Grace Ding

Dear lord, please give him a chance. Give Alexander Cravell a chance. Please, God, whoever and wherever you are, please don't let him…

I stopped. God's not gonna answer me. Of course not. Sometimes I wonder how the people here can be so stupid. How can the majority of the population be believers when the plain fact is right before them? I'm not sure if they're blind or if it just makes them feel better to ignore the shabby shacks they call home, to disregard their starving children and the tiny pieces of stale bread they call lunch. I don't see how they can possibly stand living with their morbid thoughts of being next in the monthly, what we like to call "selective human elimination".

I mean, seriously, they've got to see that there are only two possible explanations. One, God doesn't exist. Two, he just doesn't give a shit about this place. Apologies to all my religious friends, but honestly, I'm inclined towards the latter.

But anyway, even if God could hear me and God forbid (the irony), actually cares, he wouldn't choose to listen to the daughter of the freaking King and Queen, would he? Probably not. I'm the Royal child, supposedly having everything I want, right? Yeah, go ahead and believe that. It's quite likely that I could be bestowed the position of third most powerful person in this kingdom but honestly, the first two are just too dominating for the third to play even a minuscule role.

"Hurry up, Alexander Cravell."

Mother's exceptionally booming voice resonated to every corner of the "multi-purpose room" and bounced back from the walls a few seconds later.

As I watch a small child rising reluctantly from the crowds after his name was called for the second time, I can't help but squirm in my uncomfortably plush chair behind the King and Queen. And it isn't because of the revolting pink and white polka dotted bonnet and corset I was stuffed in. No, that hardly matters.

I look at the faces of Mother and Father. Do they really not register the fact that the poor boy is having difficulties to do as simple a thing as stand and walk? Do they seriously not see that a normal boy isn't meant to be as frail as he is? Please, just compare him to my little brother - they're probably about the same age. My brother's cheeks are rosy and full but the cheeks of that boy…well, I'd spare you the description.

But then again, that wasn't how the world worked. You didn't go around comparing the son of the King and Queen to a boy that is, at least in the eyes of the Royal Family, nobody. I glance at my parents again, and sure enough, there was that ever-present look of distaste in their eyes. They claim that it hurts them and scars them to look at how weak and "physically incapable" the Commoners are, but you never see them trying to do something about it, considering that they're the only reason they're as "incapable" as they are anyway.

Excuse my lack of a better phrase, but in the Royal Palace, we are bathing in riches. And yes, I do mean that quite literally - Royal babies grow up not with rubber ducks in the bathtub, but gold and diamond ducks. It's rather disconcerting, really. Kids only like rubber ducks because they're soft, yellow, squeezable, and floating on the water. Personally, I don't see how a duck made of gold or diamond can match any one of those criteria. And also, I don't think having a huge heavy brick at the bottom of a tub carved into the shape of duck is particularly nice, but my parents like it, so that's that. I guess they just haven't anticipated that all of their kids are going to be stuck with the memory of a sharp diamond edge pushing persistently into their naked butts forever.

Idiots, huh?

Anyway, I now watch as the boy carries himself painfully to the front, where the entire crowd stares gloomily at him. I consider leaping out in front of Mother and stopping her from continuing with this stupid damn elimination thing. But I stop myself. Just like I have each and every time I've sat in this chair and watched these things happen. I'm not sure how the Commoners would react if I did allow myself to jump up and protest. My best guess is that they'll think it's an act, just another cruel prank from the Royal Family intended to hurt them. And that's precisely the reason I now force myself to plaster myself against the pink pillow and grip the purple armrest until my knuckles turn white.

You can use any adjective to describe me, just don't tell me that I'm brave. 'Cause I'm not. Smart - possibly. Pretty - You tell me, I'm just the daughter of the King and Queen. Sly – you could say that. Eloquent – I guess so. Funny – Well, if you've got a high intellectual level, you might be able to get my humor. But brave, nope, not in your wildest dreams.

Don't get me wrong though, just because I don't have the nerve to go against my parents doesn't mean I enjoy sitting there doing nothing. I pray every single time for someone, anyone, to stand up from the crowds and if not kill my parents, at least do them some grievous bodily harm. But of course, as I said, God doesn't give a shit about us.

And so it is with bewilderment and awe that I watch an old man rising slowly from a seat at the far end of the room.

"Please, Your Majesties, please don't. Just give the boy a chance."

I stare at the man. My eyesight isn't particularly great but even so, I see his filthy clothing hanging loosely around his frame. He is no doubt all skin and bones. But somewhere in there, he's different from the rest of us. He may be just another one of us stupid humans, but he's got a heart. I can feel it.

I shouldn't wonder who he is, who his family may or may not be. It doesn't matter, does it? At the end of the day, all he's going to be is another rotting dead body. There is no way my parents will spare his life, not after this. He's nobody, and soon, nobody will recall his existence.

I can wish all I want, but there's no one here who's going to turn up with a gun and shoot a bullet through each of my parents' chests - the place that their heart is supposed to be but you know, isn't.

But then again, who knows? I might be wrong. I'm just a kid; I'm just the daughter of the two idiots who happen to be King and Queen. I'm just that Royal child with the quirky sense of humor, so what would I know about cruelty and justice?

Nothing I can possibly do will change a thing. I'm just one of those idiots, right?

I solemnly swear that I'll pay you both my golden and my diamond duck if you tell me I'm wrong. But now I'm telling you, you'd be an idiot if you didn't want my beautiful ducks.

A/N: I'm aware that this story is somewhat...peculiar, even for me. And I'm not sure what triggered me to write this. I was up one night without wifi, holed up in my empty room after a long day of unpacking and assembling furniture, and I just suddenly had a faint idea about my story. And obviously, I couldn't not type it up. I wasn't exactly sleepy either, so that helped. Anyway, I'm not sure what I think of my story, but I know I'd appreciate any reviews! :)