Chapter 68: Despair

He was a man utterly devoid of dignity, a stark contrast to the regal bearing expected of his station. 

Some days, his attendants were busy chasing after him as he ran naked through the palace, a spectacle of utter disregard for any sense of propriety. 

It was a bizarre, humiliating dance that played out within the hallowed halls, a public unraveling of a mind that once held sway. 

And wouldn’t you know it, fate, in its cruel irony, had dictated that I, his only son, be the one to witness this grotesque display, to bear witness to the full extent of his decline. 

The scene was burned into my memory with an agonizing clarity: his disheveled hair, matted and wild, framing a face contorted by frenzied eyes that darted about, seeing things we could not, reflecting an inner turmoil that consumed him whole. 

I recall the desperate attempts of the attendants, their faces etched with a mixture of exasperation and pity, as they struggled to contain him, to preserve some semblance of order in a world rapidly descending into chaos. 

All of these chaotic elements culminated in that horrifying moment when our paths converged, a collision of his delusion and my stark reality, leaving an indelible mark upon my soul.

“Argon, my only son! How dare that fellow try to stop me. Who am I… What do you have to say…?” 

His voice, a disorienting mix of indignant rage at being restrained and bewildered confusion at his circumstances, pierced through the strained silence of the palace corridor. 

It was a voice that, in a distant, almost forgotten past, once commanded respect, its tone resonant with authority and wisdom. 

Now, it was a mere echo of its former self, a hollow sound, lost in the bewildering depths of his deteriorating mind, a testament to the tragic loss of who he once was.

“Let go of me. I never had such a shameful father,” I retorted, the words, sharp and bitter, a painful taste in my mouth, fueled by years of silent frustration that had festered within me. 

This public humiliation, this constant barrage of embarrassment he consistently brought upon our family, had eroded any lingering sense of filial duty.

My heart, once filled with the warmth of familial love, had hardened into a cold, unyielding stone of resentment, a protective shell against the onslaught of his erratic behavior.

Each incident chipped away at my composure, leaving me more jaded, more distant.

“What? I’m shameful…?”

His voice, surprisingly, held a note of genuine surprise, almost childlike in its innocent incomprehension, as if the very concept of shame was alien to him, a foreign emotion he simply could not grasp.

It was a question that underscored the vast chasm between his distorted reality and the painful, undeniable truth of ours, a truth he seemed utterly incapable of perceiving.

“Look at yourself. How can this be the consort of a nation? Aren’t you sorry to Mother for doing such things?”

The words were flung like daggers, each one laced with the profound pain and burning indignation that had festered within me for so long, poisoning my every thought.

I wanted to shake him, to physically force him to see the profound damage he was inflicting not just on himself, but on our family, on the very fabric of our kingdom.

I yearned to make him comprehend the immense suffering he caused, especially to the woman who, despite everything, loved him unconditionally, a love that was slowly, painfully being extinguished by his actions.

Laughably, perhaps tragically, my father’s face was momentarily tinged with shock upon hearing those words, a fleeting flicker of something akin to recognition, or perhaps just bewildered hurt, surfacing in their depths.

It was a brief, almost imperceptible glimpse of the man he once was, before the madness consumed him.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, plunging him back into the shadows of his delusion, he hunched his body like a wounded beast, retreating further into himself, becoming a fragile shell of the formidable man he once was.

Soon, a wet, sobbing voice flowed out, a desolate sound that tore at the last remnants of my composure, a haunting melody of his inner torment.

“I didn’t want to live like this either. I had dreams too. But those bastards… all of them…”

His voice trailed off, lost in a labyrinth of unfulfilled desires and perceived betrayals, a fractured narrative of a life unlived.

He finally collapsed, a crumpled heap on the opulent palace floor, crying like a helpless child, a broken figure consumed by an unseen torment that clawed at his very being.

Unable to bear his disgraceful behavior any longer, the oppressive weight of his despair pressing down on me, threatening to suffocate my own spirit, I fled the scene as if escaping a suffocating nightmare, the stench of his anguish clinging to me.

And as I ran, my breath ragged, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a dark thought, born of pure desperation and an overwhelming yearning for peace, surfaced in my mind: ‘Please, I wish he would disappear from this world even one day sooner!’

It was a terrible, selfish thought, one that shamed me even as I harbored it, but it seemed, in that moment of profound despair, that his absence would be better for everyone – for him, to escape his torment; for my long-suffering mother, to finally find some peace; and for the fragile stability of the kingdom, which teetered on the brink.

It was a thought born of exhaustion, of seeing no other way out, but one I couldn’t deny.

And, in a twist of fate so cruel, so utterly unforeseen, God, it seemed, heard my earnest prayer.

In a way no one expected, a way that would forever alter the course of our lives.

***

My father took his own life alone in his room, a final, solitary act that sealed his tragic fate, a quiet end to a tumultuous existence.

The news, delivered by hushed whispers and conveyed through the solemn faces of the palace staff, reached me like a death knell, echoing through the empty corridors of my hope.

I heard my mother was the one who first discovered him, a horrifying moment that would forever haunt her, an indelible wound on her very soul.

A chilling dread gripped my heart as I imagined her shock, the indelible image of her beloved husband, lifeless, cold, burned into her mind, a scene that no one, especially not her, should ever have to witness.

Worried about my shocked mother, her well-being suddenly my singular, desperate focus, I rushed to her chambers, my feet pounding against the polished palace floors, each step a testament to the urgency of my fear.

There, I found her, a ghost of her former vibrant self, her spirit seemingly sucked out of her body, leaving behind only a hollow shell.

She was staring blankly into space, completely distraught, her eyes unfocused, devoid of light, reflecting an inner world shattered beyond recognition.

A silent scream, a soundless wail of pure agony, was etched upon her features, a testament to the profound grief that had seized her.

The air in the room was heavy with sorrow, thick with the unsaid, the unspeakable, a palpable weight that pressed down on me.

“M-Mother… Are you alright?”

My voice, usually firm and authoritative, trembled with a raw vulnerability I rarely allowed myself to display, betraying the depth of my fear.

I wanted to reach out, to pull her back from the abyss, to comfort her with a simple touch, but her distant, unseeing gaze made me hesitate, as if she were already too far gone.

Even though my father’s body had been lying on the floor for a long time, removed from her sight, taken away to prepare for his final rest, her gaze was still fixed on the empty air where no one was, as if she could still see him, a phantom presence haunting her vision.

The stillness in the room was profound, broken only by the occasional, heartbreaking catch in her breath, a small, choked sound of her immense pain.

“…Mother?”

I tried again, my voice a desperate plea for her to return to me, to acknowledge my presence, to escape the terrifying solitude of her grief, to somehow re-enter the world of the living.

That day, Mother completely broke down in front of me for the first time. 

The mask of regal composure she had always worn, even in the face of the most daunting adversity, shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces, revealing the raw, fragile woman beneath. 

With a bewildered face, as if she had truly lost everything – her husband, her joy, her very identity, the meaning of her existence – she let out a silent scream, a soundless wail of pure, unadulterated agony that resonated deep within my soul, echoing in the chambers of my own heart. 

It was the most desperate sound in the world, a testament to the profound depth of her anguish, a cry that ripped through the very fabric of my being, leaving me feeling utterly helpless.

Even after the funeral, after the solemn rituals were performed and the awkward condolences offered by courtiers and distant relatives, Mother clung to the coffin and wouldn’t let go, her hands white-knuckled, her grip unyielding, as if it were the only tether to the life she once knew.

It was as if she believed that by holding onto the earthly vessel, she could somehow keep him tethered to this world, to her, defying the finality of death.

She stopped eating, her body wasting away to a skeletal frame, and utterly neglected state affairs, the immense burdens of the kingdom suddenly trivial and meaningless in the face of her personal tragedy.

She was a person who had given up the will to live, her spirit utterly broken, her hope extinguished, leaving behind only an echoing void.

Each day that passed saw her fade further, becoming a mere shadow of the strong, vibrant woman she once was, a painful reminder of what we had lost.

“How could you leave me? How could you abandon me? How could you…!”

Her voice, when it finally came, was a raw, guttural sob, a primal lament that echoed through the quiet chambers, each word infused with unbearable pain.

It was a question directed at the void, at the cruel hand of fate that had snatched her beloved away, leaving her utterly alone in a world she no longer recognized.

“Mother… Please eat something. Something truly terrible might happen if you don’t. If even you leave, what will become of me…!”

My own tears, long suppressed and fought against, finally welled up, blurring my vision, hot and stinging.

The thought of losing her, too, was utterly unbearable, a prospect that filled me with a terror far deeper than any political intrigue.

She was the anchor in my life, the one constant in a world that felt increasingly chaotic and uncertain, and without her, I would truly be adrift.

Her resentful gaze was directed at the one who could no longer respond, at the empty space where my father’s coffin had once been, as if I, standing before her, a living, breathing being, wasn’t even visible to her sorrow-filled eyes.

Her grief had consumed her entirely, creating an invisible, impenetrable barrier between us, trapping her in a solitary world of her own making.

“I will try harder. I will be a son you won’t be ashamed of, so please….”

I pleaded, my voice cracking with emotion, my desperation laid bare, stripped of all regal pretense.

I would sacrifice anything, endure anything, do anything, if it meant bringing her back from the precipice of despair, from the edge of that dark abyss.

Did my plea somehow work?

Was it the earnestness of my words, the raw sincerity of my desperation, or a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of her own tenacious will to survive that remained buried deep within her?

After a few agonizing days, Mother miraculously regained her senses.

The heavy fog that had clouded her mind seemed to lift, albeit slowly, revealing a glimmer of the woman I knew, a spark of recognition in her eyes.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? This mother is alright now.”

Her voice was weak, raspy from disuse, but there was a touch of her former warmth in it, a familiar cadence that brought a fragile hope to my chest.

It was a small, fragile step, a tentative movement forward, but it was a step nonetheless, a sign that she might, just might, return to us.

“I worried a lot, Mother…”

Relief, so profound it almost buckled my knees, washed over me, a wave of pure, unadulterated gratitude.

The tension I had carried for weeks, a constant knot of anxiety in my stomach, began to ease, replaced by a cautious optimism that dared to believe in a full recovery.

Although the sadness and worry hadn’t vanished entirely from her face, a faint shadow still lingering in her eyes, a testament to the trauma she had endured, she was now attending meetings and governing the nation as usual.

Her sharp mind, though bruised and scarred, was slowly but surely reasserting itself, tackling the complexities of state affairs with a renewed, if fragile, determination.

It seemed everything was slowly but surely returning to normal, a semblance of order gradually replacing the chaos that had reigned in the palace and in our lives.

For a very short while, at least, we breathed a collective sigh of relief, basking in the illusion of peace.

***

“What did you just say? What about Her Majesty?”

The attendant’s words, delivered in a hushed, trembling tone, jolted me from my fragile sense of security, instantly shattering the tenuous peace we had found.

A cold knot of unease began to form in my stomach, a familiar dread creeping back into my consciousness.

“Well… Her condition rapidly worsens at night. She’s clearly fine during the day, lucid and engaged, but yesterday she was talking to someone in the empty room…”

The attendant hesitated, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and profound concern, unable to fully articulate the disturbing truth.

It was the room where my father had died. 

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken dread, confirming my darkest fears. 

An ominous premonition instantly swept through me, a cold wave of fear that tightened its grip around my heart, squeezing the breath from my lungs. 

The brief reprieve, the illusion of normalcy, was brutally shattered, replaced by the grim reality that her recovery was, at best, incomplete.

As night fell, a palpable sense of foreboding settled over the palace, a thick, suffocating blanket of dread. 

I, unable to simply wait for more unsettling news, unable to endure the uncertainty, went to the room the attendant mentioned, drawn by an irresistible, terrible curiosity that compelled me forward despite the fear. 

Just as he said, I could clearly hear my mother’s voice, drifting from behind the closed door, a disembodied sound that chilled me to the bone.

Sometimes it sounded like an excited voice reminiscing about happy memories, a ghostly echo of joy that twisted my gut, a painful reminder of what once was. 

Then, without warning, the tone would shift dramatically, and quickly she would scream and argue with someone, her voice rising in a frantic crescendo of anger and desperation, then falling to a desperate, pitiful plea, a raw begging for an unseen entity. 

Later, there were even voices pleading with someone not to leave, a heart-wrenching sound that spoke of deep, unassuaged grief, a yearning for a presence that no longer existed. 

It was a terrifying symphony of sanity and madness, each note a fresh stab to my soul, a testament to the profound psychological torment she was enduring.

“…How long has she been like that?”

I asked the attendant, my voice barely a whisper, a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions raging within me, the fear and sorrow warring for dominance.

“She’s been like that ever since she regained her senses. We thought she would get better after a while, but…”

His voice trailed off, the unspoken conclusion hanging heavy in the air, a shared understanding of the tragic reality that had descended upon us.

The fragile hope that had briefly blossomed within me withered and died, replaced by a bleak acceptance of her deteriorating condition.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, the overwhelming weight of her suffering pressing down on me, threatening to crush my own spirit, I opened the door and entered the room.

The sight that greeted me was both heartbreaking and chilling in its stark simplicity.

My mother was humming a tune, a cheerful melody, light and airy, as if she had never cried, as if her world was perfectly normal, untouched by tragedy.

Her eyes, however, held a vacant, distant quality that sent shivers down my spine, a chilling emptiness that spoke volumes of her detachment from reality.

“Mother… Why are you like this?”

My voice was filled with a desperate plea, a desperate need for understanding, for a return to reality, for some flicker of the mother I knew and loved.

“Your father says he’s bringing me flowers, doesn’t he? Look. So beautiful.”

Mother pointed her hand at the empty air, her fingers tracing shapes only she could see, conjuring images from her fractured mind.

Her face was alight with a strange, ethereal joy, a beautiful, tragic delusion.

And with a girlishly excited face, she accepted something, her hands cradling an invisible bouquet, her movements utterly convinced of its presence.

She burst into a wide, radiant smile at the non-existent person, a radiant, innocent joy that was utterly terrifying in its profound disconnect from reality.

“Thank you, darling. You remembered that I like these flowers. You picked such pretty flowers for me the moment we first met, too.”

Mother said with a smiling face, inhaling deeply as if smelling the fragrant, invisible blooms, her movements fluid and graceful, utterly convinced of the reality of her delusion, her mind a prisoner of its own creation.

“You were special. You instantly recognized my loneliness and solitude that others couldn’t see. And I, too, felt pain in my heart for your deep sorrow. So we were destined to be like this from the very beginning.”

Her voice, though soft and lilting, carried a conviction that chilled me to the bone, a chilling certainty in her delusion.

She was utterly lost in a world of her own making, a world where my father was still alive and well, a world I could not enter, no matter how desperately I tried to reach her.

How did I feel at that moment?

It was as if someone had brutally stabbed my heart with a knife, twisting the blade, tearing at the very core of my being, shredding what little hope I had left.

My hollow chest couldn’t be filled, an aching void that seemed to expand with each passing second, and invisible drops of blood, a testament to the profound pain I felt for her, for us, for the shattered remnants of our family, fell from my wounded spirit.

But I couldn’t break down as well. If I succumbed to despair, if I allowed myself to be consumed by the grief and the madness that threatened to engulf us, then who would take care of Mother? 

The thought jolted me, pulling me back from the brink of my own emotional collapse, forcing me to find strength I didn’t know I possessed. 

I had to be strong, for her sake, for the kingdom, for the sake of what little normalcy we had left. 

I desperately suppressed the tears that threatened to burst out, hot and stinging, choking back the sobs that clawed at my throat, threatening to overwhelm me.

“Mother, please… come to your senses. Father is dead!” 

The words were a desperate plea, a harsh, undeniable truth I forced upon her, hoping it would shatter the illusion that held her captive, that it would bring her crashing back to reality, no matter how painful that reality might be.

At that one word, “dead,” her joyful laughter abruptly ceased, as if someone had cut it off with a sharp, invisible knife. 

The joyful light in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a profound, heartbreaking sadness.

Mother slowly turned to look at me, her gaze no longer vacant, but filled with a heartbreaking mixture of disbelief and raw pain, a glimmer of awareness.

Her eyes were filled with tears, though her widely upturned lips, still fixed in a faint, unsettling smile, betrayed the profound disconnect between her outward appearance and her inner turmoil, a tragic mask.

“No, Allen. That can’t be. Your father is right there, isn’t he? He’s smiling at me like this even now?”

Her voice was soft, fragile, a desperate whisper of denial, a fragile hope clinging to a ghost.

The tears in her eyes overflowed, tracing paths down her pale cheeks, leaving shimmering trails of sorrow.

My eyes began to well up again, the raw emotion in her voice infecting me, threatening to break my resolve, to drag me down into the depths of her despair.

My heart ached and tormented me endlessly at the sight of my mother like that, so utterly lost, so deeply wounded, a queen stripped of her sanity.

This is what despair is called.

This suffocating, all-encompassing agony that tightened its grip around my very soul.

Perhaps I am being punished for my ill will, for that terrible wish I harbored for my father’s swift departure, for thinking thoughts I shouldn’t have, for my moments of weakness and resentment.

That must be why it’s so painful, this slow, agonizing dissolution of the woman I love, a torment that feels like an eternal punishment.

“I don’t see anything. It would be the same no matter who you called. There is no one there, Mother, only you and I. This is the painful reality we must face, the truth we must accept, no matter how much it wounds us. So please… face reality, Mother.”

My voice was a desperate plea, a raw outpouring of my own pain, as I reached out to her, my hands trembling, hoping to pull her back from the abyss she had fallen into, to bring her back to the world of the living.

I grasped her hands, cold and trembling, and held them tightly, as if my grip could somehow anchor her to the here and now, to the tangible world.

The scent of roses, fading now, mingled with the faint, metallic tang of her tears, a melancholic perfume filling the air, a haunting reminder of love and loss.

Each breath was a struggle, each word a monumental effort against the rising tide of sorrow that threatened to engulf us both, to drag us both into the darkness.

But I would not let go. I would not give up on her.

Not now, not ever.

The immense weight of the world, of her fragile sanity, rested heavily on my shoulders, a burden that threatened to crush me, but I would bear it, for her, until my last breath.