. You’ve got five minutes.” And while he entered, she thought about how weird it was that three letters could represent three words so perfectly like that.

His reaction was more or less what she would have expected. He started to step around the mess as if it were lava in some kiddie game.

“Take off your shoes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your shoes, take them off.” She, herself, moved around the room with ease, stepping over piles and placing her feet in the right places, as if she had memorized it step for step. He reluctantly looked down at his loafers then back up her, and she nodded. She was already giving up enough by even letting him in, so he could at least respect her rules. The Queen did not need giants crushing her kingdom.

He untied them one by one and pulled them off while hopping, which needless to say was quite a challenge to a stern, clumsy man like himself. He held their brown leather in his hands, unsure of what to do next. Her head spun around, followed by her arms, grabbing the shoes and throwing them somewhere into the heap of everything. His cringe was so thick that she could even hear it. He tried stepping with his bare feet, searching for a spot of pure floor. He didn’t.

After rolling her eyes excessively, she said, “Here, let me show you.” She pointed to her bare foot, poorly pedicured in a dark purple: “Foot.” Then she patted one of the piles of clothing. “Surface.” She stepped right onto the summit of the pile. “Contact. Now you try.”

He stepped onto a pile of sweatpants, much like she did, but lacking the skill of a swift potato as herself, he slipped and fell on his side.

“Close enough,” she muttered, brushing papers off of the futon. After a few fumbling moments, he also arrived, sitting awkwardly on its end, while the lady of the house sat cross-legged, reclining on a few pillows.

Again she shook her head. “Lean back.” He did as told, for he was good at that. She stared at him a moment at the odd sight. He, there in his ironed grey collared shirt, his dark sweater, his fitted khakis, his light hair parted and combed back, a clean shave, and an overall very plain and proper. He was certainly not fit to be a king, or perhaps anything close. And his well groomed feet were bare, and he was trying very hard to clean back and look comfortable, but it was one of those things he failed miserably at. His stiff, still body, looked nothing short of ridiculous leaned back on the futon. And she laughed at that.

“You can’t just do this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“El, you act like a kid all of the time.”

“Yeah sorry if that wasn’t good enough for you, you scholar. I’m sorry I don’t act like a 50 year old historian, Luke.”

“Lucas.”

“Shut up.”

“This five minutes is going to be a lot longer if you fret like that.”

She paused, knowing he was right, but trying not to admit it. “Want some chips?” She passed the bag of sea salt and vinegar chips because everyone liked those. He took one out of the bag and tried to engulf it, but coughed in between and puckered very hard.

Maybe not everyone.

“Again, you can’t just do this.”

“Why? Why not?” She bit the sleeve of her grey sweatshirt and stretched it a bit.

“Because it’s not healthy. And your family is worried and you are not some hermit, El.”

She was pretty immature, fidgeting like a kid and denying and mocking and worrying more about comebacks than following the conversation. And she sure looked like a kid in her sweatshirt and shorts and bare feet and and silly bun. But Queens had to be like that, to stand their ground and treat traitors with the little respect they deserve.

“Well, too bad.”

“Why are you doing this?”

She balled up the ends up her sweatshirt into her fists, staring straight ahead. Because she couldn’t stand to see his face, his face that made her feel like an idiot.

“I am done with people. I hate them. I am done with this whole freaking world that is just out to screw me over. I’m done with trying to hard to be part of something that will never let me in. I’m tired with responsibility and rolls and freaking jerks who think they’re better than everyone else. It’s not worth it, it’s just not worth it. I have given up on humanity and I’m here with myself and it has been great.”

They sat there, the silence so thick it seemed to fog up the air. Awkward moments, that was another reason. There were no awkward moments with yourself.

“El, do you hate me?”

“Are you a human being?” She fiddled with her strings on her sweatshirt, not even looking up.

“Yes.” He, on the other hand, didn’t break his stare with her.

“Then I guess so, Sherlock.” She was very skilled at being sassy.

“Is this my fault?” Guilt was kicking in.

She paused, pushing her glasses back up. “You’re only a single rock in the avalanche.” She must have been feeling pretty artsy to use a metaphor on the spot like that. And, just then, his phone lit up through his pocket. As he pulled it out she added her own commentary, “Dear lord what is the brightness you keep on that.” He, as expected, ignored that, typed a brief message, and slid it back away.

“Who was that?”

“Girlfriend.”

“How are you guys?”

“Great. She’s kind of perfect. Perfect body, perfect smile. She always knows what too say.” He was obviously too distracted to see what she was doing. And just like that, like an unexpecting victim, she pulled out her dagger, and took a sharp swing.

“Well then, it’s no wonder you cheated on me with her.”

Ouch. The strike landed in his chest, slid down to his belly, and as she pulled it out, blood seeped out of the deep wound, the traitor was left, knocked back, unsure for a moment.

“El, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry means nothing. That word is tossed around like a football.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, Luke. That’s your problem.”

He picked up the IOU from the make-shift coffee table. “You remember when you gave this to me?”

“Yeah. At the coffee shop, when you paid for my drink.”

“It was our first date, you wouldn’t even let me pay for you without feeling in debt.”

“Well, It’s an extremely sexist thing to believe that the boy has to pay for the girl, like the girl is broke and she needs some heroic soldier to save her a couple a dollars.”

“Why can’t you just be like the rest, El. Why can’t you just let guys be nice to you and want to be with you, instead of being like this. Other girls get over things. They don’t keep themselves in their apartment all the time, they brave out into the world and make it theirs.” His tone was indistinguishable from one of frustration or amazement, but either way she took it as a direct attack.

“Because you freaking slept with her and it wasn’t the first time. Because people like you just roam the street people like you who act like scholarly, mature, rulers of the world. But guess what? You suck and you are an a****** and you’re the reason this world sucks and I’d rather be alone for eternity then ever have to see your smug face again.” By this time he had made his way to the door, careful to take the time to kick over piles and step on crisp papers.

He stood in the doorway, his feet still bare. “You’re a f****** mess, Ellie.”

“What’s new, you s***.” The dark green door slammed in her face. She didn’t have the energy to lock it, just to trudge back, pick up his fancy loafers, throw them into the trash, and climb into the loft. She wrapped herself in a comforter cocoon, rewinding the last few minutes in her head to think over.