With nothing but an apple in his hand, the boy slouched his thin back against the wall of the dirty slums. Just a mere week ago, or maybe two, he would have shuddered at the connection between him and the grimy surface. Or maybe even at just the mere thought of it. Things change though, as did the purple clothing resting on his skin and the dark brown hair on top of his head. Once upon a time, he was neat, pristine, a well-kept object to be admired and to generate pride. Things change, as his tattered purple clothing would have caused his father to gag at its unkemptness, and his disheveled hair would have earned him a generous slap from his mother.

The dirt rubbed off the boy's hands and onto the green apple's shining surface. He thought of germs and diseases, things that must run rampid in the streets. His mother always told him how fortunate he was, born in a pristine place where good health was almost a guarantee. Covered in the filth of his surroundings, the boy felt naked and exposed. Defenseless against slime of all sorts, he felt doomed to die tomorrow. Yet, his care on the matter was beginning to deplete, as he bit into the tainted apple with the hesitance of a starved dog. Here, alone and small, he could crunch as loudly as he wanted without the agitated side glances of those around him.

There were no eyes on him, the boy thought. It was a foreign relief. Yet, it was soon broken apart, cracked like glass, all due to bitter reality. He heard the sound of shuffling, a person repositioning themselves. He raised his head to face the opposing wall of the dimly lit alleyway, and caught the sight of a slowly rising man previously deep in slumber. He was elderly, that much was clear. Soot and grime covered his face. Regardless, the deep wrinkles etched into his skin couldn't go unnoticed. He pulled off the shredded blanked which previously rested on his side, and sat up with a grunt. His blue eyes glimmered brightly in a way only old eyes could, their focus beginning to center on the unfortunate boy. A tingle of discomfort shot down the boy's spine, yet he didn't let his unsettlement reveal itself. It was against everything he was taught.

As the young and old soul made direct eye contact, the boy falsely put a petite smile on his face. He wasn't going to say a word though. Not until he was spoken to.

But the older man didn't speak a word to him, yet did not avert his gaze. The air became still as the boy strained himself to continue to smile, though there was little for him to actually smile about. Like a challenge, the man did not back down, did not speak, waiting to see if the boy would make a move of any sort. As the seconds rolled past, and the boy's silent expression still a constant, the man eventually gave in.

"Ya' know, the look you're givin' me is kinda creepy, kid," the man criticized.

"Oh," the boy answered. "My dearest pardon, and my greatest apology. I grant my most sorrowful regrets."

"Ya mean you're sorry," the man asserted.

"Unquestionably affirmative," the boy noted.

"Ya mean yes," the man asserted.

"Unquestionably affirmative," the boy repeated.

The man took a short pause to analyze the boy's speech, before he cracked up into a chuckle. "That speech. That clothing on ya. You were well off, weren't ya?"

The boy's gaze shifted to the wealth displaying fabric covering his thin physique, a dead give away of his previous wealth. The elegant color, a shiny look, a soft touch, it was what most people couldn't have even dreamed of wearing. Yet here he was, as out of place as a bruised and battered thumb, yet still too grimy to walk among aristocrats. "I cannot deny such a truth," the boy answered.

"The true words of silver spoon baby, yes yes," the man noted, before beginning to speak with a mocking tone. "Whaddya doin' here, with commoners? Shouldn't you be enjoyin' your perfect lil' life above us folks?"

"... I do not favor that phrasing. My apologies," the boy spoke, a hint of shameful shyness creeping into his voice.

"You're sorry! Ya sorry!" The man began to let out a hefty laugh, opening his mouth to expose his crooked, yellow teeth. A few of his bottom teeth were missing. "How funny! Such a damn prissy people pleaser! Ya should call me on my bull, like a man! Never too young to start!"

The boy eyebrows raised, as he leaned his head forward. "Pardon my minor assessment on your choice of speech, but I inquire. What do you mean... bull?"

"A lil' ignorant, are ya? Pleasure of the youth of the wealthy. Ya see, I'm talkin' nonsense. The nonsense of a perfect lil' life. No one got a perfect life, that be a myth! I'm sure you could tell me all about it," the man insisted.

"I wouldn't perform such a troublesome thing, like bother you with the botheration of-" the boy began to explain.

"Nonsense," the man interrupted. "I wanna hear ya story."

"A tale of my own telling?" The boy asked, not quite understanding the man's inexplicable interest in his affairs.

"A good tale, or whatnot," the man asserted. "I'll take any entertainment I can get my hands on, I can't exactly afford anythin' fancy. Just tell it good."

"Tell it... well?" The boy asked.

"Well an' good," the man answered. "Add a lil' flare. Amuse me."

The boy's reasoning faltered, unsure of what exactly to do in this situation. Tell a story. His story? His story has taken a drastic turn for the worse, and invaded every other thought that entered his head. Though it was a quiet focus he had, as he never spoke of the story to another soul. The idea of releasing the burden he's carried on his back silently throughout his travel, he couldn't help to admit that such a thing was enticing. And after all, it would be impolite to reject the man's request.

Tell it with a little flare? The boy wondered if he could manage that task. He had no idea what exactly the man expected from him, but still, he thought he may have a way to tell his story in a unique fashion. He slowly placed the partially eaten apple onto the ground. Reaching into the back pocket of his worn pants, he pulled out the only true "toys" he has ever possessed. Four flat pieces of paper, frayed at the edges, cut out into a human shape. They were stuck onto short wooden sticks, as thin as straws, allowing them to be held up like puppets. Paint decorated their bodies and faces. The smallest paper puppet, resembling the boy who held it, was painted to possess a purple tunic and neat brown hair. Keeping his hand on the puppet that mimicked him, the boy rested the other three on the pavement beside him, as if they were to wait for a signal to join the performance.

"This is me... or rather, this is Clyde," the boy said. He stretched out his arm and held the puppet forward. "Clyde was entitled from youth. A princeling. A beaming display to be showcased, yet a danger to reputation."

The boy picked up a second puppet with his free hand, and held it beside the mimicking puppet. This puppet was a bit larger than the first. It was painted to wear clothing the same shade of purple, but unlike the first, its hair was painted to be messy and blonde. "Clyde wasn't a solitary soul, you see," the boy continued. "He had a big brother, who was in his late teenage years. This big brother, Claude, was good-humored. A bit disconnected but even-tempered. He possessed an affection for thrill and amusement."

The old man nodded his head as he listened, slowly processing the words of the child in his head. "A careless fellow. Laid back but fun-loving."

"Unquestionably affirmative," the boy answered.

"Ya mean yes," the man said.

"Unquestionably affirmative," the boy answered. "Moving forward, Claude was always present for little Clyde. They would participate in entertaining activities, playfully mock one another. And no matter what event took place, no matter what happened, Claude always made sure Clyde was okay. But Clyde was okay. Claude wasn't."

The boy kept his grasp on the blonde puppet, but set aside the mimicking puppet. With his now empty hand, who picked up the two remaining puppet, one male, and one female in appearance. The male was rugged in appearance, painted to have puffy white hair and a long beard. Its clothing was painted a bright red, which matched perfectly with the dress of the female puppet. The female puppet had a divine look, yet still showing a hint of age, and was painted to have brown hair that barely touched her chin.

"Their father and mother, Constantine and Azalea, faced no troubles when it came Clyde. He did precisely what was requested of him, so they were able to ignore him easily. He was a burden-free existence for them. But Claude, he didn't do a thing right," the boy explained.

The boy began to shake the hand that held the rugged and lady puppet, as he raised his voice. "All the time they would yell. Sometimes it was 'Claude! Stop speaking like a penniless schmuck begging on the side of a dirt road! Have you never learned better English?' Or other times it was, 'Claude! Would you clean up for once? Your ugly hair looks like it's been chewed on by a camel!' Some days it was even, 'Damn it, Claude! You messed up that... that important event! And you couldn't even do it while walking up straight? You just had to slouch like a caveman?'"

The boy caught his breath, but did not stop wildly shaking the rugged and lady puppet. "And it was always, oh it was always, 'Claude! You little snot of a brat! You God forsaken hellion! You wretched devil! You worthless piece of crap! You lowlife!"

Exhausting himself by shouting out only a sample of the insults he had once heard continuously, the boy finally lowered his shaking hand and released a heavy sigh. He wasn't the one who had to wear those defaming titles on his shoulders, but his heart did once ache as he watched someone else struggle under the weight of the burden.

"That's what they always said. They couldn't polish him to perfection, no matter how much they exerted themselves. Claude, see, he was firmly adamant. His will was durable," the boy explained. "And his parents... they despised him for that trait. Regardless, they... carried on. Despite all the hatred, and all the frustration, and all their words and shouts, they lived with it. They... tolerated him. But..."

The boy took an abrupt pause, his eyes focusing on the blonde puppet. The old man, invested in the presentation, began to show a hint of impatience.

"But?" The man asked.

"Oh. I offer my most solemn repentance," the boy responded.

"You're sorry," the man corrected.

"...I'm sorry," the boy echoed.

Another short moment of silence was exchanged between the two, accompanied with an uncomfortable and nerve-wracking exhibit of eye contact. The boy did not recoil, keeping his eyes locked on the man, until the hypnotizing quiet was finally broken.

"Continue," the man said.

"My... I mean I'm sorry," the boy said in a whisper, before clearing his throat. "But one day, things became horrid."

"How bad it get?" The man asked.

"Real miserable," the boy answered. "There was an evening where Claude snuck out with a... maid he really...respected. When Constantine and Azalea discovered his absence, they were enveloped in such a vigorous rage. That was, admittedly, customary. When he got back, though, Claude wasn't his typical self. His behavior was peculiar. When Constantine caught the taboo scent of alcohol, he simply... lost all restraint."

The boy took the blonde, rugged, and lady puppet, and slid them behind his back. Once they were hidden from sight, he took his two hands, balled them into fists, and began to bang them on the wall he leaned on. "Constantine dragged his son into a closed off quarter. Azalea trailed him. The door was sealed, no one could see what was unraveling behind. But everyone heard shouting, banging, a crash or two. I was... I mean Clyde."

The boy picked up the mimicking puppet, but didn't present it to the man. He held it within his own lap, looking down at his small craft with a somber taste staining the end of his tongue. "Clyde was outside that door, as well. He couldn't make any action, he couldn't do a thing. He couldn't comprehend a thing."

"Ain't sound like an easy thing for a kid to wrap his head around, eh?" The man commented.

The boy agreed with a nod for his head. "It was like a stress collecting on top of everyone's backs, ready to break everything apart. After that day, everything just dove deeper into a horror. There was no tolerance, no patience any longer. After a long time of frustration, Constantine and Azalea just... imploded. They made Claude's life a living hell, and slowly drove him to a boiling point."

The boy took the mimicking puppet he held, and leaned it against the wall, propping it up as if it were an observer. He reached behind his back and grabbed the lady puppet, then propping it up beside the mimicking puppet, forming a small audience. The two remaining puppets, the rugged and the blonde, he grasped with each of his hands. He held them apart, and winced. This part of the story, it made his stomach begin to flip.

"Claude decided to confront the two monarchs, though his timing was poor. Constantine was flooded with troubles, and Azalea. Well, Azalea simply wished not to hear a single word from him. Despite those truths, Claude continued to press them, and yell out all of his anger. Clyde watched it all happen," the boy choked. "But he couldn't do a thing."

The boy paused for an answer, any word of recognition from the man. There was none. He didn't wait for a signal to continue.

"Constantine, he became engulfed in pure rage. And he stood up on his two feet and... got physical. He was a tad senile but... a mountainous man. A man who could be remarkably terrifying," the boy spoke as his voice grew weaker and weaker. "Claude tried to fight back but... weaponless, there was very little he could do against his enormous adversary. Azalea just watched. Clyde cried and screamed, but no one aided him. No one aided Claude. It was a lonesome disaster."

The boy began to continuously bash at the blonde puppet with the body of the rugged puppet, a bit of sweat building on the back of his neck as his muscles tightened. "It was one-sided. There came a point where Claude should have just accepted defeat and begged for mercy. Claimed in a yelp that he was regretful. Or something. But he didn't. He struggled and struggled, he fought back, until he was able to grasp the handle of something deadly."

In a sudden motion, the boy threw the rugged puppet to the ground. He jabbed at its paper skin with the stick attached to the blonde puppet. "A sword," the boy muttered. "Sharp enough to easily pierce through Constantine's flesh. A single jab was all it took, right in the chest. The man, he screamed and coughed up blood. He knew he was about to die, it was clear, and he knew it was at the hands of his son."

The boy slowly raised the blonde puppet, leaving the rugged puppet to lay flat on the ground. "Everyone was in horror. The killer himself was in horror and likely denial. Without so much as a 'farewell', he fled. He ran at a more rapid pace than any rabbit I have ever witnessed."

He tossed the blonde puppet to the side, the object landing about a foot away in distance.

The old man across from him remained dead quiet.

"A king was dead. Things launched into a turmoil of grand proportions. Azalea was furious... the only person she truly cared about was dead." The boy picked up the lady puppet, as his face began to scrunch up in anger. "So she called upon all the guards, and anyone else of authority. She said, 'find him! Find my cursed, deviant son! Make sure he's alive, though, I don't want him dead just yet. I want to watch him hang! I want to watch him die!'"

The boy's hands began to tremble with an intense flame building in his chest. He began to rip at the lady puppet, tearing it apart with a feverish desire of its destruction. His motions were wild, almost barbaric, as he even pulled at the paper with his teeth. "'Find him!' She just kept shouting, 'find him!' Then it was 'oh, alas! My poor husband! My poor dear king!' I bet if you asked her my name, she wouldn't be able to answer! I didn't exist! I was alone! All alone, and she didn't care! It was all about Constantine! It was all about my stupid father! And it was all about some stupid revenge about the one person who actually gave a damn about me! She wanted to take that person away from me! That... stupid!"

The boy's wails reduced to hefty breaths, as he dropped the remains of the lady puppet. The story, his performance, it was done. It crumbled, pieces chipping off bit by bit, just as his life has. He was left in a pitiful state in front of this stranger, whose name he didn't even know. What should he feel? Embarrassed? Should he cry? Does he have to inform this man about everything now? His fruitless search for his brother? The abandonment of the life he knew? Does he have to tell him about every emotion?

"A royal pain, right?" The man simply asked.

"W-what?" the boy asked.

"A total royal pain this all is, right?" The man asked.

"Yes," the boy said.