Chapter One
"Prince Edward, come here right now!" screeches Elizabeth.
I sigh and reluctantly walk to my mother's side.
"Your father has been asking for you the entire morning. The royal physician agrees it would be detrimental to his health if you keep him waiting any longer," my mother says while perfecting the style of her perfect, blonde hair.
"Yes, Mother," I reply politely no matter how rude I inwardly desire to be.
I walk to the King's personal chambers and run a hand through my blonde hair, unintentionally messing it up. I nervously tug on the hem of my navy blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt as I walk through the white tiled corridors. I hear the staccato of my footsteps in synch with the uneven tempo of my heart as I think anxiously about my deathly ill father. I knock quietly on the large, oak door that seems to appear out of nowhere. The sound reverberates throughout the empty halls of the castle. A small, bespectacled man with a wispy, white beard opens the door.
"Prince Edward!" gasps the physician as he slowly beds forward and bows before me.
"Doctor, how is Father?" I ask, desperate for the latest news on my father's critical condition.
Doctor Mitter shakes his head sadly. "Prince Edward, I'm sorry but I believe it is time".
I close my eyes tightly, trying to postpone the tears bound to escape. "Can I see him?"
Doctor Mitter leads me to my father's bed. King Edward the First extends a wrinkled arm towards me, beckoning me to sit beside him on a large bed. I sit down gently as not to disturb the various blankets and pillows. I look into my father's faded blue eyes and grasp his hand tightly; my urgency and desire to spend my last moments with him uncontrollable.
"Son, Edward," croaks my father as he tries to sit up. He falls back down on to his pillows, too weak to hold himself erect. "I love you," he continues. "I know your mother; Queen Elizabeth mightn't always have been faithful to me. I do not hold anything against her for I fear the time is near. Tell her I only did what I feel is correct".
"Father, what do you mean?" I ask, my cheeks reddening and my throat thickening. I blink quickly but the wetness in my eyes escapes.
My father slowly closes his eyes. I lean down over him as he kisses my forehead tenderly. I hold his two, wrinkled hands tightly, terrified that if I loosen my grip I will lose him.
"Father, I love you!" I whisper for what is the last time in my life.
Father breathes heavily, his chest heaving irregularly.
"I love you Edward," Father musters with his last ounces of strength. His hands loosen from mine as I hear his faint breathing cease. Father's expression changes from one of pain and illness to serenity. I hug his motionless body and kiss his cheeks. I understand he's in a better place now; that living inside his disease ridden body was torturous, like an inescapable prison. Doctor Mitter tiptoes quietly to my father's bedside and places his index and middle fingers on the inside of my father's wrist.
"Time of death, one seventeen pm," declares Doctor Mitter as he signs a certificate of death. Doctor Mitter pulls me into a comforting hug. I don't even try to rebuke him for initiating the inappropriate gesture. His small frame and short arms wrapped around my torso are surprisingly consoling. My tears run onto the back of his white doctor's jacket and I back away to reach for a tissue.
"I'll go alert Queen Elizabeth," suggests Doctor Mitter.
I do not object; I continue to gaze at Father's body. My head jerks up as I hear my mother enter. I stand up and walk over to hug her. It may not be what I feel like doing but it is my obligation as her son.
I can see the water in her eyes.
Tears.
My mother, the unfaithful Queen Elizabeth is crying over the death of my father?
My mother an unfaithful whore is mourning over a man she never loved?
My uncaring, lying, joke of a mother is crying over her dead husband?
Rage and fury consume me.
Queen Elizabeth, the woman who caused my father unnecessary heartbreak with all her affairs and relationships, the woman who only cares about her wealth, popularity and gossip she creates.
How could she shed a tear over my father's death?'
How could on single tear of hers compete with the thousands of my late father's?
I pull out of her embrace and back out of the room, glaring at the woman who dares to title herself as a Royal. I run down the many stairs and into the green gardens surrounding the palace. I run faster and faster until my chest hurts and my breath escapes in short spurts. I hear my runners slam down on the gravel in perfect rhythm.
Thud, thud, thud, breathe.
Thud, thud, thud, breathe.
Before father's illness I could never appreciate the beauty of running.
Now, I understand.
I can feel the quietness, the serenity. I am outside running by myself.
No one is ordering me around.
No one is criticizing me.
No one is judging me.
The world is faultless. It's just my body and the gravel. Everything in the world is physical, no emotions can control me. Here, only my instincts reign. People may turn to drugs or alcohol in difficult times but running is my escape. Running clears my mind and places everything in a different perspective when I allow myself to think. When I run, I can remain inside my own bubble forever, a utopia where no one can find me or interrupt me. I run round and round the gardens, following the gravel path to wherever it leads me. I continue running into the sunset.