When Berryanna was five years old, she accidentally, or perhaps angrily, made her first kill. The memory never left her.
She had been small then, barely tall enough to reach the edge of the table in the play area of the royal mansion. Her fingers had been wrapped around her doll, the fabric already worn from how often she held it. The doll had been with her everywhere. It did not talk back. It did not laugh. It stayed when she wanted it to stay. Other children had been there too, laughing, running, making noise she did not care for. She sat on the floor, legs folded, brushing the doll's hair with slow, careful strokes.
