The Cheerleader

Her voice became ridged and cold, like that of a parent scolding a child. What lay dormant now boiled to the surface. A disdain for a person that saw through her veil, the elegant facade hiding pain and loneliness. She felt threatened from even miles away. Entire states separated the phone call, yet the mere mention of their name caused silence to echo louder than her voice. She saw them as a plague moving across what she claimed as territory. Her hate rooted like that of a fungus, feeding from pain of those closest. Their presence countered her ability to consume. A joy she once long held proud, the control she wore like a tiara. Her opinion weaned in power as consort and subjects alike find more intrigue in the genuine rather than the manufactured gestures of those wanting to control all around them.