Writing after so long feels good. It gives me something to do in the tedious hours spent inside of my cell. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate, as I am not lacking in certain comforts such as food or water, things that may seem so common most days, but when you are a prisoner, seem worth their weight in gold.
But I am a prisoner, a comfortable one, but a prisoner nonetheless. The only interactions I have with the outside world are the moments when the guards come to deliver my meals and by the window leading outside. It has no physical means of restraining me on the inside, as it doesn’t need them. I will be free if I go through it, but a short freedom that will be, with forty meters of nothing but air welcoming me with its gelid embrace.
But I digress… even though these are to be the last records of my brief existence on this world. Nothing was said yet, but after the intricate bureaucratic processes of my trials come to an end, I’ll be sentenced without doubt. All that is left to decide is whether I die by an axe or am hanged.
The reason for that, you ask? Well dear reader, that’s because I committed a crime, of course! I mean, as far as I was concerned, the Armycian Empire was a bureaucratic hell that was starting to wear down by its corrupt politicians and lack of growth, but it had considerably fair laws… if you were a true citizen, of course.
And on the eyes of its boringly complicated and extraneous laws, I was a criminal. If you were to ask someone from other nations, like the Springwood Islands or the Holy Kingdom of Mikoto, they opinion may differ. But what matters is that I am a criminal in the Empire, without a single shade of doubt.
Not afraid of sounding repetitive, but whether or not I did something wrong wasn’t something up to debate, but rather how they would chop my head off. Of my three defenders at the trials, one was trying to give me something painless like having my head chopped with a sword, nice and clean, while other tried to be more realistic and get my head chopped by a blunt axe. The third one… I’m not even sure what he does aside from drinking, really.
I’ve been on and on about me being a criminal, but what was my crime? I could end everything right here and simply inform you reading these pages, which I doubt will survive my unfortunate demise, and be done with it. But I won’t do it. You want to know why?
Because if I did, I would lose the only way to prevent myself from jumping out my window out of sheer boredom.
Not the best reason, I know, but… maybe I also want to leave something behind in these words of black ink. I want someone, anyone at all, to know the story. My story. How my life was over before I saw my nineteenth summer. How it came to that point of no return. I want to look back and wonder, as we humans love to do so much, the many “what if’s” left behind.
I have some time before leaving this world, so I want to fulfil this one last wish of mine. I know these notes will serve to brew some nice batch of tea, or maybe even cook a tasty stew, but I’ll do it. And who knows? Maybe these pages survived the relentless wheel of time and found its way to your hands, my beloved reader. I think I would like that, imagining a stranger’s hands crossing the small valleys left on the paper long after I died gives me a warm feeling.
As I said, this is the story how I became a criminal. Some may find it sorrowful, others will find it absurd, while there will certainly be those who think I’m lying to take away the blame for what happened. Rest assured that I do not plan to make things sweeter than they were. I’ll only inform you of the utter and absolute truth.
So begins the tale of the Prince of Lies.