“Please don’t kill me,” I whimper. Another hose is being turned on. One of the hoses is being pushed in the bag opening filling up the plastic bag, covering my head. Water touches my face. I try to hold my breath, scared that screaming will leave me drowning. As the bag fills itself up, the other hose comes closer as I try not to suffocate. I scream in panic, forgetting about the water in the bag over my head, scared I am going to die in here.
And then the water touches my already open, raw skin with the highest water pressure I have ever felt.
It is the scream leaving my own throat that wakes me up. The sweat of my nightmare dripping in my deep wounds. It stings, hurts so bad, I sit straight up. But I know it is nothing compared to the pain I felt back then. I look down to my hands, realizing I was dreaming about that night again. One of the many nights I experienced as a kid and adult.
I try to look around me, try to ground myself back into reality.
But I am sitting in a dark dungeon, both in my reality and nightmare.
The clock on my wrist seems to be ticking slowly as I stare through my narrowed eyes. It probably isn’t even moving at all. I narrow my eyes even more than before, trying to scan the tattoo for any movement. I lean backwards, my elbows sinking deeper in the old mattress, the old springs pressing in my skin. My gaze wanders off towards the ceiling. The cold, gray, boring ceiling. I take a deep breath and look around the room, trying to get my heartrate down. I sit in the room I have been in so manytimes before. The room that keeps driving me insane. Next to the bed is a small desk and beside that is an old toilet, hidden behind a small wall. I don’t want to think about how little that gets cleaned. It is the only privacy you will get in here, and not exactly the royal treatment you would expect a prince to get. I stiffen as another person’s screaming bounces through the halls. Everything else goes quiet, and I clench my jaw, blocking out the screaming, cries for help and forgiveness.
How long must I have been here? Four hours or so? Time always seems to be moving slowly when I am here. My mind starts spinning, so I do the only thing I am good at.
Drawing.
I draw and draw, but this dark and neglected room doesn’t inspire me at all. It is supposed to be a harbor, but I hate it. I wanted it to be bright and cozy, but it looks more like the crime scene my mind wants to represent.
I stiffen and look up from my drawing, a sound filling my ears. A squeaking sound makes me look over my shoulder. The door of my dungeon opens with all the bells and whistles it comes with. My gaze darkens, meeting the eyes of a person. It could be anyone. A servant, guard, or a torturer. I watch the big, white, bald men take a step inside while holding my breath. I pay attention to every move he makes. I might be a huge tattooed boy of 6.5 feet who doesn’t flinch at a bit of pain, but still. Even I hate being tortured.
The man swallows hard as he scans my body from head to toe.
I hold my breath and don’t flinch until I hear the redeeming words, and that he gives me.
“Your Majesty.” He nods, looking unsure as he speaks the title. “Losing one training or fight equals an unlimited time of torture. The king informed me to come and get you.”
He turns around and signs for me to follow, but I can’t help myself.
“Why?”
The man stops moving and freezes as I jump up, grabbing my drawings. He doesn’t bother to turn around as he answers.
“The king is going to make a big announcement in an hour. A lot of people will be here,” he explains. “He wants you to get ready.”
An hour might seem long to get ready for a man, but I promise it isn’t. Not if you have to fix the things I have to. My face is thick and swollen, looking like a punching bag. I can still taste the dry blood on the inside of my upper lip. I sit down on the chair in the healer section, and a female healer lets out a small gasp as she turns to me. She gives me a sympathetic look as she holds her hand above my face and lets her signet work. I clench my teeth together, the wounds melding back into scars. I don’t want their empathy, not if they let this happen. It is not just to me. It happens to everyone who steps too close to the king or does something he doesn’t like. The king might be my monster, but everyone who lets this happen is just as pathetic as him. Just like me, everybody wants to please him. I hate myself for it. I am as pathetic as the people who let it happen to me, to everyone.
Because I don’t fight back harder. Because I deserve to be punished. Because I want to make him proud. Because a monster is the only title I can live up to.
And monsters deserve to be punished.
The king makes me look like a bogeyman, while the only demons I kill are the ones that hound me when he is around.
But that still makes me a monster.
We are in the healer’s section, but not in the main part. I am hidden away in a small room in the back. A room nobody ever comes to. Because that is what this is all about.
A cover up.
No one can know what happens to me down there, and no one will. I won’t tell them about it.
I won’t drop my mask.
Despite that, the king will make sure there isn’t much to see of the damage he did to me. The only things that prove the torture I went through are the scars on my body and the nightmares that hunt me at night.
I might be his son, but he sure as hell doesn’t treat me as one.
I open the door of the healing room stepping out, looking like nothing happened. The room I was in is in the healer’s section, which is attached to the entrance hall. Me, my brother, the king, and a lot of servants live in this giant palace. The hall you enter when you walk into the palace is beautiful. With lots of open staircases and chandeliers, it looks big and royal. The light pastel and white tints on the walls and ceiling make the space look bigger than it already is. We have a lot of halls which lead to different rooms, like an enormous kitchen, dining room, multiple bedrooms, a sparring and training room, a small auditorium for announcements, nine bathrooms, working areas and maybe my favorite place of all—the garden. It has been my favorite part of the palace since I was a kid. We have thousands of different plants and flowers, which gardeners and servants work hard on every day. But even with them working in the garden, you can’t deny that the garden with the combination of light and colors is one of the most beautiful things you have ever seen. Despite the efforts of the interior designers, the garden is the most royal, warm, bright, and welcoming place of the palace. I can walk, sit, or just look around in this garden for hours.
Sadly enough, the garden isn’t where I am needed right now. I am not expected in the small auditorium —no, I am expected in the dining room where the king will give a speech. I stroll slowly but confidently towards the big door that leads towards him, notsure what to expect. I push the door open and am not surprised to see all heads turning to me as I step inside. Some shake their heads, others look away as I hold my chin high. Some whisper, others keep quiet. It is something you get used to, being the son of a king, the son who is a monster.
