In the Light of Tragedy

Once more, and unfailingly punctual, he ran his large, callused fingers down my naked spine. I dared not to move for the fear he may do more than what I bargained. I felt his breath tingle my neck and I bit down hard on my bottom lip to stop the stinging in my eyes. I felt the bed cover rise with cool air, and then replace itself upon the new body that joined mine. It was not romantic, or kind but rough and hurriedly desperate to be quickly under the covers. I pressed my face deeper into my pillow, squeezing my eyes shut as I lay on my stomach as normally requested. He planted a kiss on the back of my neck before he readied himself behind me. I felt him against my bottom, and I immediately flinched, and for that, I knew there was punishment.

“Are you scared?” He hissed angrily amused into my ear, pulling my hair therefore raising me up by my neck. I opened my eyes out of reaction from the sting of pain. A sickness grew in my stomach like it does every other time. My chest felt too bare, too cold, and vulnerable with undeveloped breasts on for show. I whimpered out a weak, “No,” but it did not suffice to his standards. Quick and harsh, he slapped my face with his spare hand, dropping his hard manhood onto my bottom as he leaned on my own body for support. I didn’t feel the pain. I just closed my eyes and let the tears roll quietly. I would not disturb him; I would just let him get on with his business and soon Mother will be home and he will leave me alone.

I always tried to zone out when he’s getting on with what he’s got to do. I still remember the first night he did it to me at the young age of nine, and I screamed and cried for hours afterwards. I was punished by being thrown against a wall that night. Not hard enough to break anything; he was always careful of that. Mother was told that I fell down the stairs again. I also remember trying to tell Mother what he did to me, but I was shunned, told that is utterly ridiculous and so disrespectful to accuse my own father of such wrong doings. For that, I had the belt across my bottom three times. Mother stopped each time to make sure I understood that lying is wrong. The second time I tried to tell someone, it was my Nanny. She too belted me, told Mother what I accused Father of, and again, scored more beltings. After that, I gave up trying. The nights Father heard I tried to put him to justice, he used me harder and longer, was more aggressive and left more bruises across my back.

Father was always so careful not to harm my face or the bare parts of my arms and legs. He was always the one to bathe me as Mother worked nights at the local bar, and Father worked during the day by the stables. This meant he had easy control of my wounds because he knew Mother would never undress me as she had no purpose to do so. But once I had turned 13, I was left to my own devices. But it only meant Mother could work longer because I was capable of looking after myself and my younger sister Lucy who is seven years younger than I.

So because Mother could work later, Father became increasingly more brutal. He asked me to do unthinkable things to myself while he watched, and if I did not do what I was told, he threatened to harm Lucy, or worse. Nonetheless, his threats were empty, but he would cause me great pain. However, despite all the physical grief he caused me, it did not size up to the amount of emotional and mental turmoil I suffered. My childhood was a dark place, but there is one light that shone, and that light promised he would find me.

When we moved to a larger hut in the village, we had moved closer to the castle where some Royals lived. For a small village, our civil system controlled many lands far beyond the one it inhabited. If something were to go wrong in the Southern Lands, it was our King that it was reported to. Our King was young, and had a son the same age as I. The King had many good values; honesty, fairness, trust, generosity and love just to name a few. Every time I had seen him, he would tip his own head at me as I bowed before him as I was taught to do. He was a gentleman whom listened to the unfortunate tales of the homeless and provided warm stew when he could. Most people throughout the village didn’t like this, only because the homeless received free meals this way. Nonetheless, the village was for the most part, a humble community.

The Kings son and I met as we grew older and began playing in the street with the other children. His name was Prince Nathaniel. The Queen was disgusted that her King would allow their son to play with the peasants, but the King strongly believed it would bring a sense of good value and lessons for his son. For that, I am eternally grateful. Nathaniel had saved me on more than one occasion from my Father, not that Nathaniel was even aware of what he did. But my Father could not say no to the Kings son. Some nights I could skip bathing and go straight to bed, and my Father would leave me alone because Mother would be home shortly after. Neither of my parents worried about my well-being because I was in the capable hands of Prince Nathaniel and his ever-present personal guard who would stand by and watch.

Although my childhood was dark, Prince Nathaniel made it a little easier to bear with. Nathaniel wore clothes just like all the other children, his hair too scraggly that you would confuse him to be one of the homeless. His scraggly hair was brown, and suited his baby face which held clear grey eyes that sparkled whenever he thought of some crazy idea to have fun. He was tall, even at the age of nine, he was always taller than I. We use to race around the village, pulling harmless pranks on those around us that took kindly to our childish behaviour. Nathaniel once dared me to prank my Father, but I froze up at the very thought and yelled at him for thinking of something so stupid. That was the first day he asked me if everything was alright.

When we turned 11, we began learning English together. Once more, the Queen scoffed at the thought of her Prince attending a public education. And again, the King said it would be good idea so his son could appreciate those he would soon rule. After our English lessons in the summer time, Nathaniel and I would rush down to the creek that ran beside the forest that bordered our village from the Southern Lands. We use to play in the water until it was dark. We would sit on the bank with our feet in the water, talking about our lives. I always asked him what life was like in the palace as the King and Queens son. He would pinch his pink lips between his thumb and index finger – he did this whenever he was deep in thought before speaking – and reply with something along the lines of, “Somewhat like a cage when Mother is home, but Father allows me to run in the halls in my socks,” he would pause and look at me with a goofy grin before continuing. “That is the difference simply put between my parents,” he would then sigh, pick up a rock and skim it across the water. I would watch his graceful movements, even at 11, in awe.

After some silence, Nathaniel would turn to me and ask me what my home life. I would turn to look up to his clear grey eyes, full of innocence of what lies behind my families closed doors. I searched his face something of trust. I knew it would there, I felt it. But I couldn’t ever tell him. Instead, I smiled, forcing myself to giggle. “Well, I don’t have to take princess lessons for one!” I would then tell him that we don’t have hot water all the time, and we rarely have firewood throughout the winter, that food is sometimes a challenge. His face crumpled up in sadness. “I had no idea life was like that for everybody,” he would reply. I would shrug my shoulders, “But we are all happy,” I would say quietly. Silence would then overcome us as we sat by the river until dark, enjoying silent company.

When I turned 14, Nathaniel invited me to his palace to meet his Father and his Mother, the King and Queen of our land. Needless to say, I almost fainted. “Are you serious!” I yelled at him, beginning to feel anger pop through me. Why would he pull such a prank on me! He would nod, and then drag me to his palace. That was the first time I was graced with the presence of his Mother and Father within the walls of his Royal blue castle. At the young age of 14, I was within the palace walls as some peasant, friends with the Kings son. Nathaniel showed me a band he had made from some cotton and leather. It was a dark blue with two small opals tying it together. Next to the two white opals was my name written in his hand. I looked up at him and he smiled. “Like a friendship bracelet,” He explained before sliding the band onto my wrist.

That night, when I returned from the palace, walked home by Nathaniel’s own guard (he insisted as I repeatedly rejected the protective gesture), my father was already waiting at the door. He pulled a tight smile across his face and waved the guard off. When the guard was out of eye sight, he pulled me in by my arm, shoving me into the wall, calling obscenities at me before picking me up and throwing me onto my bed. He said it like a mantra, that he was so worried about where I was and that he should have been informed of my whereabouts. But I knew it was all for show as he shoved himself inside me. It was the first night in a while where I let myself sob in his presence, yelling at him to leave me alone. Lucy began to cry in the room next door which caused Father to leave me alone. He came back moments later after Lucy hushed, and began beating me. He slapped me across the face, calling me a spoilt bitch. I looked up at my father’s eyes, and swallowed blood. He backed me into a corner, and I slide down the wall onto the ground. There, he began kicking me.

After what felt like hours, I picked myself up and put myself to bed. I heard mother come home, and the strangest thing happened; she was yelling at him. I had never heard my parents argue before, but I suppose there was a first time for everything. Before long, I was asleep, tired and broken. Not too long before I woke up, Mother came in and placed her hand over my face, kissing my forehead muttering apologises of sorts. I slowly sat up, aware of my injuries, that she too could see. She sat on the bed facing me, legs crossed on the bed. My bedroom door was closed, Lucy inside on my bedroom floor playing with toys. I looked at mother without emotion. Her eyes were brimmed with water as she slowly lifted the edge of her skirt. There, on her once clear skin, was a bruise. “I’m sorry Aleria, I can’t do anything to stop him… He would kill you both,” her tears leaked over and she buried her head in my hair as she cradled me against her breasts. I didn’t cry. For once in my life that far, my Mother held me and I did not want to think of why it had taken her so long. I knew we were trapped.

When Nathaniel and I were 16, we were standing at someone’s funeral, holding hands with my head on his shoulder, one of his hands on the small of my back. Lucy stood beside me, holding my leg as I shook. Nathaniel was my best friend, and his father even turned up to the unfortunate event of my mother’s burial. A noose around her neck took her life. I knew better than that, but my Father was a mastermind and I was completely trapped. Lucy was all I had left, and I was responsible for her. The King stood behind the three of us all huddled together. At the end of the dark ceremony, he came up to me and bowed himself, which made my tears run faster down my face. He asked for my father. I raised a pointed, shaking finger over to the wooden coffin where my father stood in a group. “The one with the blond hair,” I said quietly. The king nodded and walked over to where my father, John I had begun calling him, was standing.

I removed myself from Nathaniel’s grasp and hugged Lucy who was now only nine herself. She knew nothing, her innocence completely intact, just the way I begged God to keep it. During that year, mourning was the norm. I would wake up, look at my sketches of Mother before getting Lucy ready for her day. I would walk her to her friends who would then go to their English lessons. From there, I met with Nathaniel and we would walk together, going from field to field talking nonsense about jobs that we must prepare ourselves with… well, it was mainly him complaining that he would soon have to take some form of education to be a Prince, or Kingly things and the like. I thought it was absurd.

One night, I snuck out of my hut and sat by the river with my toes in the frigid water, waiting for Nathaniel. We agreed through the year that I would come here to spread my images of my mother (bar one) through the river. It was stupid, but she wasn’t in ashes as she had wanted, and that was my way of letting her move on. We said to meet just after midnight, but before two in the morning, but right on time he arrived shortly after me. I had already sent my mothers images floating in the water. I watched as her blue eyes melted into her mousy brown hair, smudging her high cheek bones and cherry chin. I didn’t cry, or felt sad. I was glad she was now out of reach from John. It was this night that I had my first kiss. Nathaniel was awkward, I was awkward. We both didn’t know what we were doing. I laughed and couldn’t look him in the eye, and he awkwardly held my hand instead and looked away in embarrassment. This was also the same night I told him what my father had done to me. It was then I was scooped up into a bag, and taken away.

I heard Nathaniel yelling for help, his heavy footsteps behind me. I was jostled up and down as my captor ran. I couldn’t breathe or move. I was thrown into what felt like a wooden tray before I started moving again. I was in the back of a wooden tray being transported by horses.

“I promise I will find you, Aleria!” I heard him yell. The soft wetness of rain soaked through the bag that shielded me. Tears escaped my eyes and I sobbed loudly, touching the band around my wrist.

This was the start of the end of my life.