Seven Deadly Sons

Ameline. (24)

He is also naked. I know this because the cover is only on me, and I can't help looking. His whole chest is covered is layer upon layer of inch long scars that look completely self inflicted, it's horrific. The arm closest to me is flung over his eyes, revealing the tattoo lining the inside of his arm down over the side of his ribs. 

It's stretched, but I can see roughly that it's a collection of circles in varying sizes with dots trailing round in geometric shapes. It reminds me of the Bible, of which mother made sure I learnt back to front God is a circle whose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere though, once I finished learning the book before I aged my first decade, we ripped it apart as fodder for the fire. I cannot imagine the Lord much appreciated us desecrating his holy book.

Kismet rolls over, curling half into a fetal position. One leg, thankfully, is covering his crotch. From this side I can see a matching pattern under the opposite arm, though some of these circles are filled in. I stretch as far as I dare over his side, I manage to see one circle has a mountain scene in, all black lines and red accents and the other circle is formed of co-ordinates, the scene inside of two tigers against one another. I could not tell from this distance if they were fighting or playing.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" He mumbles groggily, though when I look back to his face I see a sleepy smile pulled across his face. I feel sick.

Turning back over, I reach forward to curl myself around Ollie like I had the other night in the farm lot. He's warm and growls halfheartedly as I wrap an arm over him. Then, an arm comes around my own hip (admittedly, over the top of the duvet but still) and pulls me closer and I let out a noise in symphony to the dogs. I panic further when I feel him behind me and I try my best to wriggle out from his hold without dislodging the blanket from over me. Oliver digs his crawls into my arm and starts to properly growl, barking his pathetic little puppy barks.

"Get off of me! You disgusting, heartless-" I continue a string of further curses before he eventually lets me go and I plummet as fast as I can from the bed. He is so revolting — he must know how much I hate him. To his knowledge, I have tried to kill him twice now! Thats more than most have in a lifetime! I take in the massive rectangular room, huge royal blue curtains hanging from the domed windows. I throw open every door and cupboard I can find and pull out clothes at random.

"Where the fuck have you put my gods-damned clothes!" I seethe; a hat goes flying next, then a pair of socks and several puffy shirts and smart jerkins with are undoubtable expensive.

I've emptied the entire chest of drawers, even gone as far to pull out one of the smaller ones for socks and gloves, when I feel a desperately sharp pain in my calf. I carry on dumping drawers, high on an adrenaline kick and, with the duvet wrapped around me I feel like some kind of vengeful goddess of old, until the sharpness in my calf becomes seething agony.

Looking down, I can see the point of one of Kismet's throwing stars is sticking out of my leg. A small trickle of blood has made it's way out and it really hurts, even though it must only be half an inch or less deep. I keep staring at it until I hear a very theatrical sigh from Kismet, and then Olivers echoing one when the bed shifts.

When I lean down to dislodge the blade, he snaps "Do not touch it, daft thing." though that doesn't stop be trying. I tug it experimentally, feeling and watching the muscle is has attached itself to tug and shift like a crustacean sucking on a rock. I've wiggled it — mind, with lots of ooh's and ah!ahh's — almost out of it's hole by the time the prince wonders on his merry way over, managing to dress himself in some slacks and rips the blade straight out in one move.

"WHY did you do that!?" I shout, though honestly it doesn't even really hurt. I still make a fuss and worry the wound to see if he has any capacity for empathy. Incidentally, he doesn't. Kismet has gone straight back to bed and is now laying face down across the whole mattress whilst Ollie gives his ear a thorough licking.

I give a few more; "aaaaarhhs!" And even try a couple of sobs before I give up and head to the bathroom to clean up the already trying wound. It does genuinely throb a bit so I grab a bottle of alcohol when I head through the large parlour (there are so many bottles; both empty and half full). I get lost for a while, going in and out of different lounges and a second bedroom (?) perhaps used for a different perspective of the gardens, that when I finally find the bathroom Kismet is already in there — without Oliver, who must still be asleep —.

The bathroom (of which I have only found this one, but I am certain there are more) is, again, spherical and a large tub is sunk into the floor in the centre. One full side of the bathroom is glass, which seems entirely undignified to me for a member of the royal family to be so naked in front of the kitchen gardens and croquet lawns. I keep myself covered with the duvet and dig through the towel shelves until I find a fluffy robe looking pile at the bottom, knee length and white. I can't imagine Kismet ever wearing something this short and fluffy, but, he is an eccentric prince - so I suppose it isn't unheard of.

Stepping into a random square separated from the room by glass, I throw the duvet over the half circle wall, used as a kind of divide. What a useless changing room, everyone can see you! It only manages to reach just over half way down; it will have to do I muse as I shrug on the robe as quickly as possible. Now that it isn't folded, I can see the torso area of the robe is actually cut with slits by the sides of the ribs all the way around the back.

I consider putting the duvet back on but it's just getting a bit excessive at this point, like; do I really think he's going to be intimately staring at my body? The body of a human that tried to murder him? Twice!!

No. I do not think he will.

So thats why I stroll out with all the confidence I can; knowing full well my hair is slick with so much grease I could fry an egg and I have bruises from head to toe. Speaking of toes, now that I am considering all of my attributes objectively for once, they were getting obscenely long — and my skin! It felt just like a rough, out of date cracker.

Next, I looked in the large mirror. A huge bowl was in front of it with three very expensive looking golden tubes. I learned then from Kismet — as he brushed his teeth — that the gold was copper and they were actually taps, used for requesting and receiving water when the knob was turned. Experimentally, I turned the devices handle and at once clean water poured out! Putting a finger under, I found that I could also ask for; boiling, sparkling, mineral, almost-frozen and flavoured kinds — thought not all at once.

I wonder if there's some poor person, probably a human or dwarf, stuck below this marble top? Did they have to send me up water when I asked? I try and look up the tap and through the drain but, from Kismets strange expression, I am acting weirdly again.

Looking back to myself for once, I noticed many things about my beauty; all of them bad or in such contrast to that around them it went unnoticed. For example; having slept in several layers of makeup, my eyelashes were so caked they stuck together — instead of accentuating my eyes, they highlighted the depth of the half-rings of black under my eyes. My skin had a patchy sort of cream glued on and my lips were ever so chapped I could probably use them to grate cheese.

The sharp jawline I had inherited from my mothers face was grotesquely visible; and by grotesque I mean I had so little meat on my bones that my neck was a toothpick holding up a bowling ball, this theme carrying on down my gaunt outline showing off my entire collarbone and every bone in my hand and wrist. I looked very, very unwell.

No, this prince or any other would certainly not ask me to dance out of love, or ask for anything else for that matter. I almost wanted Kismet to look at me so I could tell just one person: no. I never had the opportunity to last time.