She isn’t violent. Not by nature. She never plucks flowers from their stems or lays traps for mice. When spiders crawl into the corners of her apartment she gently cups them in her hands and brings them back outside. She couldn’t stomach the sight of blood.

          Four years ago she was daisy fresh, carefree and wild. She skipped through grass with bare feet and sipped ice cold beer from the can. She popped gum and twirled her hair and laughed easily. She peeked over dark sunglasses and batted her lashes. The sunshine smell of summer radiated from her freckled skin. She doesn’t like to think about it.

          Baby never thought she would be here, in this city, in this life. It had been a year since she arrived, alone and choking on her rage. The city was huge, alive with traffic and neon lights. The symphony of too many lives colliding deafened her, swallowed her whole. It was too late to turn back. It’s important that you know that.

          In the morning, the sun’s weak autumn light spills through the windows. Baby lies still under the duvet’s warm weight, curled into the plush cushions of the couch. Sharp pain shoots through her body in time with her pulse, and she can’t take a complete breath. She forces her eyes open and they burn.

          It happened on a Sunday. They were driving up the coast, windows rolled down and wind in their hair. Her hands wrapped around the steering wheel, each finger embraced by those shimmering rings she prized. The air tasted sweet, felt like a balm on Baby’s bare skin. The radio faded in and out with static, but they sang along anyway. This is the day that Baby can’t forget.

          She was a forest fire, white hot and powerful. She walked into a room and everything stopped. Teetering on high heels, she held her head high and looked down at you. She snapped apples between her teeth and spat out the seeds. The Queen of the Lowlands. But she loved Baby. That much is true.