EchoShe stood beside him in the school hallway. Every morning she saw him, she felt a sting in her chest. It had begun as a thrill, a rush of excitement and simply joy for the sight of him. Then feelings of dread and worry had started to cast a shadow over them, slowly consuming whatever pleasure she took of it. Ever since it started happening. Ever since he got sick. When the mirrors got him.
She had curled her hair. Penelope always had curly hair, and Alice had always had, when they were together. Although he had never taken girls seriously. He didn't look at her. He didn't look at people anymore. He was glancing at the dark window, at his own reflection. A pale, gaunt figure covered by layers of clothing stared back at him with dark shadows under its eyes and cheekbones. She knew it wasn't what he saw. Reflections lied to him. They had betrayed him.
He looked at them the same way she looked at him. The same joy and admiration transforming into stress, fear and worry. But above all else,
The Tale of the Mourning KingThere once was a wise, good happy king
Whose kingdom flourished every way
In the castle joy and laughter did ring
Yet it all changed one day
The king awoke mournful and silent
"What is your sorrow, what is all this?"
Asked his daughter, the princess twin
"It is my sorrow, I have seen all there is.
In south, their birds speak, not sing
In north, a spit in the air will freeze
In west a horse was named a dean
And in east their goats climb trees
What could there be I have not seen?"
So thus the princess begun a great tourney
Prizing a golden horse for the one to show
What the king had not seen in his journey
Yet came nothing the king had not known
One day came a rover, rugged and thin
Who to the gatekeeping guards did grin
"Let me pass, for I shall be the one to win"
Confused, the guards did let him in
Before the king, gave the rover a bow
The queerest thing the king had seen since
"What do you have, that I do not know?"
"For that, my lord, I must ask for the prince."
The prince arose, and
One hundredI never planned to become this old. Though obviously, through my years I have come to find, that reality has little interest when it comes to the plans of human beings. When I was young, I was convinced I was old and hoped to die young. I'm not sure whose fortune it was that I happened to be a coward and managed to avoid such a fate. I spent several decades marvelling at how much of an idiot I was, but later on I have realised that during those years, I was an idiot too. I began to doubt all my thoughts, and then on decided to stop thinking. A waste of good time, that was.
I suppose it's natural, but time does seem to speed up as it goes on. I guess the old simply won't need as much of it as the young do. It feels when I was the age of my grandchildren, there was never enough time, and each moment of it that passed was wasted. What a horrible crime it felt like, back then.
I could never forgive myself. That I wasn't talented, smart, or handsome. It truly was a crime, being human. Or wo