𝒜𝐹𝒯𝐸𝑅 𝒴𝒪𝒰

Chapter 7

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The seven-year-old boy sat on the chair impatiently, taking in the details of the courtroom instead of focusing on the judge or the witness—who was
confirming the accusations against him.

Two murders.

Multiple murder attempts on his mother and siblings.

Witnessed by five individuals.

"...by the time I walked inside, he had already suffocated his brother. The infant had a pillow on it before he saw me."

George leaned over toward the attorney's seat, his feet were still so small that barely reached the floor. "How long will he talk?"

The man widened his eyes at him, seeing his antics. If he was any other child then he'd have found it adorable. "Long. But you have to listen."

"It's time-consuming." Little George said.

"It's about your life. Either you will be cleared today or get a death sentence. So be mindful." The attorney tried to explain in an amicable manner, but it lacked warmness.

Of course; What's supposed to be done by Father is being done by the lawyer.

Discreetly George tilted his head to look at his parents—who sat at the other side. His mother was weeping silently, while cradling his father, who'd been stiff–no reaction. They were okay. But not miserable enough as the parents of the convicts he'd seen on the TV. Possibly he'd be freed—that's the only reason his parents not reacting badly.

"The court would impose a mandatory asylum treatment till the convict turns 18. After turning of age, according to the order the verdict would be decreed and that is Prince George d'Aulnis de Beaufort of the Netherlands is sentenced to 104 years of jail."

George glanced at his parents—they didn't burst out crying. 'So it mustn't be that bad?' He shouldn't be crying either then. The judge was still speaking up, when his eyes followed the horizon running beyond the window—

Golden flecks of the afternoon hued the abyss of his azure eyes, reminiscent of sunlit ripples on a calm sea. Memories brushing past. Every moment erased him.

Yet, he was still unaware of the time's plotting. His mind was busy imagining of the day he'd become a doctor—the first thing he'd do was make a potion that would increase the human lifetime. As soon as he'd get of jail, he'd drink the potion and resume his life. He also wanted to make a cure for cancer and then—

A faint worry creased his chest—what if he couldn't make it till then? Then he shook away that thought internally. Of course. He had seen a woman of 105 years old. He's just a boy in comparison.

"Mom!" He looked at her one last time, when the officers were taking him.

But his parents did not look at him.

Once again, he was pushed back into the darkness of the chamber. Even before he could look back, the shutters were yanked down.

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The heavy cellar door shut on his face. "You motherf*cker!" He lurched against the bars, almost gripping the guard who pushed him with rage scorching his eyes.

The guard narrowed his eyes, marching forward to hit him but the other guard who seemed older, held him off. "Let it go. It's a kid."

American accent.

George swallowed the bobbing uneasiness inside him. Taking a few steps back. The guard smirked, noticing the fear striking his face. So he freed his arm, bending to unlock the cellar.

European prisons weren't like this! He wasn't sure about the American ones either—it was on of his days of the first week there, and he felt it was somewhere in the Middle East.

As soon as the guard stepped in again, George's blood fueled—he wanted to run away; like the coward he always was, but wanted to lurch ahead and murder them—all of them with his hands.

Before he could realize—the man slapped him.

An abrupt pang came over.

And never left.

George flinched, eyes blurring with tears— the clamorous cheers, public gatherings, Christmas, snuggling inside the bed on the night of Christmas, waiting for the next morning, gifts, everyone sitting by the fire, chatting till late at night, meeting excited children, tourists gazing at them in awe, his home—everything went distant as if he was losing the consciousness; like the death holds one.

The next moment, he blinked away everything leaping on the guard. Fisting hands—he almost punched him. But the guard turned face and laughed.

"First learn to resist —" He punched George.
"—Kid!"

Silence shuddered as George succumbed to the guard's brutal assault, his feeble resistance extinguished in the cold darkness.

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"You fu—" George punched him, before he could utter it.

Although not in the face—it was rare that the accidents intentionally looked murders. No one did it. No one in their right mind would want to leave marks on their next victim. But he was George Beaufort. The same boy who shook the whole world once. People still shivered in the darkness of Frankfurt—

Because rarity never meant scarcity. If it could happen before It can happen now too.

The red-haired boy–he had freckles, shiny crystal blue eyes, tight curls pulled in a pony. Maybe he was one of the ethereal children of his family, maybe he was the eldest child, or maybe his parents only got truce looking at him—his eyes.

But George did not care—he was dirt and dirt often caused the world more damage than collateral good.

"You were saying?" He lifted his brow, lips curling coldly.

It outraged the redhead even more—reddish complexion turning rudy in ire. He sprinted forward and George backed—with the same smug smile on his face.

It was almost midnight. Lights in windows were dimming one by one. They were on the rooftop of the academy's main building. Which used to be usually empty at night. Faint lights from the lamppost trespassed the school.

Just as George reached the edge, Jim hurled at him—or at least tried—the next second George shifted with a dismissal.

A boisterous thud echoed.

Jim's body slammed into the ground. Quick, thick blood plumbed and scattered in a span of seconds. In the darkness, it more looked like grease and dirt.
However, George wasn't looking there. He stared into Jim's eyes— as the vague ray slowly diminished from them.

Placing hands into his pockets, he slowly descended the stairs and went to his room.