The Prince

It's based on the murder of the young princes, as in Shakespeares Richard III. Written from the point of view of one of the princes.

I stare emptily at the blanket. It’s a nice blanket. It has a slightly worn crimson silk cover, embroidered with golden lions and eagles, trees and crowns, the sun the moon and the stars. Inside the cover it’s packed full of soft down. The pillowcase is matching for colour, but it’s newer. It’s embroidered with a boars head. The curtains are white lace, and weave a huge repetitive pattern of a hunting party chasing a massive boar, or maybe the boar is chasing them, it’s hard to tell. The thick carpet is unparalleled for comfort, I have taken to standing barefoot and digging my toes into its soft depths. It is a beautiful room. But I can’t appreciate this beauty. For behind all this beauty, this is my cell. I have been locked up here for too long, I tried etching a line into the wall for every day I spent here, but I have long since lost count. There is no clock in this room, I have to guess the time by looking at the sun through the one small window above my bedrest. Right now it’s night, but I don’t know how long it’s been dark. There’s no point doing anything now, best sleep away the night, or the next day, sleep forever maybe. My dreams aren’t as empty as my consciousness seems to be.

I creep under the covers, and the silence creeps in with me. The room is coated in silence, it has been for days. Sometimes the silence is too thick to walk through, sometimes it’s lightened by a carriage going past, or voices outside. Those times are good, those times fill me with hope. ‘Maybe that’s my mum coming to get me,’ ‘Maybe that’s uncle Richard, here to rescue me from the tower.’ But the sounds always stay just that, then disappear again, leaving me with nothing but thick, gooey silence.

My brother had given up hope after a few days. He was young and fragile, and now he is deaf dumb and blind to the world. He just sat on his bed, breathing in the silence, until it filled him up and ate him from the inside. Now he is just a shell of his former self, he never moves, he never talks. He spends more time asleep than awake. I wish I could do that, just lie in blissful nothingness until all this blows over, until I can be king. But I have no such luck, I am stuck with this sickening reality, alone with the soft pillows and mattresses, the frilly curtains, the intricately embroidered blankets. This is my comfortable tomb.

A light tap makes its way to my ears. What is that sound? It seems familiar, like something I once knew but have since forgotten. Ah yes, footsteps. Someone is coming! Yes, they’re definitely getting louder, maybe it’s real this time! I’ll be free, I’ll be king at last! But what if it’s not, what if they walk past like every other time. I don’t think I could handle the let down again, I might take my own life out of despair! Clip, Clop, Clip, Clop, here they come. Silence. A rattle. The door? I lie perfectly still, hold my breath and close my eyes, hoping beyond hope that someone is there to get me. A collection of the quietest half sounds floats in. A door creaking. Carpet muffled footsteps. Breathing. Breathing!? I snap open my eyes, expecting darkness, but no, what I get is the most frightening face I’ve ever seen. A nose and mouth like a badly chiselled statue, but wide, vibrant, angry eyes, sharply illuminated by the first rays of the dawn sun. This is no rescuer. I have seen that face. A coarse hand stifles my scream. Then I feel the chord tighten around my throat. The air becomes thick, too thick to suck in properly. I know that face, but I can’t think where from! The corners of my vision go red and fuzzy. My skin comes alive with pins and needles. Everything becomes hot, and then the heat is choking me, choking out taste, smell, touch, sound and finally sight. Hot blackness douses me, killing my senses. As the last blood slows in my veins and my heart beats its final beats, my whole life flashes before me. Now I see it. That face with the badly chiselled nose, lurking, smirking, in the shadow of another man. Richard. Here and there, dotted across my memory. At the train station, in the palace, outside the tower, always with the same man. Richard. Understanding dawns on me, Richard has orchestrated everything. That deformed b*****d! With my last thoughts I curse him. May my ghost haunt his dreams! May the ghosts of all the people he’s removed haunt his dreams! And with that, my soul leaves my body.