The Boy is the Prince … Asia Lavay

by Asia Lavay There once was a boy with eyes that sparkled with blissful arrogance. He sat on a throne, with his head held high, a pouty face, smelling like a discount fragrance. He had all the riches and saw all the sights, but something was missing and nothing was right. He went to his father, who gained strength from his father, and had bored, blue eyes and stolen hair. He went to his mother, who gained strength from her husband, and had tired blue eyes and was gasping for air, “why do I feel bad about the life I choose? I feel beaten and broken but I have no bruise?”

His father was shocked and troubled to the bone, but his mother was lenient; she didn’t always have the throne. When his father left, he punched holes in the walls and was unable to speak. But his mother caressed him with gentle hands and had eyes that were weak.

“Listen, my son, it’s dangerous out there and the people are angry; there’s no forgiveness in the world. Listen, my son, you don’t want their crimes; I’m telling you; you’ll shudder, your toes will have curled. Your shoulders will tense; your work is in vain. You’ll want to relate; they’ll call you insane.”

But the boy did not listen; he never did. He preferred his methods; he was still a kid.

So out he went, to seek something worthwhile. But there were no smiles. And all the meanwhile…

Creative Works… 151 There were many kids that danced with something to say, but the music was stopped and always taken away. The kids were barely getting by with no food, no water, and no cars. No home, no money, no shoes; they only had scars. The boy did not see the aches that they felt, but he saw the scars, and jealousy dwelt. He stomped with his feet and huffed with a pout: “ I want a scar!” He was feeling left out.

The kids sat confused, insulted, and targeted, so they rejected his plea. They wanted him gone, but he stood his ground, so they opted to flee. But the boy would not let them leave, for he was determined to get a scar. He saw their frustration, but he made them wait anyway; he was just that bizarre.

“Give me a scar; I want what you have. I want to feel pain; I want to feel sad.”

A little girl, who was around his age, stood at the front of the crowd, filled with rage. She stomped with her feet and huffed with a pout. “You can’t have our scars,” she said with a shout. “We do not like them, but we choose to see them. We choose to rise above; we choose to believe in: hope and faith and love and joy. We struggle for peace; you choose to destroy.”

“I do not destroy, and I do not care about what you believe, because it’s all nonsense and you speak in riddles. I’m only a young boy, yet I have gold and power, while you guys complain; I swear, you people are fickle.”

Creative Works… 152 useless in helping him get what he wanted. Ignoring their misery, he decided to get his scar, went back home, and left them haunted. When he arrived home, he went to see his father, because he knew his father could set things ablaze. Inside the castle, he passed by his mother, who tried to speak to him, but he shooed her away.

His father was waiting at the top of the castle; he had watched the whole incident from up there. When the boy arrived, he could barely get out a word before his dad said a worthless prayer. And once he finished the prayer that was wordy and overdone, he took a step forward and blindly looked at his son.

“We will rule the world together; so. there’s no need for suffering or for scars. Those are for the people who dance, your mother, and everyone else on our radar. But if you really want to have one, I can do my special trick.”

The boy said to his father, “That will complete me! That’s my only wish!” So the father set his son on fire, as it was the boy’s only desire. But when the fire went out and the son was okay, he saw his scars and it made his day.

The prince had got what he wanted. The king had got what he wanted. The mother suppressed and flaunted. And the people who danced remained haunted.