On the Promontory of a Tyrant
I remember the day with utmost clarity. My claws sank into your flesh, drawing blood. Red, true blood. But was it true? Was it red? Blood is blue within the body. When exposed to oxygen, it becomes red. Are you purple with green dots and a pink mane when not exposed to me? Are you small and scrawny when not around me? You look so big, so strong, so powerful next to me, your scrawny little brother. Is it only my imagination? Are you only outwardly brilliant and gorgeous?
If you're so kindly and generous, why didn't you warn me? Why didn't you warn me of... the pressures of ruling a kingdom?
Others see you as so much. But can you see auras? Did you see right through my ridiculous schemes? Are you some kind of an angel, put on the planet to look out for our pride?
Then why didn't you warn me? Why didn't you warn me that disaster was at hand the moment I threw you from the gorge?
The others think so highly of you. I don't, Mufasa, I don't. Now go sit in a corner and cry, cry like you've never cried before. What will it change, Mufasa? Nothing, through what my damaged eyes can see.
On days of our arguments, you would ask me...
"Scar... why do we have to do this? Don't you remember the past? Don't you remember cub-hood?"
I remember the past, Mufasa. I remember it all. When you and your disgusting hairball Simba were alive, I remembered it too. You used to ask me... ask me if I remembered the cub days. I missed out on family events, I remember the occasions. But what use had I to go? I can hardly be considered a part of your "family". Perhaps you still cared for me, then. Or perhaps you simply didn't want to put yourself up to the terrifying questions of life. Hah! You called me a coward?
You didn't want to have to explain: "Where's Scar?" They would ask. And, "He couldn't make it," would make your reply. "Why not?" They would inquire. And the only thing you could reply would be, "I don't know."
Do you simply not want to put your pretty little body to a test? Are you scared of life's persistent questions, Mufasa? My great, beautiful brother? I may not be mighty, but at least I am not that.
Yes, Mufasa, I remember. I remember the cub days, the days of torture.
I remember the field games. How I would beg to join you and your... gang. I remember how they would explain the game to me... how I would stare blankly. "Do you understand?" They would ask, but I couldn't answer. I would only stand there, unblinkingly. With a shrug, I remember! They would leave! Leave me there! But did I understand? No, I didn't understand! I didn't understand why I was treated so differently! I didn't understand why I wasn't treated like an equal. I didn't understand why life put me on so differently.
Weakened, I was. Treated as less. I was less. If ever I was to fail at "tag" or "capture-the-flag" I would be spat at. I failed constantly. Yes, Mufasa, I remember. I remember the treachery of cub-hood as though it were yesterday.
How I would try. I would try with everything in me. To be better, to be perfect. To be like you. But because I was darker, because I had that scar over my eye, because I was small, because I was scrawny, I could never be the same. Yes, I remember cub-hood, Mufasa.
I was small. Then and now. Small, scrawny, weak, underfed. Weakened. Weakened by hate. Weakened by sorrow.
It's like one day you were my brother... the next my enemy. Of course, in the young days, we had our quarrels, but we were friends! I remember how we stargazed together. How we would gossip, how you would stick up for me. Why did it change so dramatically?
Why didn't you talk to me anymore? Are you really that better than am I? Am I not good enough for you? I remember when you would call me Kivuli, and I would call you Takua. Why has everything so changed now?
You were a prince and I scum. Then you a king, but had I changed? No. That hadn't changed, so why no longer did you call me Kivuli, did you share with me your secrets? I would have been happy still to be your friend...
So now I ask you, Mufasa. Do you remember cub-hood? Do you remember the days of my struggle? Or do you only remember what is of you? Does it not hurt you that there are those under you?
And here I stand; on the promontory, Pride Rock. On my promontory. My promontory. My promontory. My promontory. Mine. Me, the tyrant. And here I stand; on the promontory of a tyrant.