The Singe Rigmarole [ON HOLD]

Hatred For The Violet Cloak

I have seen many men cry, usually because they seek sympathy in troubled times. Some have problems – rather odd ones I must say. One chap cheated on his poor village wife with the village mage, hoping that this mage could help him grow his hair back onto his scalp. Another was married to his own mother for ten years before managing to escape. The local tailor accidentally dyed his yellow cotton green. The shoe-shiner lost his pocket-watch in the woods while hunting silken-furred wolves with punchholes in their left ear. Most of these times, I have lent a merciful ear or two – particularly to the ones who’ve had their ears chopped off.

Eloi and Léo have lept into the unicorn carriage, barring themselves from the sulking, sobbing prince. I’m absolutely furious at him.

This is the most pathetic yet most compassionate scene that I have laid my eyes on. This man is clutching onto that expensive violet cloak, blubbering and smashing his head against the cobblestones – hoping that they may be considerate. Why am I furious? Many years ago, I had an innocent crush on him. He looked so kind, handing food to the poor people in our village.  Until one day, he noticed my existence and started to laugh at me and tease me – saying how ugly I was and why did I bother to think I had a chance.

When he woke up this morning, he didn’t even remember me. But he ended up trusting me, as If we’d been close for all our lives.

But in the current time, he is the one that’s ugly. His arrogance and his lack of composure to hold himself together is absolutely repulsive.

And he’s still holding on.

Just holding on; begging, crying, hoping, smashing his head against the cobblestones, trembling, having a complete fit.

Just holding onto that violet cloak so tightly to the point it could tear soon if he kept going.

Just holding onto that violet cloak that belongs to someone that doesn’t even deserve it.

To someone that I secretly and greatly hate who is standing there, blank-faced and confused, not knowing what to do.

But I watch them gently ungrapple his hands away from their cloak and smooth it out to prevent any crinkles. They look at me, saying that we have to go with haste before things become worse than they should be. The prince has curled himself up on the cobblestones; sniffling, whimpering and muttering to us for answers.

“What have you done? Why are you doing this?” he says, staring up at us with blood shot eyes.

I feel inclined to help him so I give him a large sack of gold and tell him to tidy himself up. But instead, he does not take the gold. He closes his eyes with tears running down his face. Behind me, Eloi and Léo are coughing spontaneously – a frustrated signal to get up and go – leave the loser. Léo steps out of the carriage, whispering:

“Gisella, come on, time is of the vanilla essence. By now, we could be at Eloi’s chateau, eating exotic fruits and toasting with champagne flutes and lightly toasted toast. My stupid half-brother finally got what he deserved...by losing everything.”

So I nod reassuringly and board the carriage along with the person that I secretly and greatly hate.

As we begin to take off, we begin lightful banter as if nothing happened. However, very quickly, it becomes quite grim.

“I thought you liked him. Thought you had no huge grudge against him?” asked Léo.

“I’d have to agree. Quite the change of heart for your old master, “Eloi adds, keen for gossip. 

So I also decide to join in.

“Yes. Whatever happened to you....sis?”

Lilou stares at me blankly and shrugs, as if she had gone through it with us a thousand times.