You Don't Want the Crown

The Story of Conri - 1

I have been plagued by visions since birth.
Not clear, obvious, helpful visions, that show you exactly what is happening, no. Complicated, obscure visions that have no clear meaning and do nothing, but make you look mad. Eventually I learned to decipher them, or at least, stay quiet about them. As tempting as it would be to assume an antic disposition and be immediately removed from any and all responsible activities of the human race, I chose not to.
I wasn't meant to be anyone, that's what's so funny. So it was entirely over looked when I'd call, saying I saw a big black dog following one of the servants. Only for said servant to die the next day. Yes, I was never stupid. I quickly put two and two together. And by the time I was of the age not to be telling stories about things that aren't there, I had well learned to shut up about things that aren't there.
The third born, later in life, attempt to revive a dying marriage child that I was, no I was not exactly anybody's priority. And then my two older brothers died in rapid succession, making me the heir, and everyone's point of interest. Which to me was very funny.
"Stop laughing," my mother snarls, twisting my wrist so hard I could hear the bones popping.
"It's funny, mother. You hate me. Father thinks I'm a bastard. And now I get your crown to do as I like with," I giggle, wincing in pain, but not in enough pain to stop. She can't hurt me too much, everyone would see.
"We are at your brother's funeral! What is wrong with you?" My father snarls.
"I don't know, that hurts," I feel blood drain down my arm from her fingernails digging into my skin, "I'm the future king, remember. I can have you hanged."
"He's insane," my father whispers.
"He's a menace," my mother agrees.
"You're both doomed," I laugh.
That might sound harsh, but I was five and had just gotten the best news of my life. The people my parents loved so much more than me? Dead. They were stuck with me. Miserable little me. They didn't like me. All because I hmm, let's see, what were their reasons?
Had no human emotion.
Lied constantly.
Lied for fun.
Lied for no reason at all.
Laughed through my brother's funerals. Both of them.
Tried to start fires indoors.
Killed frogs under my bed.
The thing was, I really didn't care. They were stuck with me. But I did know I had to play the part. I had to pretend to be the clever, kind, if bumbling prince. And I did. My mother, she knew what I really am. Oh she knew. I didn't let her forget either. If only for a minute, I would shoot her a look, that was all it took, let her see the malice behind my smile. The emptiness in my eyes. And then I'd don my mask again and the proper little masquerade of being the perfect prince would prevail once again.
Except it was suffocating me. I didn't know how I was supposed to bear it. Day in. Day out. My perfect imitation of a person was exhausting.
Then I fall in love. I suppose not love, really. I'm nine I don't think nine year olds can fall in love. More than that, I don't think I can fall in love. I thought it was something switched off in me for good until I met him.
Bran Gallegher. He wasn't afraid to turn the air blue with his cussing, and knock me backwards into the lake, or hit me square in the face with a snowball. And for the first time in my entire life, I had someone who liked me the way I was. I didn't dare tell him about the visions, that was too much, but to be myself was a great enough gift and he gave it to me everyday. I could cuss and laugh and joke about killing my parents and how I'd do it. And he'd be back the next day, grinning, with a new set of dangerous weapons and no impulse control. I adore him completely.
At age twelve I find out I'm homosexual. I'm incredibly excited because you know, disappointing my parents has to be number one. Also my best friend is a boy so again, major win for team Conri.
How I find out I'm homosexual is equally hilarious, just to me, but that's fine. I am my primary audience.
My father, probably for reasons based in deep inner brain disease, decided to give me a talk about the fairer sex. He calls me into his office, so very seriously one day, "Conri, I know you're growing up a bit. And we've not always seen eye to eye. But I wanted to have a chat with you. As you're getting older. About girls."
"Why would I want to talk about girls?" I scrunch up my nose.
"Well," he laughs a little, "As you get older, you're going to start finding girls pretty, and wanting to look at them."
"Eww. I hope not," I say.
"Well you will, it happens to all young men—,"
"Does it though? Girls are icky—,"  I ask, skeptically.
"Just let me get through this, Conri, you may find yourself staring at their breasts, but you can't do that in public you see—,"
"Not a problem, their chests are disgusting really, mother is a girl I've met her I'm quite good. I'm not going to think girls are pretty," I assure him, holding up both hands.
"You will."
"I think boys are pretty," I offer, helpfully.
"Conri, that's just foolish—,"
"Have you not looked at boys? They've got pretty square jaws and nice faces, and nice chests 'specially when they're all sweaty and I like the way their trousers hang off their hips and some of the knights have like a V thing right here on their stomachs and —-oh my god I'm gay aren't I? Is this what being homosexual is you said that was bad didn't you?" I start laughing.
"Conri, I know you're just doing this to get a rise out of me don't be foolish—,"
"Oh, I am not," I continue laughing, "What must you be going through right now? Really? God, this must be awful for you. Your only living son and I desire men. I can't wait till you tell mother, can I be there? Please? I never ask things of you because you think I'm demented and probably queer—oh there it is yeah, you were right that's what you were always saying isn't it?"
"Shut up!" He slaps my face, "That is more than enough."
"Did you think that would smack the gay right out of me? You'd better do it again, smack the whatever not being gay is, back in?" I offer.
He does smack me again, but it's so hard I fall and hit my head and pass out.
I wake up laughing in Bran's room. He doesn't even ask what happened to me and I don't ask how his scrawny little self hauled me back to his room. I just lie there on his bed, hoping he'll take his shirt off.
Oh, I eventually get that shirt off. Gets me a couple of years of soft little kisses before he'll let me fuck him. That's very exciting for me. I lock us in my bedroom because I'm really attached to my bed and disappointing my parents.
He's quiet and shy and for the first time in my life I want to try to be kind to someone. So that's odd for me. I've never felt it before but when I hold him I don't want to destroy him. I want to destroy everything. Not him, I don't, for whatever reason. I want to do the opposite. I want to protect him. And that's how I hold him in my arms, from then on. No more imagining crushing his bones or tearing him apart. I simply hold him like I want him to live in my arms.
And he comes to me night after night.
That's how we eventually get the child. Not very clever of us, but last I checked sixteen year old boys aren't. I'm surprised, but mildly excited in that I really didn't think I was going to get any bastards and disappoint my parents with them like I wanted to, considering I had no inclination to fuck women. Turned out, my boyfriend still gave me a child because he didn't start out a boy. Except, I can't be pleased because he is not at all well. And again I am met with that terrible, horrible empathy for him. Only him. But it pulls me apart because all of a sudden I'm very close to destroying him.
I nearly kill the child.
It's half dead anyway when I find them. A vision warning me of their deaths, we had no idea when the child was due. I was arguing with my parents. My father raised his bastards near the palace I expected to do the same, but as I won't give them a mother's name my parents are livid and refuse any aid. Like I can't embezzle money on my own. Really. They underestimate me. Constantly.
Anyway. When I get to the inn where I was hiding Bran, Bran is nearly spent, bled out, trying to cut himself apart I don't clearly know why, with one of his many knives I in retrospect should have taken. The child is lying half dead, limp. I pick them both up, somehow, with Bran in my arms wrapped in sheets already soaked in blood. And the child just thrown on top of him because he wouldn't let me leave it.
"Just come—damn it—," I feel tears running down my face. I don't feel in control. I don't feel clever. I feel sixteen and the only person I care about is self destructing and about to leave me. Because I ruined him.
"No, no," Bran mumbles, trying to crawl away from me to hold the child. His arms are too bloody and his chest is wide open I can see his fucking ribs, the child nearly slips from his arms. There is blood all over this room, all over them both.
"Just fucking leave it —you don't even want it—damn it," I just pick him up because he was trying to walk away from me.
The town doctor is a street away and I don't even care, as we trail blood through the street. I know I'm sobbing, but I've not cried I don't think since I was a child and I don't know what to do to make it stop.
"Save him—save him—please I don't know what he did, I don't know what he did to himself," I kick in the door and make my way back to a table. About five people swarm me.
"No, no, let me go—let me go, don't you dare—," Bran breaths, trying to get away.
"We'll mind—him—," the doctor stares at me, then at Bran.
"Go to him! The child is fine," I take the baby and walk out, as they begin to sew Bran up. I should stay. He mumbles my name.
I can't watch.
I'm standing outside, weeping, holding the infant and my arms are shaking so badly I am shocked I'm not dropping it. It. A boy. I have a son. I have a son.
I want to bash his head in on the brick.
Tell Bran it died it was dead when I got there, he won't remember. I'll bury it someplace. And it'll be over. And we'll be okay again and Bran won't want to do that to himself.
But he did try to take it.
If it were me, I'd want it dead, but he kept trying to hold it. He wants me to take care of it. And if he dies and this child is all I have left of him? I can't kill it then, but until I know he lives I can't do anything.
The baby mumbles, softly, reaching a chubby hand up to me.
"Hello," I whisper, "I haven't decided to let you live yet."
A black bird lights on my arm. One from my vision before. It looks at the baby then flies away.
"So you don't die today, Lonan," I say, feeling tears run down my face, "You don't need to die today."