The Queen glared down at us from her ruby throne.

"Your Grace, we... We didn’t mean to upset you," Isabella started, her voice trembling.

Wordlessly, the Queen clapped, sending a harsh ring throughout the crystalline hall. A knight, silver armor tainted with red paint, cautiously set a tray with sharp metal objects and an empty wine glass down on a cushion beside her.

We watched in shock as she daintily picked up a scalpel, holding it in her right arm and tapping it on her left wrist. Flipping her arm so her veins were visible, she raised the scalpel to the sky.

I felt Isabella wince and cover her eyes beside me. My instincts told me to do the same, but, my curiosity, a constant nagging in the back of my head, demanded to know what she was doing.

The Queen of Hearts plunged the scalpel into her wrist, dragging it down the inside of her arm to make a long, bloody cut across her flesh.

I gagged. Isabella suppressed a sob. My entire body heaved and vomit threatened to escape my throat as she leaned over to the wine glass and rang her arm like a towel.

Blood gushed down like a waterfall. A terrible, _terrible _waterfall. Her gnarly, long fingers dug into her skin, squeezing out blood into the glass.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t look anymore.

After a few minutes, the dripping sound ceased. Hesitantly, I risked a glance. The Queen had stopped, her face showing no sign of pain, remaining as emotionless as stone. Slowly, she stood, swirling the wine glass. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she made her way towards us.

“You want to leave? Fine,” she said flatly, “drink it.”