The Boy Who Cried King

"You have so much talent," the voice replayed in his ears. His eyes scanning the dark curtains in front of him. His hands wrapped gently around his bold colored guitar. His nerves taking control of his mind and his movements. He was only 13 years old, but fame had already made up his world.

He was said to have the most beautiful voice, and the most wonderful talent in strumming a guitar. He hit every note perfectly, his fingers curling around the bar of his prized instrument. His expensive guitar bought for him by his loving father when he was only 7 years old. He cherished it like nothing else. It was one of the few things his father left behind for him...

The memories he had of his father were but of joy and love. He remembered the way his father would pick him up, and take him on rides around the house. The way he would sneak him treats while his mom wasn't looking. The way he would turn on vinyl's on his old record player to show his son. The way he would buy him little presents after his work, surprising him when he got back home. He didn't remember full scenes with his father, but he remembered those little things he would do for him. The way he loved him, and how he loved his father back. His life turned upside down after the events of losing him. But he made it through, and over time, he found music healed his scars.

He mainly kept to himself when it came to his music and singing, but at 11 years old, his mother heard his voice. Her son could sing beautifully, and he could play the guitar like a professional musician who worked their entire life to get to their level of skills. After a few years more of practice and after his mother and other family members displaying his talent to the world, he became extremely well known. His father had always told him to keep his music to himself, his voice to himself. As fame could bring hate and danger to a persons heart. He knew that maybe this way of life would bring him even more calamity then he already felt before. But it gave him and his family money, and at least he was doing what he loved; playing his music.

What keeps you going at night? What keeps you from running to the door you came from, and powering through to open the locked door that you can't see beyond? What keeps you able to move forward, even past what could feel as death? Each person has a different motivation, a different reason or will to live or to push past the inevitable. Each individual must decide for themselves what to pursue or what to carry, what to take on in life. This boy, this little boy had decided to be best to stay where he knew. To stay behind the door he had always been in. What would be best for him, he thought he knew. It was what his father that told him such things would be best. But his mother claimed that fame would be best for him, not hiding in the shadows. So he pursued the fame, he pursued the locked door hiding the unknown. His pursuit led to fame, fame led to stress, and without his father, he couldn't handle it.

He sat on top of his bed, leaning his back against the walls of his bedroom and holding his treasured guitar. He wondered what his life would be like if his father was still there with him. He wondered if he would feel so depressed and somehow so unloved even though he was the most famous child in the world at that moment. He wondered if maybe one day he'd feel as happy as he once was when his father was with him. If he would not feel so distressed and lost. If he wouldn't be so alone. If he would actually feel happy and would feel safe in his own household.

He knew he went too far. He knew he pushed his luck. He knew he walked far past the line. He let a salty tear roll down his right cheek and looked at a picture of him and his dad sitting by the side of his bed. He looked at it with hope in his eyes. Hope that one day he'd pass away, and join his father in a place he hoped would be much brighter, much bigger, much happier, than this...