Alexandria was only ever meant to be a princess. A scandalous socialite to grace the covers of gossip magazines and twitters trending page.
When her older brother tragically dies in a suicide, Alexa suddenly becomes the next heir to the English thr...
That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet -Emily Dickinson
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Trigger warning: suicide, grief
Something they don't tell you about death is how sudden it truly is.
I couldn't help but remember my futile attempts as a child to hold sand. I'd collect it desperately in the palm of my hands and then watch helplessly as it slipped through the cracks between my fingers.
That was death. At least to me. It was a body desperately clinging to the last remnants of life, only for it to slip away anyway.
The machines kept Henry tethered to his last strings of being. They sowed painful seeds of hope in us, only for them to wilt in the end.
"It's time," Leena whispered from behind me, her voice low. She placed a warm hand on my shoulder, calloused by years of hard work. I shivered feverishly.
"A few more minutes," I begged, my voice coming out in a croak. My eyes were so dry from exhaustion closing them felt like rubbing sandpaper.
Henry's hand was cold under my own, and the morning sunlight that sauntered in through the windows imitated life on the smoothness of his skin. It would rain soon, but for now I could pretend today was just another beautiful day. That Henry was just sleeping, though his chest was oddly sunken and concave.
Denial after a death does that. It blurs the edges of reality like a watercolor painting. I stared at Henry like I might at art. Appreciating his intricacies but not fully grasping his meaning.
I didn't want to grasp that he was never going to open his eyes again.
I heard Leena let out a low breath as she turned toward the door, "Your Majesty." Her head dipped in a small bow, and she stepped back, her heels echoing against the tile.
My father walked in through the door, his presence dwarfing me. He was always so tall. Henry inherited that from him.
My father and Henry had the ability to fill any room they entered, command any and all attention. People loved them, in ways they never loved me. They respected my brother, cared for his opinions.
I feared the only things people cared about when it came to me was which designer I was wearing, whether I'd lost weight on my hips, or if I was dating someone new and shiny.
"Alexandria." My father's eyes were trained solely on me. He looked fatigued. Pronounced wrinkles decorated the furrow of his brow and forehead, aging him a whole decade. "The doctors, they need to take Henry's body now."
