November 6, 2017
The night is shamefully cold. The tree adjacent to my apartment window smacks against my glass with a force that is not of anger, but from the unwillingly power of the wind that has cursed the streets. The wind indeed is rambunctious tonight. But my mind is in another state and not wanting to concern itself with the nature of the wind that plagues the sky above. It is night. During the nights I interpret the works of the great authors that have lived before me. That spent their lives expressing their thoughts with paper and pen to further better themselves as individuals and to better the world’s comprehension of literature. Ah, how my eyes sting at the beauty of the words I read and the dryness from refusal to turn my eyes, for I am scared to leave such beauty, as if I were looking after my sickly bride or the offspring we would produce. It is a curse that I do not have a bride, but such fantasies elude me for knowledge is the only maiden I wish to live with. The rattling of the window disturbs me from my thought. The rattling however is not that of a tree branch being hazed by an unforgiving wind, no this is much more terrifying. A demon is looking at me, it’s eyes are a horrendous black that seem to have no depth; the skin among the face is red, smooth, and yet seems to be moving on it’s own. The face has a mind of it’s own! The body shows a bizarre dark green, fat stomach that exceeds the limits of man. The smile of this demon haunts me. The top first two teeth crossed paths forming an X; the bottom row is jagged and dark yellow. This face, though it is red, I don’t believe it is because it is of the it’s nature, but instead from the severeness of the outside. I get out my chair, alarmed and unsure. There is a demon tapping at my window; there is a tapping; a rapping unlike anything I have ever heard before. The creature, the demon closes it’s haunting smile and is now saying something. It is unclear and frightening. Against my better nature, I stand up and make my way to my apartment window knowing, just knowing it is the end of me. My hands tremble; my eyes dare not blink; my mouth dare not quiver for my hands have taken it upon themselves to do so; my hands extends to lever that will open the window to not only a devilish wind, but to a devilish devil. I open the window and I am hit with the cold of night and demon does not do anything. It looks at me with caring and almost thankful eyes. It now spoke in a language I did not know, it sounds hoarse and alien. All of of a sudden the voice is in my head, it is now a kind voice with my own language as the tongue. “I apologise for my horrid appearance, but I would very much appreciate it you were to let me in.” I am a gentlemen, or so I believe, I let him in. It has occurred to me before about how this demon could happen itself upon my apartment window when it is so high up. This is answered before me when I see the demon fly in with miniature wings up on it’s back. It is quite hilarious to think that such small wings fit upon such a small body. The demon makes it’s way to the fire and in the chair adjacent to it. I now know this is the greatest mistake I could ever make, for curiosity has gotten the better of me. I make my way to chair that is sat across from the demon’s chair and I sit myself. My heart is now beating and is incomparable to know if a heart attack is within the near future. “Sir… sir I did not wish to be rude, but what are you and will you do many in harm?” The demon is staring at me with a face that not looking kind. “For what I am dear sir is a Kezbuh, and my intention of hurting is you is non existent.” I did not trust this creature for it only spoke in my mind, maybe to never show it’s nightmarish teeth or for another reason, for what it is, is unknown to me. “Sir, I… I am truly sorry, but you are making feel comfortable within my own home,” I voice is now breaking and I am clearly showing how terrified I truly am, “I would prefer it if you were to leave and to not come back.” It’s eyes are still staring at me. It finally opens it’s mouth and reveals the daggers that humans would refer to teeth. Had I let in a creature, a body into my own home without nothing why or what the body’s intention was? I am a fool. The window let’s off a screech that sounds awfully like the scream of a woman and I turn my head. Fool. I hear the mouth of the demon behind me expand and a shadow is cast upon me. I may indeed be an intellectual man, but now curiosity has gotten the better of me.
The king, twenty-three years of age, is being praised for the battle he has led against the enemy. The people cheer and cry in joy as they sing the newfound songs about his name. A smile brings itself upon the king’s face. He is not happy, but the people are.
The king, forty-seven years of age, is rising out of his throne. Standing before him is his once trusted friend. This friend has betrayed the king. This friend has killed the wife of the king, due to his jealousy. The king sentences the friend to death by beheading. He does not smile nor do the people.
The king, seventy-five years of age, is lying in his chambers on his gentle bed. Beside he him is his slave girl. She neither beautiful or unattractive. Neither comforting nor disconcerting. She lays her hand upon the king’s chest and prays that he may go to Heaven. The king laughs and through a mouth of blood, and smiles. He knows very well that God will not accept him. As the blood trickles down from the corner of his mouth, the smiles stays, he dies.
The king, one year old, is sucking on the breast of his mother. His mother stares at his gentle features. How beautiful he is. She herself is more beautiful than any other woman. The king’s mother knows that he will one day be a great king and that the people will love him. She doubts that all will love him, no man has ever been loved by all. The king’s eyes look up at his mother’s and for a second they see into each others souls. Almost as if they can see their futures.
The king, thirty-eight years of age, is being married to a peasant girl. Many hate him for this choice and do not want this peasant girl as their queen. The king knows that he loves the girl. But his happiness means nothing to the people. All they want is king that do their bidding. He marries her either way. The king’s friend watches tentatively knowing that he should hate this girl, but respect the king’s decision. However he loves this girl too.
The king, sixty years of age, is sitting in his throne in a room that has not a single soul breathing. Not a single pair of eyes glaring at him. Just silence. He contemplates to himself. He longs for death. He is too old and too tired to be king anymore. He longs to know if there is a God or if it is all just a lie. He thinks of his mother also. Her beautiful features, those blue eyes staring back. The king tilts his head back on his thrones so that he now stares at the ceiling above him. All the tears that man could produce, come out. He does not want to be king. He never asked to be king. It was his birthright and he never had a say.
The king, ten years of age, is now playing in a field that is lush with greens and yellows. The future king plays with his friends and does not worry about anything. Life is good. Life is what he wants it to be. He is not king and does need to be king. He needs to be a child and live life while life still exists. His friends now leave him in the field all by himself. The future king stares out into the horizon, into the field in front of him. He sees a figure in the distance. The future king rubs his fair eyes, but the figure remains there. The figure is cloaked in black and has no face. It has no face, but the future king can see it all the same.
The king, seventy-four years of age, is watching his son’s laugh and drink in the halls. Their laughter echoes throughout. The king does not pay attention to them, but to his daughter who sits next to him. His mother would have been envious of her beauty. His daughter pulls on the his beard and asks him why he does not smile anymore. The king says that he no longer smiles because at point in everyone’s life they reach a point of utter sadness, in which they give up hope and the need to rest, eat, or drink because they serve no purpose, but to prolong a sad soul’s existence. The king’s daughter, taken aback, looks into her father’s eyes and whispers the words into his ear, “You are no sad soul because you have your sons and your daughter who love you more than anything. You are no sad soul because you are king. All love you. All respect, fear, and admire you. You are everything everyone aspires to be. You are king.” The king laughs like he did as a child. He whispers back to her, “It is because I am king that I am a sad soul.”
The king, nineteen years old, is being crowned. His father has died of an illness. His decaying corpse now lying six feet under the ground. The now and present king looks at the people as they eagerly wait for it to be official. He can not understand why people look at him in such a way. He is only a king. Not a great man, not man that has fought in great battles, not a man who even bares children, yet they love him. This fact haunts him.
The king, is now dead. One of his son’s take his place. His body is now the one decaying and is six feet under the ground. The king is now a spirit. Damned and not allowed to enter Heaven. He walks the halls that he once ruled. He sees his daughter weeping unrelentlessly. The dead king puts his hand out to put onto her back as means of comfort, but his hand is not felt. It lies on her back, but she’s does not feel it at all. He yells at her so that she may hear him, she does not. His daughter prays to the her dead father and says, “Father if you can hear me, and I’m not just talking to nothing, I hope you know that I miss you. I loved you with all my heart and now you have left me. Why have you left me? Why!?” The dead king replies, “I have not left you my beautiful daughter, I am right here.” But she hears none of it.
The king, not alive just yet, is being developed in the belly of his mother. The slow procedure of his face is being made. The genes making their mark on his features. His body turns ever so slightly within the belly. He gets tangled in his own chord and is slowly dying. He is almost dead before he is even created, but untangles himself. He will not die yet. He has not left his legacy. He has not left is mark.
The king, now dead for two years, watches as his son, the current king, being stabbed to death by his own people. The dead king cries as he sees his son die before him. He does not know why many loved him, but none loved his son. Why was it that he was destined to be a great king, but his son to be a horrible one? The dead king turns and walks down the now grey halls. He again sees his daugher. She no longer weeps, but age shows and she now bares the face of a woman who has seen too much. The dead king knows that she has reached that point of a person’s life. She is now a sad soul.
The king, now dead for twenty years, still remains as the lifeless spirit that watches the halls. His daughter has long since been dead and has gone to Hell. She jumped off the castle, due to her depression. The dead king watched as his daughter killed herself and could do nothing about it. The dead king no longer has any heirs for they have all succumbed to their fates. The dead king no longer has a legacy, but instead must forever watch as the halls fill with rulers and must watch those rulers fall. All his life as king, he longed for death, but now… now that he had it, he wished he was alive. He wishes he could be in that field again or look into his mother’s eyes again. He wished he lived life to the fullest and wished that he never saw being king as burden, but an opportunity that others could not achieve. He wished that as king, he saw a reason to live.