For as long as I can remember, I have been the favorite of the family. The first daughter to grace the Majeeds in four generations; I was named Rani by my grandfather. Sanskrit for Queen, my name was a prophecy; a promise that I was never to be treated any less than royalty.
When I was born, sweets we could not afford were distributed among the neighbors. When I was learning to talk, every member of the household willed for the incoherent gibberish dotting my tongue to be their name. When I wished for something, however unreasonable the request may be, seven pairs of feet ran to fulfill it. I was adorable, beautiful, the apple of everyone’s eye. I was a child that could do no wrong, that notion was clear as day.
But one person didn’t understand. One person dared to defy me.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on her. It was a colorful November morning. The city had finally seemed to bid farewell to summer, evident by the chilly breeze on the back of my exposed neck. My long dark hair had been plaited tightly by my scolding mother, who pleaded with me to not go outside on this particular Saturday. “Rani, you will get sick, my love”, she urged. It took some extra dimple-work and at least twenty-three rounds of pleading, but as always, she relented.
I remember how I skipped three floors down the cement steps of our dusty apartment building and bounded out the door, wondering in my eight-year-old head who among my neighborhood friends would be outside today. I was just deciding whether we should play follow-the-leader (with me as the leader of course) or hop-scotch (again, I would begin the game) when I collided head-first into another young girl. I rubbed my sore forehead, a scowl already forming on my face. Who was this person who dared to cross my path? I raised my head to yell at the offensive creature, but I was stopped short.
She was beautiful.
Like me, she had long dark hair tightly plaited into two braids. She wore a shiny yellow dress paired with matching dotted leggings. On her feet were the daintiest of sandals, and her ears shone with tiny pearls. Even her braids, the only feature we shared, ended in glassy yellow ribbons tied with perfect perky bows. “Hello, I’m Malika”, she said, a dimple protruding on her left cheek. “I live across the street.”
I hated her immediately.
Malika quickly became everything I aspired to be. When we played follow the leader, she was now the leader. In dividing teams for hop-scotch, she was always picked first, before me. It took one half-cocked smile and everyone was smitten. As the years went by, Malika’s perfection grew, and so did my envy. Whatever she had, I demanded something better. I threw tantrums, yelling at my destitute parents to buy me expensive luxuries we couldn’t afford. When my requests weren’t fulfilled at the drop of a hat as I was accustomed to, I stole from my grandfather himself, plucking notes from his tattered wallet in the dead of the night.
I could not let myself fall behind. I was Rani, the only Queen, and I would always reign.
Twenty years have passed since that fateful November morning, and I have finally, after so long, achieved my goal. I am now the only leader of my circle. Whatever I wish for, I am given without so much as a squeak. Everyone fears me, and nobody dare looks me in the eye.
It’s funny how you get everything you wish for when you’re on death row for murder.
Five weeks ago, on the twentieth anniversary of our meeting, I deprived Malika of the one thing she couldn’t replace. The pearls in her ears and ribbons in her hair would never cross me again. I took her life with my own hands. I watched as the light in her eyes grew weaker and weaker. As she took her last breaths, I leaned in close, my breath tickling her ear.
“I told you. I am Rani, and I will always reign.”
