Family. One should love their family, they should get along with them. Your parents, brothers, sisters, these people should come before all else. Constantly those ideals are repeatedly told to one, almost to the point of indoctrination from childhood to adulthood. As a young child the seeds of doubt in such a beautiful thing were sown into me. I watched as my Father, the king, would disappear from my sight for days, weeks, and months. Having little clue where he went, I simply felt an ember of hate constantly being roused as the years went on. Why should I love this man as a father? What gives him the right to be a father? What gives him the right to even be alive? My mother, the Queen, always looked so pitiful, I couldn’t leave her alone. When father returned, all the occurred was constant yelling and fighting between him and mother. I felt infuriated, but never did anything. How could I? Mother always kept me close, she did everything with me, and didn’t let me stray from her, let alone do anything on my own. I thought of such things as normal, but as the years went on I noticed my lack of freedom wasn’t normal. I grew disillusioned by her constant venting on me about father. As much as I hated the man, I felt more suffocated by the cage I was being stuffed in for my whole life. If I attempted to break away she would break down crying, asking me why I hated her, why was I abandoning her? The burden grew too much, and eventually I stopped loving her as a mother.

I couldn’t sympathize with her anymore; I was done being her replacement for the failure of her marriage. In this repulsion that I called my family, I was the youngest of three. I regarded my oldest brother who was eight years older than me, the crown prince, with indifference. Me and him never talked, and even at the age of 15 I can barely recall anything about him. We might have not even been family at that point, but that was the most comfortable family for me. He left me alone and I did the same, I could not ask for more in life.

Alas my second brother had too much of a different view. His dissatisfaction with life became mine. He controlled me, dictated what I did, and kept me under his grasp. His attitude was much like father’s, in where you can’t tell what will set him off. One wrong action, word, or even a simple motion would cause him to lash out. I secluded myself in my room in the Palace to avoid these people who I was tied to by blood, but he wouldn’t let me have the only thing I desired, to be alone. If he did something, I had to do it with him. He loved me as a brother, truly. But his love isn’t what one would consider sane. His love was something much darker, much more twisted. Everything had to be controlled. He can’t live without things fitting under his definition. If he believed white was black, disagreement was not allowed. Anything that strays from his definition of the world was wrong. He couldn’t accept that I didn’t want to do things with him. How could I, his younger brother, not want to do everything with him? Impossible. When I tried to fight back, rebel, or whatever one would call it, he wouldn’t allow it. I simply was too weak compared to him to win a fight, and nothing came from complaining to mother or father, since he could skillfully twist the words to completely shut me off as the one in the wrong. Mother and father both simply said,

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 “Get along, you are brothers.”

Brothers? So what? Why does that matter? Why will we get along because we came from the same womb? I detest this thing we call family. I can’t comprehend what my brother is thinking. Does he want a brother, or a puppet?  This whole family is wrong. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? Why must I be a servant to my brother? Why must mother make me live this pitiful life, locked in this cold, empty palace? I wish they would all die. This one thought has lingered in my mind since as long as I could remember. I would endlessly imagine the various ways I could stab my brother to death, or be done with father, but I couldn’t do much more than just that, imagining. Third son of King Johann III of Rhinsburg, Emil, a prince born with everything. A prince who had nothing. Oh, woe me, the poor soul who cries of suffering as others starve. While I live in lavishness, my fellow humans die in poverty. Even so, my heart aches. It aches not for them, but in selfishness. The only reason I despair is because I have the privilege to do so. Peasants have not that option; every day is a struggle, a fight to just barely be able to survive. This knowledge never brought me peace. I still hurt, I still felt empty. How narcissistic it must be, but I couldn’t change it.

At the Royal School, I held one friend. We have known each other for as long as memory serves me. A commoner by the name of Hedrick. Speaking to him was my greatest respite. I grew to know this boy when he was chosen for a new program forced through by parliament. A meritocratic program where exceptionally talented children could be enrolled in education, something reserved only for the high class. Normally, father would’ve ignored such blasphemy. His educators had done a well job of instilling into his mind two words: divine right. He was the King, a representative of God by birth. His word was God’s and thus infallible. To me it seemed like indoctrination, but to him it was Law. The idea of parliament was a question of his power, a question he would not stand to let rise. My father and his father and every previous King thought so and I’m sure my elder brothers believe it with no doubt as well. Nevertheless, the previous King, my grandfather, suffered deeply from this belief. He resisted and ignored parliament for much of his reign. Aggravated by his continual dismissal of them, they forced his abdication. Now, my father begrudgingly goes along with their demands as representatives of the people, although I doubt he will continue forever. His temper is short and his pride immeasurable; I find it hard to believe he won’t eventually snap. Nevertheless, in this meritocratic program, one child was brought to be taught alongside the youngest prince, an exceptionally intelligent child from among the low class. It was to be a symbol of the closing divide between the classes. Schools for commoners were founded and the Royal School, once only occupied by noble children, was opened to only the most exceptional of them. He, of course was one. I respected his knowledge immensely and trusted him more than any other.