A Prince's Tale

Chapter One

Yesterday, he was scolded.

…well not really.

More like chided gently, but firmly, by his father for sticking out his tongue to the lecherous paparazzi while shopping at Ed Hardy. He accepts the reprimand, but still feels a dull glow of satisfaction at getting back at them even if it’s just for a little while. For years, he’s had to ‘behave himself’ in public; content to remain behind the scarves and masks so they couldn’t see his face. Like buzzing bees, he can still hear their cacophonous cries: Michael! Michael! Look here! Prince! Prince! Look over here! Over here! Paris! Blanket! Look over here! Over here!

Click. Whirr. Snap. Click. Whirr. Snap. Push. Shove. Push. Shove. Madness! Insanity!

Oh, the claustrophobic crush of society’s insatiable need for sensationalism and tabloid fodder. Finally, he’s old enough to understand why Daddy acts the way he does sometimes. He’s old enough now to understand the power of the media, and their ability to twist things around to satisfy their need to sell such blackened souls to the highest bidder.

There’s going to a lot of things you’ll read when you grow older; so many things that you know are not true. I want you to learn how to deal with them as best you can. It will hurt, and you will cry or get angry, but you must be strong and suffer through it all. As long as you know deep down in your heart that you know the truth…that you ARE the truth…then everything else can be dealt with.

He sighs and thumbs through the book – Plato’s Temperance – the pages swirling faster as he goes back and forth; hardly seeing anything. He knows he’ll probably be scolded again for ‘abusing’ the book like this, but Daddy is currently engrossed in a set of classics at the other end of the large bookstore with Blanket clinging to him like a second skin. Paris is looking through some young adult novels – the romantic mushy stuff – that makes him want to gag, but that’s Paris for you. Little Miss Trying-to-be-Cool.

He purses his lips and places Plato back in its place…and then wanders absently towards the magazine section. He pretends as if he doesn’t really want to pick up anything, but still stops as his gaze drinks in the sight of the bevy of beautiful women on every cover available.

He smiles a little as he notices the gorgeous Beyonce on the cover of Ebony, wearing something gold and sheer (but not too sheer), with her hair seemingly blowing in the wind. Acting nonchalantly (cool), he picks it up to browse through the glossy pages, grateful for the feathered mask that hides the pink hue on his cheeks as he admires her curves. Oh, he likes her music too…a lot, and one of his dreams is to go to her concert and meet her backstage. He’ll probably act like a dork once in her presence, but what the hell…which man in his right mind wouldn’t act like that?

“What are you reading?” comes the soft question that has him tossing the magazine back in place quickly.

“Nothing.” He turns to look at the pink and purple feathered face before him, and the quirk of her lips lets him know that she already suspects. “What are you laughing at?” he mumbles and tries to walk past her. He hates the fact that she can read him so well; a by-product of their many years being ‘alone’ and doing just about everything together. However, as he gets older, he feels a little smothered by her presence – not that he hates or loathes her…he just needs his space sometimes. That’s normal…right?

“Found anything you want, Prince?” his father asks as he walks up to join him by the counter. He ignores the curious (even though they try to hide it) glances from the store owners and cashiers as he shakes his head and shrugs lightly.

“Nothing today, Dad. Did you find what you wanted?”

“Yeah,” comes the muffled reply. He can barely see his father’s face as he has just about everything covered for protection. The black face cap hangs low over his forehead, the sunglasses shielding his weary eyes from the public. The black scarf is wrapped around his head, neck, mouth and nose, and a slightly trembling hand motions for his son to pick up the books and take them to the cashier.

His lips tighten and he struggles to keep his features expressionless, doing as he’s told; yet almost afraid to look at the impersonator that has replaced the once healthy and livelier father he once knew. Ever since his father agreed to do the shows in London, he’s noticed the subtle changes; changes that are becoming more alarming as the days go by. However, he knows better than to voice his opinions on that. His father can be quite stubborn when he sets his mind to it.

By the time they get home (yet another rented mansion), it’s three in the morning. Their late night excursion to the bookstore was a mild success for even though they had thought they had the place to themselves, the lechers had still appeared to take photos of them. With the security now gone, the family prepares for some much needed rest. However -

“Not tonight, honey,” comes the gentle response as he watches his father stoop to Blanket’s level to pat his head gently and place a kiss on his forehead. “Daddy’s too tired.”

“I’ll carry you,” he offers before his kid brother can begin whining again. He expects to be ignored, but surprisingly, Blanket agrees. He holds out his arms and Blanket sinks into them willingly. With a light grunt, he picks up his sibling and for a brief moment, father and oldest son exchange a look as if both realizing that there’s been a subtle shift of power. However, all he receives is a small smile and a ruffle of his hair, before he turns away.

“Is Daddy sick?”

He is surprised at the soft question; always assuming that little Blanket was more happy-go-lucky and carefree than the rest of them. Where is this sudden perception coming from?

“Daddy isn’t sick,” Paris answers as she walks into the room, giving Prince a knowing look that keeps him silent. He watches as she sits on the edge of the bed and tenderly caresses Blanket’s head. “Daddy’s just tired. You know he’s working hard on the upcoming concert, remember?”

“Yay, the concert,” comes the weary, yet excited response. His lashes are growing heavier, but his smile is one that strikes through the older ones hearts. “I can’t wait for the concert. It’s going to be fun, right?”

“You bet it will,” Paris says with a nod. She kisses his forehead and tucks him in. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“My doll…”

Prince picks up the worn half-naked replica of his father from the floor, raises a brow at its sad state, suffers Paris’s warning for him not to make any snide comment, and simply hands it over to Blanket. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shuffles out of the room, but before he can enter his bedroom, he is stopped again by her voice.

“You should check up on Dad.”

“Why me?”

“Because…you know…I can’t deal with it…” she finishes weakly. “Please, Prince,” she pleads when his shoulders – oh, how broad they’ll become when he gets older – stiffens at the desperation in her tone. “Just make sure…”

“Fine,” he nearly snaps and taking a deep breath, he makes a u-turn and heads towards his father’s sanctuary; feeling her eyes boring holes at the back of his head until he approaches his destination.

He looks over his shoulder and is grateful she’s no longer in the hallway. It wouldn’t do for her to see how scared he is; how his hands tremble or how worried he really is. He knows his role as the first born; to be the rock when things seem to be shattering all around them. How many times has he become his father’s spokesman; having to perform and deal with little jobs that he should have been on top of…when things were ‘normal’. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the responsibility, but there are times when he has to remind himself that he’s still just a kid. Some of the decisions he’s been forced to make already -

He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door; and then knocks harder still. However, he’s used to this routine and it doesn’t deter him from opening the door with fingers that feel numb.

Almost immediately, he’s hit with the waft of hot air that has him gasping a little. The bed is unmade and strewn with all the clothes, books and other knick knacks purchased today. There is no sign of his father…at least at first glance, but soon enough he spots the figure slumped in the large leather chair by the window; seemingly dead to the world.

“Daddy?” His voice is weak, and he sounds like he’s six again, but he forces himself to move all the same and kneels beside the chair to peer into the pale – oh-so-pale – visage before him. “Daddy?”

No response.

“I’m going to take you to bed, Dad. You can’t sleep here,” he continues, and with hands that are steady despite the thundering of his heart, he removes the worn loafers and puts them aside. He leaves the socks on and reaches up to tug off the scarf and hat. Gently, he brushes away the damp black locks from his father’s sweaty forehead, and takes off the sunglasses. He notices the redness around the eyes…the long lashes that flutter against his sunken cheeks. He sniffles and curses himself for being weak, but gathering the strength from within, he forces himself to finish the job.

He grunts with the effort as he has to lift his father a little, but he manages all the same and peels off the black blazer; leaving him in nothing but a plain white t-shirt. He debates whether to take off the shirt as well; it’s way too hot in the room, and just as he’s about to come to a decision…

“It’s okay, apple head. I can get up on my own.”

His voice is slurred, thick and disoriented, but Prince steps aside and watches as his father struggles to rise to his feet. He walks behind the older man; watching every shuffle like a hawk ready to pounce at the slightest wobble. He gets his chance when a light trip nearly has him kissing the floor. His young, but strong arms wrap around the frail body; his knees nearly buckling with the effort.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, Dad. Just…we’re almost there, okay? Just a few more steps…here…we…go…”

Another light grunt and he makes sure his father is settled on the King-sized bed that dips beneath his weight. Making sure he’s not likely to fall flat on his face, he runs to the other side of the bed and shoves aside all the books and clothes to make more room for him. He’s sweating profusely now; his Ed Hardy tee now stuck to his back like glue. He blinks away the sweat from his eyes and runs back to the other side of the bed to tuck his father in.

“You okay, Daddy?”

He receives a nod in response, and that’s enough for the boy. He goes about the room fixing up things, and making sure everything looks as neat as possible. In the bathroom, he notices the bottles and his lips firm tightly. He knows his father desperately tries to mask his addiction, but he is perceptive all the same. How can he not be? How many nights has he walked into his father’s room to a sight that nearly has him ripping his hair out? It was that damn trial. That horrible time when everything changed and become so much worse.

He grips the bottle in his hand…tight enough to nearly make it snap in two. He eyes the toilet and contemplates his options; (oh how tempting) and then raises his gaze to the reflection that seemingly mocks him in the mirror.

He’s heard the rumors. He’s heard the jokes. Hell, the damn paps have made it obvious many times already.

Hey, Prince! Who’s your real Daddy? Huh? Who’s your real Daddy? Don’t you want to know who your real Daddy is?

He squeezes his eyes shut and blocks away the jeering voices. I am my father’s son. I am my father’s son. I AM my father’s son!

And he needs me now more than ever.

With silent resignation, for he knows his other option would only get him in trouble, he arranges the bottles neatly and walks back into the bedroom, where he lowers the temperature by just a few degrees.

“Daddy? I’m going to bed now,” he announces quietly, even though he knows he’ll get no response. He walks to the side of the bed, and with hands in his pockets (to control the trembling) he watches his father sleep; an unnatural-induced state that should not be. Oh, how he wishes things could go back the way they used to be; when Neverland was their sanctuary and the evil hadn’t seeped in to ruin things. He raises an arm and wipes his face with his arm, knowing it wouldn’t do to act like a girl when he ought to be a man.

But he can’t help it, for he is still a kid – no…a young man of only twelve – whose love for his father runs deeper than words could ever describe. His father is his world…his life and God knows he would do anything and everything to keep him around for as long as it takes.

And so with a tender kiss placed on his father’s forehead, the young prince gives his final salute to the world-weary king.

“Goodnight, Daddy. I love you…always.”