The old king was dead.  For one short-lived, glorious moment, I was king.  In my little fiefdom, my subjects hung on every words, and in this little kingdom, I didn’t have trouble explaining anything for once.

“The most important thing about passing half guard is to prevent your opponent from getting on his side.  The first thing to do is to drive your head and shoulder into him to flatten him out.  To do that, you first place your head right next to his and–”

“Wait, you’re supposed to put it on the other side.”  An insurrection, one that I wasn’t able to put down.

“B-but that’s what I was taught.  That’s what Tim told me.”  It wasn’t enough to save me, not against nobility of higher rank and aptitude.  My castle was crumbling.  I sat at the sidelines as they all swarmed in, joking and shouting loudly and boisterously.  In my castle.  Throwing their belongings down, putting their feet up on the furniture, sitting on my throne.  “Wait…I know you.  You’re my ally, surely you’ll help me.”

No, you can’t leave me.  You can’t take my kingdom away from me.  But no, we were never meant to be kings.

* * *

You can’t escape the destiny that you create.  And when I dream, even during a 20 minute nap, I relive every painful regret in slow motion while begging myself to wake up.


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