Call all your friends
And tell them you're never coming back
'Cause this is the end
Pretend that you want it, don't react
The damage is done
A monster. That was what they had always called him. At first, the peasants that he tried to protect, he had done so successfully during the Battle of Blackwater. Instead they rewarded him with insults, mud and spreading cruel lies about his heritage as well as his claim to the throne, denying that it even existed. He had tried to rule like his father had asked of him ever since he had passed away, leaving a dark and torn hole in Joffrey's chest. He had tried, but he had failed. That was what people assumed that he did, all he had ever wanted was to achieve what Robert had wanted for him.
All his life, he had lived in the shadow of his father, trying to live up to what the man would see as positive, wanting to become something, become someone of importance to him. It had been worthless tries, he had kept failing because all he received was mockery and neglect. Robert had seen him as someone barely worthy to rule in his stead. All Joffrey had ever received from his father was a cold glare, insults or the harsh punch from a thick fist. It had not been what he had achieved and fought for during his childhood, and it still haunted him in the shape of memories. Memories of a forgotten and cruel childhood, memories of a father that was never there. Memories of his own journey into the darkness. He lost himself and would never ever come out.
Friends, they did not exist. He had none. His siblings were barely images, frames reflecting his own jealousy as they had sinned from the beginning when they were born. They had taken his mother from him, forcefully ripping her love, caring and attention from him to instead focus on them. Therefore, his hatred burned towards them, and he would not forget. He was not one who forgot, because neither Tommen nor Myrcella would ever feel or experience how it would be to live with an enternal anger, growing itself bigger each day, or the fact that he was doubting every choice or action he made, both as king and not.
Love. It didn't exist in his world either. Sansa Stark, she had only been some kind of play thing for him, it had lasted as long as possible but she bored him. Those wide open doe-like eyes, filled with tear and her mouth, begging him for mercy to not kill her father or to spare the rest of her family members. He had made them all go away, in order to torment her, humiliate the girl so he could show his power for once. Probably believing that his father would have loved it, because Robert would have. Or would he? Joffrey didn't know, and he didn't know if he even had the ability to love as well.
The Tyrell girl, he only felt attraction towards her. Physical. All of those different kinks that he had, it was so imaginable for him and possible as well to notice the beautiful rose in his dreams, tied up like quarry. She was to be bloody and shouting, begging him for mercy. Just as those prostitutes which he had received from his uncle. He had used them well, just as asked of him. He couldn't feel any kind of affection towards the Tyrell girl. Margaery, he was to marry her. Or well, he should have married her. He should have ruled for long as he wanted, but now it was just a fragment. It was a dream, a lost memory that would never ever become real or true, because right now, he was fighting for his life.
The wine, it had to be the wine. It couldn't have been the pidgeon pie,he had felt nothing by then. But when the wine had poured itself down his throat and the last croaked words; "It's nothing", had left his lips, Joffrey knew that he had become poisoned. His own hand struggling, shaking to reach his throat, to touch and grasp. It had to be a lie, he couldn't die like this, poisoned like some weakling. He didn't want to die.
But it was too late. As fast as he felt the bile emerge from the throat along with a crimson fluid, was it blood?, he knew that he wouldn't be able to struggle for his life. Two forms running for him, a flash of golden. It had to be his uncle Jaime, the kingsguard fighting to save his, his king's life. The second one being his mother, her eyes filled with tears and her lips constantly calling his name, trying to save him by just screaming and shouting. The turmoil was locked inside of him, as he tried to meet her gaze, croaking, gasping. But it was too late.
It was becoming darker. What did he feel? A hint of remorse, regret. Himself pointing at his uncle, it had to be the imp who had done it. Him and his traitor wife. For once in his life, the king could feel the fright, the exposure like if he was naked in the dark with all of the peasants watching him, laughing at him. It was almost the same with his trashing body in his mother's grasp, the people watching. They did nothing. Just as he had said that it was nothing. For now when he was lying there, he could see them as clear as possible. The tears, those in his mother's eyes.
Cersei weeped for him, and he wanted to tell her that he would be fine, that he would survive his wedding and kill the one responsible for the try of assassination. But instead it had all began to blur away, it was darker each second. His heart pounding slower and slower, like the dimishing pounds from a drum. His eyes closing, the coughing beginning to diminish as well.
A last thought before it all turned black, before he felt himself fade away and before all the memories became lost, before they faded away.
Mother, help me.
You're losing your memory now
You're losing your memory now