Your Prince

By: Shima And Tempis

You feel like the world is crumbling around you, the normal angst-filled world that swarms a teenager's life no matter what they do. You're the reason that angst-filled young adult books are so popular, you know. Really, you crushing on your prince, extremely clichéd and you know it. But do you care? Of course not. What's the point? He's taken by intelligence, anyway.

Feeling bitter won't do, you know. It's times like this when you realize when this whole cataclysmic cycle began. Had you never even pressed the send button on that stupid email, your world would never have been so grim. You wouldn't have been hiding from the feelings that have been swarming you since forever. You wouldn't be trying to forget you even liked him.

Of course, her problems with you don't help either. She feels depressed, but that's like the president being depressed because he bombed a country. To put it simply, you're sure that her depression makes no sense. If it did, then maybe you could've made things better between you both.

The rain pelts down but you're not outside in it to be miserable, with dreary sound effects, the whole deal. You're warm, with a new blanket that your parents bought you just because you though it looked pretty--you're the epitome of a spoiled brat. Your parents adore you enough to leave you home alone, sure that you won't burn down the house or bring a posse of friends over to burn it down for you.

Of course, you wouldn't anyway.

No, you can't even dream of doing something to betray your parent's trust. They would never leave you home alone anymore, and you love those nights when you can turn up your music-happy and prancing music-and live forever in your frivolous dreams of a cunning prince and while you argued for quite sometime together, eventually you fell in love.

Sickening, aren't you?

Turning on the light just so the outdoors will be shrouded in darkness, you slump onto the couch with the remote to the television lying limply in your hand. Is this really all you can do on a Saturday night? Stay at home with yourself, huddled in a corner, talking to yourself as if you're two people, a man and a woman, so perfect together that the world will swim around you in harmony, instead of this putrid mess that really exists?

Perfection. You are perfection at its best point, when there's nowhere for you to go but down. All you need to do is start writing that dark, demeaning poetry and you know you've done it--you've killed yourself. Or at least the equivalent to it.

The doorbell rings. Your heart leaps, despite everything that you've told yourself. Carefully slipping into the main hallway, you open the door without checking to see who it is.

Does it really matter if you check or not? You don't even remember asking yourself that question, as he stands before you wet and shivering, and you have no idea what you should do. Close the door? Scream? Throw something at him? All of these options seem adequate, but your mind decides to work against you just this once, and you side step and let him in.

Terrific, you think. Now he's in your house, you two alone together. What now? He turns to you, stripping off his soaked windbreaker and slipping off his shoes, apparently ready to stay a while. You absently go into the kitchen and grab him a towel, tossing it to him as you return, motioning for him to follow you to the living room. He follows, you see out of the corner of your eye, looking determined, an emotion that you have never seen on him before.

"It's important that I talk to you." He finally speaks up, and your heart shatters a little more at ever syllable. What did you need to talk about? Absolutely nothing. The last time you talked he was just making your entire breakfast table laugh. You hadn't talked seriously since... well, since that stupid email. "I need to know if he's really your boyfriend."

So he's jealous, you suppose. He's heard, so now he realizes that you're worth fighting over. You're half way ready to run into his arms and sob that you don't want to be the other's girlfriend, but your conscience gets the better of you and you sputter out a consent. He looks at you again, obviously hurt, and sits himself on the couch, the towel under him. "Oh. I guess I thought it wouldn't be true after--well, you know." Of course you know. How could you not? Your heart was now torn into fine little pieces and you realized that very few people would ever know how to put it back together.

"What are we watching?" He asks suddenly, switching to his normal tone of voice as he turns on the television, patting the spot next to him. This isn't like him. You know he probably hasn't realized that you're the only one home. You sit next to him, right next to him, and take the remote. You mutter a random show and change the channel, letting the room fall into a comfortable silence.

Even if it was wrong, you needed your prince. You were tired of talking to yourself, anyway.