Story of a revolutionary king

The last wheel of the wagon

"Hear ye! Hear ye! A new king arose for us!" The chant of the jester was obnoxious, hear ye, he would scream; knowing full well that he would just lick the boots of a new master, probably worse than the last one.  The coronation ceremony was as gruesome as it was majestic. We kill our kings here, when they're too greedy or too blind to see our suffering. This one promised a new era of glory, full bellies and happiness but, as it usually goes, ended up gorging everything himself. We, the people, waited for his pity; for him to at least give us some sort of compensation. After all, he was one of us, every king was one of us at some point, but they all fall down the same road. Now his head was in a bucket, bleeding, with the crown still attached to it, - "Funny" I thought "Even in death it seems to still cling to power." The new king was the one who pulled down the guillotine, as if to mark himself for life, - "This is my destiny" I think he thought; we all knew it was. The crowd, though, was as guilty as the king himself. We made kings out of empty shells and tried to project onto them all the hopes and dreams that we were too scared to say out loud, in hope of seeing them come true by the hand of someone we chose. This town, as well as all the others of course, was an old conglomerate of dying people and broken wishes; more of a tomb than a town proper. The inhabitants, well, just as bad... I came from a place of darkness and despair, thinking that here I could find solace or at least respite from the tight grasp of this putrid life, from the mockery of the surrounding ones. Instead, here I found the same horror, preying eyes and sharp tongues, they thought they were better than me, everyone did.

Life was difficult to say the least, every day could be the last; death by sickness, killed by famine or by my fellow men, exiled or, more terrible than the others, taken by my own trembling hands. As sweet as the thought of eternal release was, I found myself staying afloat, albeit only to drift away in the current, at the mercy of the waters. "There she is" they would say, - "Look, look! It's the miserable girl; let's throw some rocks at her!" The first few times, I tried to reason with them, trying to make some sort of excuse, to tell them that, - "We are the same, please! Why would you do this to me?" But now, I knew I had to run, to hide, if I wanted to survive another day; their long arms could reach me everywhere it seemed, their words followed me, hiding in the back of my mind, only to haunt me when I thought I could finally rest; raining on me but not as a sweet summer rain, this one was a horrid and poisonous pouring, black as the night where it always caught me. Even my tears tasted of sewage.

And so I learned to hide my face from others, I learned to look at them closely and, bit by bit, mastered the art of mimicry. I made a thousand different masks, one for each person I met, so that they would see something acceptable out of me, something that didn't bring them disgust. Living the life of a different person, every time I met someone, was dirty and consuming work. I can't recall for sure how many years passed like this, all the same; kings and rules changed, but my place always stayed the same. Everywhere, they knew me as the last wheel of the wagon, the serving one; - "Better than being a miserable girl, right?" I was wrong, but could you blame me? Can you blame someone for just trying to survive this hellscape of a life? I think that there is no real choice, no real 'right and wrong' when the victim act as the executioner. There was no escape for me. "How I wish I could escape all of this" I brooded, wanting a way out but at the same time finding comfort in the smell of my body rotting away under the pressure of the world.

One faithful day, though, all changed. A man covered in rugged clothes came to the city, he stayed for a while, looking around; as if he was searching for something important. After some time passed, he must've judged this place unworthy of his presence and, as quietly as he came, he left. The heavy and rusted doors of the city clashed together, sealing him away from this wretched place; but I saw someone different underneath those rags; and so, with my hopes hanging from my belt like trophies poorly cared for, I followed him out of the gates. "Sir, sir wait please!" I almost screamed it, - "Why are you here, and why are you going away, sir?" The look from beneath the hood scared me to my very core, then he said - "I'm searching for the King of all kings, in the city of freedom, but this was not it I'm afraid." I urged him, - "So you're a traveler aren't you sir? May I come with, I beg of you... let me." With a grave face and tired eyes, he spoke. His words seemed alive in the way they tried to elude his bushy beard - "Then come, we can travel together. After all, we are equals, you and I."