Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XC. Jus In Bello

9

          Mami, I want to play.

As Robin washed her hands free of blood, Virgil waited for her in the mirror. His body, bloody, his crushed skull sewn together, heavily bandaged, but face blank. Scratched out. On all fours, he twitched, as he began to crawl, he called to her. Throat kissed in blood, organs and vocal cords flapping around in a sanguine red. The water ran cold as Robinʼs did, tears staining her eyes as she continued to wash her hands, numb, and la voz came to her again. The ghosts cried with her, and as they cried, Virgil fed on their pain.

And like a pin to a balloon, hell broke loose.

      Mami, letʼs play!

Virgilʼs hands came out of the mirror, then his body, feral as he flared his black eyes at her. On all fours, ready to pounce. He bolted out of the washroom, screaming:

       Mami, letʼs play!

      The knife. Robin, the knife!

"VIRGIL, NO!"

Everywhere, blood flowed. Miles and miles she ran, racing Virgil, and all she could see was rot and ruin. The taste of the death, as the Orderʼs servants stared at her with scratched out eyes. A sea of bodies. Hell was murky and dark, with the perfumes of Arabia making the day bleed into an eternal night, and the bodies lined the halls in only red. Where red is red, there is only red, red to live in the red room with red air, to rest my head, red cheek down, on the red table, oh Lord, please do not take my son–

"V-IIIII-RGIL!"

The door to the red room opened with a ghostʼs whisper as Virgil feasted on the flesh of the innocent, hanging overhead with a cannibalʼs hunger. Below him, a little boy slept. When the stars came out to play, and the night released all its terrors, there Robinʼs little boy slept, his dreams playing as well. A pale boy, with his fatherʼs silky black curls and her delicate features, surrendering to night, dizzily slinking past him. Trevor, her baby boy slept, and Robin broke into tears, watching the fire illuminate his pure features, watching as Virgil lowered himself to feed on him.

         She raised her knife and lunged–

"VIRGIL, STAY AWAY FROM MY SON! VIRGILLO!"

The screams ripped from her throat, the knife from her hands, and terror came to her. In the form of Remedios, struggling to succumb her to the quiet, in the form of Voltaire, consoling Trevor. At Trevorʼs throat, the hangmanʼs knife sat, crooked into just the tip of his flesh, teasing out fresh blood. The fireplace was still that tiny Cuban sun during the harshness of the winter storm, with hungry flames curling and coiling as the papers turned to blackened char, but when the smoke and dust settled, Robin only saw fear in Trevorʼs eyes. Pure, unadulterated fear of her, his mother.

"I was protecting you, mi amor," Robin sobbed, struggling against Remedios. "He was here."

Remedios tried to tear Robin away from her son, and when she did, her throat tore out any-and-all screams it could.

"Robin, calm down. Calm down, Robin!"

Robin thrashed, screaming.

"He wanted to kill my baby, my Trevor," she howled, breaking down into tears that burned her throat greater than any desert, as she collapsed into a maddening spiral.

"Heʼs back and he wanted to kill my baby! Virgil!"

The wolves sang their mournful songs then.

And Robin sang with them.