I first learned I was different on the first day of primary school. "You're so lucky, your grandma is the Queen!" They would always say until I couldn't take it anymore. My parents kept reassuring me as if the strange feeling would wash away each time it was discussed. "Besides James," my mother would say, "we are trying to keep you out of the public life as much as possible. You have no idea what me and your father did to give you the best life, never forget that." I never forgot that, or how much they did. But sometimes I wish I could be normal, wear normal clothes, go to the cinema with my friends without my picture being plastered all over The Telegraph or a peculiarly probed YouTube video explaining more details about my life than I know about myself, which is not many facts, honestly. As a royal, I'm expected to have it all figured out, to make no mistakes. If I wear the wrong outfit, I will be criticized by half the country. (The other half defends their little "baby James." The next time I hear that stupid pet name I will slam my head into a wall. If I accidentally sneeze on a fake camera I'll turn into an internet meme overnight. Every minuscule move I make will be speculated by an ocean of people with ready cameras to capture every moment of our lives. I couldn't care less if they see me as the 'cute little boy.' I'd rather face ridicule from all of England than pretend to be someone I'm not or never have been.
From the beginning of time, being royal was something I loathed but had to do with pride and honour daily. I love my family too much to leave the royal family, even if I had a choice. Grandma told me this years ago, but I remember it like yesterday. He sat me down in his study and said hushedly, "James. You are the light in the darkness of our people. We all are, but you James..." He trailed off and glanced out the window of our estate. Crowds of men and women in suits flashed photos from massive cameras. "You don't have to shine like the successors before you. "You don't need to win over everyone's hearts or fight on the front lines for peace. James, you have the power to make this house a home love each other. You don't need to be brave." I should have hugged her, I should have said something to let her know how much I loved her. But being the fool I am I just nodded and trodded away without a care in the world. And now I don't know if I have time left with her. I may never see her again. When I was a little boy, I used to love being royal. Everyone would crown me "Prince James" In my primary school yard, "ruler of England!" It was fun, people were nice to me and I wore a golden smile of a certain self-esteem I wish I had now. Now in secondary school, nothing has changed. Except people talk to me not because of my "grandmother being the queen" title they never want to befriend me, just my family's money.
I slammed my fist onto the bustling cafeteria table surrounded by people I questioned were my friends. "What. Do you mean by that?" I screamed with rage I didn't know was inside of me. Her eyes widened.
"What d-do you mean?" She stuttered questioningly. Everyone in the room gaped at me, peeking glances at each other when they thought I couldn't hear anything. "What is James doing?" "That boy has anger issues." My "anger issues" grew stronger from the whispers.
"After all I have done for you! I- I-" I trailed off, my thoughts swirling around my mind like a hurricane. My hands began to shake, after all that happened, everything I did. She would rather choose that over me? I don't care if I get suspended anymore. I don't care if I punch through the brown lunch table. Just... Why?
Her amazingly perfect strawberry-pink lips curved upwards into a smirk. She glimpsed around the room, raising her eyebrows worriedly at the crowd. I knew her too well, she never raises her eyebrows like that unless she's trying to win the students watching over. She doesn't understand me. I hissed under my breath, Why is she smiling? I didn't even know what I felt anymore rage possibly? Maybe sorrow, or heartsickness? Either way, it ended with me in front of my parents as they scolded me for the whole day. I slammed my hand again, my palms grew red. It hurt, but it was a distraction from real pain. "Why can't you just be there for me? You said that you could have left! Why!" She jerked up, her fiery red curls bouncing up simultaneously. After all she had done to me, I still couldn't love her any less. I wanted to deny, erase, her beautiful, flawless face from my memory but I couldn't, and I don't think I could ever. My voice trembled with every part of my soul, even the parts that still love her. "Okay, you know what? I hate you. All of you. I swiped my eyes across the table to everyone sitting. Carlos, Isabelle, Jacklin, and Cornelius, who is clutching her waist as if I didn't just end things with her.
I stormed out of the cafeteria, and only Isabelle looked behind. I could hear them laughing outside the grand opening doors, why are they laughing? Are they laughing at me? I immediately regretted my decision and sprinted outside, my eyes turned bloodshot red and the corners of my eyes soaked. What is wrong with me? The next thing I knew was slumping in the dean's office, awaiting my parents to arrive in painful silence.
"James, you know better than this." My father says sternly, "You can't just yell at someone, especially in school." I know what I did was wrong, but the anger didn't go away.
"Sorry..." I murmured, daring not to look at him. Like a coward.
"You're not giving me any answers! Why did this happen?" He exclaims, standing from the dining room chair.
"I-I I just can't right now." I stutter like a coward. My father ran his hand through his head;
"James! For Christ's sake!" He yells. My mother puts a reassuring hand on his arm.
"Let him be Edward," my mom said. "James, go to your room." I rush upstairs, trying not to stomp my feet on the hardwood floors like a little kid but it echoes through the grand hallway. I run past the corridor to my room and dive into bed. I gently close the door, can't risk slamming my old, embroidered door. I exhale as if breathing will take the weight off my shoulders. I grab my pillow and punch into it, the stain flies across the room and leaves a thud on the wall. I stomp over and yank it back.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I grumble as I keep on punching it. I give up throwing a temper tantrum, I slump into my yellow wallpaper and old car posters. I slide down to the floor, hoping that the room will make me disappear. My eyes turn bloodshot red again, no no no. Don't cry STOP! I breathe in and push the tears into my stomach. I feel nauseous and numb, I've done this enough times to make my entire body unemotional, like a dam. My greatest fear is when the water will overflow out of me until I morph into the monster I am. But I can't let it out men don't cry. "God I'm so stupid," I mutter. I palm my self in the face. God, how can I be so stupid!
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What Goes On In My Mind, Fanfiction. James Viscount Serven, Earl of Wessex.
FanfictionI have written fanfiction that delves into his imagined experiences at school and home to all the royal fans out there, who are curious or delusional about James' personal life. The story begins in 2022, after the passing of his beloved grandmother...
