by Erica L. Satifka
I did everything you asked me to.
When the leaders of the Three Remaining Nations League came over for coffee and trade agreements, I was the one who put the rat poison in their creamer, making sure to spoon in the exact proportion that you wrote down in your grandmother's recipe card file. I sewed the medals on that jacket you like to wear in your daily address. I even canceled my trip to Boise where I was to guest judge the yearly gladiatorial fights. Because I knew how much you wanted to blow up Boise, but you'd never do it if I were there.
Yes, I saw the explosion. It was wonderful, babe.
I was the perfect wife, coordinating the transfer of the bounty of the Vanquished Lands of the Midwest to our network of storage units, making sure every ear of corn was accounted for. You could have never done that, you were so bad at math. (And sex. You were also bad at sex. That's another conversation entirely.)
It's not like I'm not grateful for all you've done for me over the years. When my cancerous womb had to be removed, you rounded up all the local infants and let me take my pick of a rightful prince and princess to continue our reign. And of course, it was you who first found me toiling in the urban farms of what used to be Nashville, wiped the grime from my face, and proclaimed me to be your queen. I'll never forget that day, or the look on my father's face when you had your assistant gouge out the old man's eyes for daring to question our union.