Family, Fiction, Parenting, Relationship and marriage, Writing

Princess

The young woman wanders barefoot through the forest, alone. Nothing is familiar. But she’s brave, fearless and she continues through the verdant surrounds.

It’s beautiful. Quiet. Different to home, where Mummy and Eddie fight all day.

‘Ow!’ She stubs her toe on the root of a myrtle beech; her cry pierces the silence. Sitting down on the undergrowth to survey the damage to her foot, she notices the trunk of the tree is wide and ropey.

Her toe is a bloody mess. The top part of her nail is torn loose. Why the hell did she choose to run away without shoes?

Mummy and Eddie. That’s why.

She couldn’t take their bickering anymore. The lessons. The meetings. Books. Tests. The resistance from Eddie to do anything other than sow his wild oats.

Why can’t she be first in line? She’s better suited to the role; first-born, too. She’s more regal, more glamorous, more popular. The crown would look fabulous on top of her glorious golden, flowing locks—a crown never looks good on a man. Plus, Eddie’s not even remotely likeable. Only gets to sow those oats so women can say they’ve slept with the next monarch.

She rubs her toe. Looks up the trunk. The tree must be at least thirty metres high. Easy to climb, too, with all those branches.

Before she decides against the idea, she’s clambering up the tree, as if she’s four again. She has a dim recollection of doing this with Eddie, at Granny’s country estate. But that was before everything got serious, and they thought they were ordinary children. Rich beyond understanding, yes, but normal.

She’s almost at the top. As far as she’s willing to go anyway. Through the sparse foliage, she can see the castle. Hasn’t gone the distance she’d thought, after all. Squinting her eyes, she makes out Mildred pruning in the south rose garden. There’s the fish pond. The pool to the left.

Maybe she shouldn’t run away. With a jolt, she realises she couldn’t get too far from home without being recognised.

Leaning back, a sense of resignation to her life of privilege, albeit wholly devoid of purpose settles over her like a heavy blanket. She must return, soon, before her presence is missed.

First though, she takes a deep breath, filling her diaphragm. Opens her mouth. Wide. Lets it all out in a loud, proud and cleansing roar.

There now. That’s better. She climbs carefully back down, jumping off the last branch, a metre from the ground. Pain shoots up her calves; she gives each leg a jerky shake, and begins to make her way back to the castle.

A princess she is, after all.

Photo by Pro Church Media on Unsplash

15 thoughts on “Princess”

  1. It’s funny, we det to observe the royals here and you can end up feeling sorry for the female royals, especially. Okay, they have all that ill-gotten wealth, but their only purpose in life is to make babies… It comes as absolutely no surprise that they are fractured.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. We do a fair bit of royal watching here too, albeit not as closely. (I find them fascinating and have a lot of respect for the Queen. Of course I loved Diana and was distraught when she died! Not everyone here is a republican 🀣)
      But you’re right, despite their wealth they can be pretty messed up.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I was meant to go out on a date with somebody on the weekend of Diana’s funeral(?). The girl said “I need to cancel because I need to go up to London to pay my respects”. So I never bothered rearranging, because to have that amount of reverence, for somebody you had no acquaintance with, made me uncomfortable. None of them mean any more to me than anybody else, in fact other people often mean more to me, because of what they stand for. We should adopt a European-style of monarchy, and remove them from any state mechanisms altogether.

        Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.