𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐧, young royals

Chapter 2: Simon

That House in Nebraska,  Ethel Cain

2: Simon

I must say, I've always had a fondness for the spotlight, but this wasn't exactly how I'd imagined it going for me.

After the jubilee, I rode the bus home, wide-eyed and jittery.  I was shivering, like feverish from the shock of the events.  Everyone on the bus was staring, whispering, muttering, and I regretted not calling someone to pick me up.

I always thought I'd make the headlines on different terms. I'm thinking, Singer and song-writer Simon Eriksson releases his debut album! Or maybe, Latino-Swedish artist Simon Eriksson begins his first tour of Europe! But having everyone shine a light on my name because I slept with the Crown prince of Sweden was, let's put it simply, not my main aim. I wondered if I'd have even ever made it as an artist if I'd never made the worldwide news and whether I'd ever be etiquetted as anything other than the Crown prince's boyfriend. I wondered if I'd ever just be me, plain ol' Simon from Bjästad, as a whole again.

My mind had split in two, it seemed, each half fending off the other like oil and water in a cup.  One part of me felt the most relieved and fulfilled I'd ever felt in my life.  I was loved, cherished; I was something to be shared and flaunted.  I was worth more than the bluest and most cumbersome diamond in the world, that's how that part of me felt.  The other half of me acknowledged the point of no turning back—if I'd had the slightest chance to scour some of the dirt from the past months out of my name, it was long gone.  It'll be just like when that video came out, all over again, I thought sullenly, tears prickling my eyes, until another thought occurred to me.  Only this time I'm not alone.

Wilhelm, my Wille.  And where was he now?  After his speech ended, he'd practically vanished off the stage, effortlessly hauled away by his guards, and now he wasn't answering any of my calls or texts.

I closed my eyes, thought of his, and in that moment, that was all the solace I needed.

✧ ✧ ✧

At home, I ripped off my school uniform and slipped into a pair of grey sweatpants and a t-shirt.

I felt blissful, light, breezy.  I could turn off my phone, make myself a bowl of cereal, and crash on the couch for the rest of the afternoon.  I could ignore the world for a few more hours.  Content, I headed to the kitchen, humming a tune that'd been stuck in my head for the past days.

What a kill-joy it was to find my sister already sat at the kitchen island.

I felt the muscles in my face fall limp.  She looked guilt-ridden, almost like she was sick.  Or maybe it was a performance, like rubbing butter on my burn to have me forgive her.  Whatever it was, all it did was bring me a much distasteful reminder of her betrayal.

I shot her a bitter look of acknowledgment and strolled past the island to reach the cupboards.  From the corner of my eye, I saw her opening and closing her mouth in search of words for a couple of seconds.

"I'm really happy for you," she said at last, her voice quivering, "you know, for the jubilee."

"I don't wanna talk to you, Sara," I dryly replied, glancing over my shoulder.  "Not right now."

I turned my back to her again before I could catch her reaction, agressively grabbing a bowl from one of the cabinets and pouring cereal in it.  I don't think I was even hungry anymore.

"I made everything right," stated Sara suddenly.

Despite my feelings toward her at that moment, her words captured my attention, and I carefully put aside the cereal box and turned to face her, brows furrowing.

"What do you mean?" I queried tonelessly.

"I reported him," she whispered meekly, her wide eyes refusing to meet mine as they inspected her jittery hands in her lap.  "I reported August."

For a brief moment, I think my heart dropped all the way to my feet.  I think it stopped beating entirely, too, and gravity's strings hauled it all the way to the Earth's core just to shove it back up my throat, all scratched and bruised.  I think my guts and lungs imploded on themselves, and I stopped breathing completely.

"You did what?"

Sara's eyes flew to meet mine suddenly, and her trembling lips parted.  For a second, I hoped she might say something else.  I hoped my ears might had been wrong.

Perplexed, she repeated, "I called the cops on August."

Oh, God.  I took a step back, falling from one foot onto the other, my hands slipping off the countertop and flying into my hair.  Flashes skipped through my mind like an old black-and-white movie.  Officers out of a police car, sirens wailing, and cold, hard handcuffs digging into my wrists.

"Simme, I don't understand."

"You don't get it?" I hissed harshly, much harsher than I'd intended.  "We can't report him.  We couldn't!"

She flinched. "I didn't report him for the video. August was taking non-prescribed medication. I reported him for that."

"Sara," I spoke, words heavy as stones, "hear me when I say this. Those were Dad's medication. His name is on those bottles. Our name is on them."

She took in my words, depicting them, absorbing them one by one, and realization dawned onto her.

I scoffed humourlessly, shaking my head and blinking away the sting in my eyes. "You get it now? He's going to make me take the fall for it."

"No, no...  he can't, he...  I'll take the fall for it!  I'll say it was me."

"No, you won't.  Do you hear yourself talking?  That's fucking ridiculous, Sara," I retorted.

Outside we heard grit crunching under tires and a car engine being smothered.  Mom, I realized, seeing her car pulling up in the driveway through the window.

I glanced at Sara, wide-eyed.  "Not a word to her about any of this.  Not the drugs, not August, not the shooting range, nothing," I said.

She nodded, silenced, and I went back to making my bowl of cereals just as our mother stepped through the front door.

"¡Holà, chicos!" she exclaimed, shrugging off her coat and tossing her keys on the sofa. She walked into the kitchen, resting her hands on her hips. "How was the jubilee?"

Sara looked at me, brows slightly furrowed and lips parted wordlessly, and I cleared my throat.

"You might wanna sit down, Mom."

writing this half asleep