Sunday, 15 April 2012

This would have been Joffrey after I would have been done with him...

... and no, the likeness to my ex husband is purely coincidental. It did not even occur to me I was doing his portrait until somebody pointed it our. Subconsciousness is indeed a sticky bitch :D

I am writing (a short story, as this lately seems to be my grand forte) about a Joffrey-esque boy, a prince, in living Hell much earned. The story depicts his father, a feeble-minded, weak man in a position of a king, who grows increasingly absent from leadership as his teenage son - who cannot do wrong in his father's eyes - begins to rule as a youthful regent. He has a sister, but she is less terrible. The boy on the other hand is a nightmare. And not a sexy nightmare, like Sephiroth is a nightmare you WANT to be having, but a true nightmare. Manically vicious, fascisticly cruel, genocidal, psychopathic little freak drunk with power - with an unlimited supply there-of by the time he is fifteen... He hurts thousands of people, ruins the lives of tens of thousands of subjects and several on top, personally, or through his reign. After his father is killed it seams nothing much worse can happen to the people of an otherwise hard-working and fairly minding-their-own-business kingdom.
          But a king is not a God and at some point he kills the wrong woman - the wife of his guards' captain and the captain loses it. They overthrow the family, slaying all, including the sister, although they were just going to toy with her, but things got out of hand. The boy, however... the boy would live. He would be stripped completely naked, nobody to clothe him, and he would be chained into two iron balls for gloves - too large to enable him to run, swim, even lift them properly, dress himself or bathe himself. These two ball gloves would also tell everyone who he is: he is the boy king that ripped the bleeding heart out of a nation since he was five years old.
           And as a form of punishment, the cruelest of the cruel and the most righteous of them all, he would belong to each and every man, woman and child for one day at a time. For one day at a time, every countryman would be able to do anything and treat the boy king anyhow they pleased. Two guards at all times would follow himg, making sure he does not try to kill himself or anyone tries to kill him too thoroughly or too quickly.
           The story would follow him through several days after about half a year since his table turned. By then he would already be long pass his wits intact and his body almost irreparably crippled. But not yet dead. Not by a long shot. The final entry on the final day written down would be that of a woman whose child was dead because of him, who would spend the whole day making sure he gets better, gets proper bathing, food and dressing of his wounds - the tenderest treatment he has ever had in his entire life - just so that he would live a lot, a lot longer, and suffer a lot longer still.

"In the dream, his father was a king and his sister a princess. She sang such innocent songs. In the dream his father was king and everyone else was beneath them. No matter what a desire or command, everyone was subject, body or soul. That seems so difficult to believe now. Like an echo that came back distorted to mock him.  In the dream he himself was king for an hour. this would have indeed been a sweet dream, if the boy was asleep. Alas, he was not."