She didn't scream when the first dog bit into her calf. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. In a matter of seconds, they tore her to shreds. The black dirt that would bury her hit her face and contrasted with the stark purple of her eyes which remained open. They put no marker on the grave of the 18 year old butcher they called queen. The rain came and the crowd returned to their homes. They felt safe. They thought it was over. When sleep claimed them, they didn't feel it. How could they? In the distance, underneath the mound being drenched in rain, below the surface, beneath the mud, beneath the worms crawling in the dirt...Jezebel's finger twitched.