To Kill A King

I collapse onto the chair, as I stare at the walls, brown and rough. String of rope, fastened to each side, torn, handmade clothes hung to dry. Wiping the sweat off my face, I take a deep breath, ready for my next shift in the afternoon. Morning to night, I work three jobs. Sweat and tears were better than starving on the streets with my baby girl. I glance at her, playing on the rugged mat, with a disheveled doll. Tangled dark hair, just like her father before he passed away, with my hazel eyes. Blanche. The one and only person to light up my day. Keep me fighting through the nights.

“Mary will come over soon. Mummy needs to go to work.” She doesn’t like Mary, the nanny, but it’s better than nothing. I give her a kiss, then head out the patched-up curtains, wearing my long sleeved blouse and apron. The air is stuffy. Suffocating, in summer heat. I squint at the little white object, sticking out like a sore thumb among our dead vegetable patch. My eyesight is a constant worry. Worsening ever so slightly, another thing to add to my plate of worries.

I pick it up. An envelope. Shining white, unlike the brown paper bags of the typical slum-dwellers. I flip over to the back. To Pandora Leitrhal. I scan over to the back. Nothing. I open up the letter. Written in aristocratic handwriting. Cursive, sloping to the right, on crisp white paper. I stare at my hands. Feeling filthy, against the letter.

Dear Ms. Leitrhal,

I am writing to give you an offer. Despite your lack of knowledge, I am aware of your situation. Your struggles and constant exhaustion. So I have kindly put together a request. In exchange of one million dollars, I would like you to pose as a maid. I have prepared a bottle of poison, ready for the event. On the Sunday night, take the bottle, walk up to King Abner’s room, then pour the contents of the bottle into the gold flask.

Wait for him to arrive. Then offer him the flask. After he drinks it, he will be unable to recognize you. Unable to think clearly. And here is where I come in, through the window, carrying a sword. And a knife for your peasant hands. Together, we’ll take pleasure in killing the king.

When he is dead, and we are both satisfied, I request you return back to the slums. Return to your ordinary life, until King Abner’s death is announced. I will offer you the money. Take you out of the slums, then we will forget about each other, as I become King.

Leave a note at 17 Criste Avenue, hidden in the gardens, if you accept this offer. Do not knock on the door, as it is not my place. If you choose not to accept it, dispose of this letter immediately. Shred it. Burn it. Anything, until it is gone, and we shall forget about this.

Sincerely,

X.

I fold up the letter and shove it behind a small shrub. Being late for work meant getting fired. With money being tight, I couldn’t risk it.