It was another one of the same old drills; sit just so, move just so, hands like this, head like this, smile prettily, now, they mustn’t think you’re rude! He dared to look around the room, aghast at his own audacity to lift his eyes. They mustn’t see him; they wouldn’t give him what he wanted, if they did. Most days, he only let them poke and prod and parade for what was waiting for him upstairs. It was all worth it, once – he had let himself slip. A sharp jab at the base of his spine reminded him of his realities.
He managed.
The evening was over.
Up they went; he never travelled anywhere without his escorts, and much as he hated it, he was used to it now, and didn’t bother. As he was let into his quarters, and the door clicked shut behind him, he lifted his eyes to the reproachful figures he faced.
“You sold out!”
“You didn’t even try…”
“I told you we shouldn’t be relying on this one.”
“Pah!”
They followed him as he turned away and walked to where he really wanted to be. Taunts kept flowing; he had failed, he had submitted, he should repent… But he was used to it. As he drew close to his little desk, he started to feel something akin to panic. He couldn’t see it. It wasn’t there.
He looked around, hoping they hadn’t done what he thought they had.
The room was bare.
They’d tricked him.
It had all been a trick.
One by one the voices fell silent. One by one, they cackled as he absorbed them within his rage; eyes obscured by red as his brain fell silent, letting the pandemonium continue. But it wasn’t chaos anymore, it was structured. There was only one thing they all wanted and they were going to get it.
The door was no match for the anger of a being denied. As he burst through, he heard voices echoing behind him.
“I told you it was a bad idea!”
“Who screwed up?”
“Come back here!”
Nothing worked.
The gathering he had just run away from was still in full swing.
Nobody noticed the small rage-filled figure standing in the doorway till he threw back his head and let rip a wail that would awaken the dead.
The muted, tasteful music was no match for the little boy in his pyjamas. The chattering crowd came to a grinding halt, shooting glances at the mortified parents, embarrassed for them, but unsure how to help.
The flustered parents rushed to the tiny, wailing figure, attempting to pick him up and isolate the problem the best they could. He wailed, he flailed, he didn’t need words. As his parents picked him up and rushed him out of the room, he heard them hissing at his nanny “We told you to keep track of ONE thing…”
It had worked.
Minutes later, he was quiet, and the nanny was looking at another job.
His parents back in the midst of company smiled apologetically “He just can’t do without us, poor lamb. Needs his bedtime story.”
He smiled where he sat, back in his room, his little bowl in front of him, happily licking his spoon clean, his demons snoozing quietly around him.
“Bedtime story? I’d choose chartreuse every time.”
Prompt: I’d choose chartreuse every time
