Myth of a monster

This isn’t a story of a spoilt Prince who got everything he wanted.

Despite the extravagant parties, golden laced suits and rooms filled with silver, the prince danced with hollow people. He listened to the same strained laughs, saw the same fake smiles, and witnessed the same false happiness. Surrounded by thousands of people, he had never felt more alone.

Being raised in a family who prized riches and parties and golden laced suits, it was all about appearances. He was told what to wear, how to speak, who was ‘worthy’ of attention. If his parents hadn’t approved of it, it wasn’t aloud. He had no control.

He was a prince. A prince caught under his parents’ shadow.

No matter how much he wanted out, he knew there was no escaping his duty. So he laughed, he smiled, and he appeared happy.

He danced with hollow people.

Until he heard the whispers.

As a child he heard the tales of the monster who hunted in the night. The monster that tore through anything or anyone in its way. The monster that roamed the streets searching for its next victim. And as a child – he was scared.

Shadows that moved too close to the window, the noises that echoed through the empty halls, the whistling of the cold midnight air that carried the screams of its victims always found the small prince. He could hide under the cover, hold himself until the sun rose and the monster disappeared, just as long as his parents didn’t find out. The prince was young, but he had a duty to serve. He could not be scared.

But as he grew older, he knew these fears were unjust. There was no monster. There was not threat.

Yet the screams were still carried by the midnight air.

He swept around the ballroom with different people, twirling them around and offering cool beverages. He was a host. He was a bachelor. He was a prince. He wasn’t scared anymore.

But it appeared, everyone else was.

Whispers were silenced. False smiles faded. The laughter was lost.

The prince was scared.

Maybe if he cheered, maybe if he offered stronger alcohol, maybe if he did better at reassuring them it would go away. How could he say the monster had returned?

They didn’t want that. They didn’t want him.

They had been cursed with a weak prince. A prince that couldn’t hold off the monster in the night or keep them safe. He was a prince that only knew how to laugh, to smile, to appear happy. So they done what needed to be done. They found a better prince.

Alone. Scared. Defeated. The prince roamed the empty midnight streets. The shadows didn’t scare him. The echoes didn’t scare him. The whistling didn’t scare him.

For the first time he was free, unchained form the shackles of his duty. Alone but not lonely. Liberated.

He roamed the dark streets and found an entrance that had long been forgotten. It was unmaintained. Dirty. Imperfect. Beautiful.

Vines swept up and around the grand gates that stood before him. It was thorny, prickly, sharp but he ached to touch it. Reaching forward his finger pricked the laser sharp edge of thorn, drawing blood. He watched as for the first-time blood oozed out from beneath his skin. He smiled.

He placed the palm of his hand onto the thorns and pushed the gates open. He was met with complete darkness. He could make out nothing but the beginning of a path before his feet, a force pulling him in.

He was curious. Had he been the first person to tread foot into this place for centuries? It definitely looked like it.

He was alone, but never felt more alive.

Ignoring the warm blood that dripped from the wounds in his hand, he stepped forward. Putting one foot In front of the other he made his way down the path, twisting and turning, passing rose bushes and trees that were so overgrown and wild he imagined them coming to life and greeting him. They waved as he passed as the wind that grew in power. Gushing through the leaves, the wind picked up the forgotten cries, the screams of aching agony, of perishing prisoners of this place.

They were long forgotten. But maybe… so was he.

He didn’t look back as he knocked on the door.

Silence.

He knocked again. Nothing. No whispers. No echoes. No whistling. But he knew he wasn’t alone.

Waiting momentarily, he listened for any signs of life. He was slightly hoping to find someone inside, someone who could help him, listen to him, or offer a sincere smile. But a thought dawned on him: when the sun rises and the world returns to its norm, where do the monster go?

The answer was simple. Just like anyone else, the monsters go home. They hide from what scares them.

He waited a minute before pushing the door open, leaving a bloody handprint on the finely carved wooden frame. He wasn’t afraid anymore. There was nowhere to hide.

Calling out into the darkness, his voice echoed off the walls. A shiver ran down is spin like tiny kisses along his back. He stepped into the hallway, greeted by a slither of light that had persevered through the thick layer of dust on the stained-glass window before him.

He stood looking at a familiar staircase, a familiar fireplace in the corner, and a familiar portrait hanging above the stairs.

A figure stepped out of the darkness and stood at the top of the staircase.

“Can you help me?” he asked.

There was silence.

“I was wondering if you could help me.”

The figure stood still for a minute, not seeming to hear his words. The courage he had built up slowly began to fade the longer the silence lingered.

Suddenly, the figure took a step forward, and made its way down the stairs.

The light reflected off of the golden laced suit that it wore almost completely discoloured from dust and grim and… blood.

He was frozen in place, but not from fear. He was rooted to the ground in awe, for he knew who this was.

“You know who I am,” it said, tilting its head slightly. “Then you know what I’ve done.”

“You’re not as terrifying as they told me you’d be.”

The figure made a deep grunt, almost as if it had forgotten how to laugh. “How can you be so sure?”

“The tales of the monster ignored the most important part,”

Silence.

“The real monsters were inside the castle.”