I Dream

Chapter Zero

Have you ever had a dream that you weren’t the dreamer? Or fallen in love with your own unconscious crazy? If you know how it feels to be woefully lost and unintelligibly happy, if you can comprehend an incomprehensible bliss that feels like dying, then welcome to my life. I awaken each morning in another world.

It was just another evening. That night that I met him, I don’t remember how I got to be sitting at that particular booth in that particular club, drinking that particular cranberry juice that sits so tart in the back of your throat it makes your eyes blink and tear up. I swear I wasn’t crying.

I can’t really tell you what caught his attention. I doubt it was my disheveled hair or my guitar case taking up a seat in a crowded bar. I guess it could have been my mariachi outfit from some gig work or whatever, but I think in the end it doesn’t matter. He saw me, and I him. And though I’d never seen him, I knew him, and in that moment, I knew. He was unique, and I’d never see anyone like him again.

We talked until the bar was empty, past last call, and closer to when they turned out the lights and chased us out with brooms. The night air was brisk and chilly, but his smile warmed me. I can’t remember what we talked about as we walked along—something about buses and taxis and every form of transport that we couldn’t find at this time. I was so happy I thought I was drunk. Thinking back, I forgot my guitar in the bar, not that I was ever any good at it, except when later, I played for him.

It had to be around 2:00 a.m. when we passed the library, an odd time for a library to be open, but there it was, open and busy. We walked through together and discussed our mutual love of reading, but it was the restricted section that caught his attention. It wasn’t hard to sneak past the archaic librarian, whose slumber and waking were nigh indistinguishable, and whose age rivaled that of stone, bronze, and industry. It was in a dark room where sat a box of old letters, letters from an older time, when England was young. It was in a wooden box with a long-forgotten seal, in an envelope sealed with a royal emblem. It was a picture, a picture of a monarch of a time long past, a picture of me.

Funny I don’t start my story here. Funny I start it with him.

Chapter One

An old king stands on the highest balcony of his castle, looking over his unending lands. He sighs, sinking heavily. For questions unanswered, I would give it all. In the far distance banners flew, the colors of our bravest knight arriving. This should call for celebration, but my father’s heart was broken and there was a knowing, in my soul, that it was my fault.

Adjusting his robe, my father turns to me, barely meeting my gaze. It cuts deeper than if he has spoken words of disappointment; it cuts deeper than if, in that last two years, he has spoken to me at all. And we used to be so close, as I was his only heir. But now that I am again, he will not but look at me, and his fake love cuts me to my soul.

I watch as our knight Lord Barnabas approaches the city, watch the rising cloud from the hundreds of horses in his troop. Clamor arises as the tower watch raises alarm for our hero’s return. I descend the many flights of stairs to the king’s chamber, where my father and all his advisers are meeting. As I enter, the advisers and ministers stand, and as I approach my seat, one of the royal guards pull it out from the table and I sit. Everyone sits, and as usual, the king does not even acknowledge me.

The room is quiet, till the speaker of the court announces the arrival of Lord Barnabas, and with trumpets blaring and with fanfare, he enters in all his glory, his armor dulled and marred by battle, but the gold trim still shining bright. The red plume on his helm has been struck by a blade, but the color still resounds with his piercing blue eyes. The black blade of his great sword is a dull brown with the caked blood of our enemies. He has hurriedly returned to the palace, taking no time to clean himself or his weapon. I know by his entrance that his mission has been successful, and my father is devastated.

She of Black Poppies is dead, he declares upon his entrance; a blood-dripping bag in his hand bears the evidence. Knight Barnabas places the bag on the table before the king. Her head, my liege.

The king is silent, so in his stead I ask, Did she renounce? Her vile spell?

Before I removed her head—Knight Barnabas turns to me—she yelled, ‘Hail the new age! The crown will sit on the head of a bastard!’

Murmurs and remarks flood the room as the ministers and advisers start a discussion; even the guards and servants speak in hushed tones. The word convenient is heard from one of the ministers, and the room grows quiet as a grave. All attention turns to my father, who has remained all this time unmoved. Again in his stead I respond, Behead him! I scream, and in a dull, flaky brown flash, Knight Barnabas’s blade tears through the neck of the blasphemous minister. No one speaks. No one dares. My innocence is not to be questioned.

The servant maids stand motionless. Should they clean away the body? Does it even exist? One steps toward the corpse, and the others follow suit. They remove the body and the head and begin scrubbing the floor of the blood. A few mutters are heard as the advisers pretend that nothing has happened. The ministers slowly join. Jolly and aloof are the fake conversations as they swell slowly into the sounds of a party. I stand and excuse myself from the chamber and proceed to my study.

Basking in the glory of my books, I flip through my favorites, the Liber Regalia, memoirs of my progenitors, and Codex Maximals, the teachings of our many mentors throughout the ages. Reading and comparing with the multiple historic texts of our kingdom, I erase the preceding ugliness from my mind. My servants remain motionless as my chef enters with a plate of my favorite fruits and nibbles. Lightly I graze as I read of old mysteries, projecting myself into the world of my elders—half my elders. My father, the king, bless his holiness, is infertile. Seventy holy women, eighty-four witch doctors, and more soothsayers, magi, and miracle workers than stars in our sky have been executed upon failure of curing his ailments. When he bedded my mother, it was the first time in years with the absence of magic of some sort or another. Love it was not, mere carnal lust of my father to a peasant girl, unknown and unnamed. She died three days after my birth. I was told it was complications from the pregnancy, but I know it was poison. The records state she was a lady of noble birth, but everyone knows my blood is filled with filth. A bastard of dirt blood, the offspring of a half man. The hideous inbreeding of the royals sickens me, yet long have I yearned to be of their position. So high-minded are they that the position of a sixth finger or toe is seen as a blessing; a disfigured form is the price of a kiss from the gods. I have no such marking, and I curse my mother’s blood.

It was the celebration day of my thirty-seventh year that I first asked for records of my mother’s progeny, and it was only then that the royal record keepers looked. No family was to be found, and no memory to be uncovered of the life my mother lived. That was thirteen years minus three days ago, and only in my imagination does my mother remain. It is rare, but every now and again does the term dirt-blood carve into my ear.

As insulting as the celebrations of my father’s wedding to the Lady Guenivien were, under the myriad of spells and magics of the grand wizard Vogguul, she did conceive. Hidden parties and secret merrymaking as, finally, a true heir of royal blood was to be born.

Forty-eight years of waiting. How I remember in my youth of being called the miracle child, child of prophecy, face of the sun. I remember it fondly, but with the bitter taste that every word spoken in my favor was followed by the remembrance of my bastard blood. Dirt-blood. Miracle bastard, bastard of prophecy, face of the sun, but bastard true. Forty-eight years to be undermined by a tumor in the Lady Guenivien’s gut. The day she grew sick, it was I who partied in hiding; it was I who made merry in secret! Forty-eight years have I suffered the ridicule of the masses, afflicted by the stares, mumbles, and judgments. Pierced by the looks, the nods, and the knowing smiles; the endless servants, workers, and tradesmen who bowed to me in that different manner as to the others of regal descent. None had suffered as I have, none cut so precariously, injured so bitterly, and so thoughtlessly burdened. All I have suffered for my throne. My heart nearly burst in my chest as I heard of her death. How hard it was to be seen as in mourning the tears that streamed from my pitiless eyes. For how can one mourn if they have never been happy? How can one cry when they’ve never known love?

Never to my face did one call me a murderer. Never was I even mentioned as a suspect. No one dared. I never spoke of the sickness or death of the beloved Lady Guenivien, and never did I regard the suspicion that most definitely existed beneath the counterfeit reverence and artificial affection. I did not harm the Lady Guenivien or her unborn child. I am innocent of her death. No action did I take against her, nor was a plot set in motion. Not even a thought against her did I utter. I would not harm her, never, publicly. All I did was curse her unborn. No blood stains my hands, as it was She of Black Poppies whom I begged to enact her repulsive black magic. I am innocent. I am the heir to the throne. I am owed.

Presenting, Lord Barnabas!

The cry startles me from my musing. I jolt up proper and turn to my servants. Let him in, I declare, and again, I am in awe of his grandeur. The youngest knight of our court, but the most fearsome in battle. His signature black blade is known as the final sight of many enemies of the king all across the land. Why he looks upon me with such devotion, I will never know. But I use him. I use his honor and fidelity like tools of a trade. I use him for my purposes as a master craftsman. I am born to rule, born to be lord of these lands, born to be king.

Lord Barnabas kneels at my feet. I have done as you’ve asked, he tells me. The records and diaries of She of Black Poppies are no more, and none live who know the reason for her vile attack upon the kingdom. In time, she will be forgotten as pipe smoke on an evening breeze, and none will remember this bitter chapter of your rise to the throne. As I live, none will besmirch your righteous calling.

In unison, my knight Lord Barnabas and my servants speak. It is the very will of the gods that you reign, my liege!

I bask in the glow of their innocent fervor as now I alone know of my involvement in this wicked deed.

I softly clear my throat, as I often do before I speak to my subjects, to clear away any doubt, lest fear be heard in my voice. Soon will be the anniversary of the passing of the dear lady. I will announce a week of mourning and a three-day fast to honor her. At that time, any who touch food will be beheaded. Following, there will be a week of celebration to honor her life and the beauty and love she brought to each and every one of our lives. Surely, the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long. The gods were wicked to take her from us so soon.

And in unison, all present repeat, Surely, the gods were wicked. I bid them to depart and stand unmoving until I am alone. Falling into my chair, I stifle any hint of a laugh, as the walls of the castle have many ears, indeed. I hold my mouth and hold my sides, and the emotions grow inside of me. I feel as though I might burst. It is glee, joy, and splendiferous elation, but not a chirp can I let slip my grasp or death will inevitably fall upon me. But then my growing ecstasy begins to grow sour, as joy turns to panic, and glee to exasperation. My heart beats as our drummers of war—not just one of them, but that of our entire battalion! Pain so excruciating that I nearly call the physician. But I grasp at my heart and stand firm as it pounds. And as the dread grows as a garden within me, I feel the turn that I have prayed and begged bitterly to the gods to avoid! The dread and foreboding turn to fear! Fear and uncertainty, anguish beyond my ability to withstand! And as my guts churn and my heart wretches within me, I feel growing like puss and bile inside me a feeling that, once and for all, enforces the omnipotent indignation of the gods that I have wrought upon mine own head. Regret. Regret, the taste so foul and putrefactive. Regret so undignified and unbecoming of one of my station! I think, or have hoped, that this is the worst I can feel; it has to be. These are the angry faces of the gods turned toward me. But alas, as my heart calms and erratic mind stills, my eyes fill with tears and a single thought weighs upon my breast that I fear I will never be rid of. She was just a child. She had done me no wrong. Who am I to be king?

On the celebration day of my fiftieth year, I wear upon my face a smile so fraudulent and irregular, a smile that hides a heart so broken and gray. I do not enjoy the dances and acts portrayed in my honor. No pleasure do I take from the comedy routines of our greatest jokers and tricksters. My fake laugh of amusement, I have polished for decades but have never been so taxed at as I am in this evening. Off one colorful ball the acrobat flips and lands perfectly upon another. I laugh and applaud, filling him with pride. The court will make no mention of his father’s execution for failing to perform that very trick. All my guests, servants, and handmaidens waiting on my single word or gesture. All so willing to serve a would-be king that’s so petty, juvenile, and atrocious to act with such vehemence and hate. To move with such bitter personage against one so young and naive. Poor Lady Guenivien, such a pure soul. I sit musing, hating my father, hating my position, hating my chief minister and my adviser. Hating the knight Lord Barnabas. Hating all that I can think to hate as I desperately try to hate any and all things besides myself. Never would I have thought that securing the throne for myself would hold such a massive price and would take such a toll upon my very being. And how naive I was to believe that I could ascend to the throne without need to take action.

I look to my father, and for once in many years, he looks at me.

I gaze at my father. Oh, how such loathing could spawn from such a dead heart as mine own will eternally elude me. But though I feel nothing, I loathe him. The last time I was happy was before I existed, and how I long for the embrace of the great void of nothingness that will mark the end of my miserable and unremarkable fable. Of all the women he had to bed, why within the multitude must his seed take root in my mother’s womb? The look in his eyes toward me is not hate, the furthest from love; it is a look that speaks words into my core: I know what you have done, but I have expended my ability to care. And in all the hate in my glare toward him, I want him to know it was I who assassinated the sanctity of his family name. It was I who would carve into the stone of time the very day that the great bloodline was tarnished. The dirt-blood will reign as king, and never again will his blood be pure. As I will the insecure future of his throne into his soul, his leer speaks to me eight words: Why did I lust after a peasant girl? Every curse and bitter thought, all vile words and blasphemous profanity, and with every fragment of my evil eye, I impel upon him. I urge all my venomous execration and my obscene will toward him. I wish him to know all the evil within me. I want him to choke on it, drown in it, and die! He blinks, slowly, and turns away.

I turn back to the party, smile, laugh, and applaud. And I think to myself, I am glad the Lady Guenivien is departed. Such an innocent child has no place in this world. As a musician plays on a string instrument from a faraway land, I muse to myself. I think of my life and the world I was born into. I recall all that I’ve seen and suffered and, most importantly, the inconsequential suspicion that the entire court holds against me. Fifty years is a long time to wait. Fifty long, long years, and not a second more. The royal heir was dead. Just one more death and all will hail the Bastard King!

Chapter Two

Slow down, I thought, rolling out of bed. Today was my first day of the new year’s semester, and I was resolved to be the cool, confident young woman that my guardian had always assured I was. I had been on the university campus for over a year, but the butterflies in my stomach were newborn for this new year’s experiences. I had just turned fourteen last week and had the most underwhelming birthday celebration of my life. One of my classmates bought me a little box cake. It was good, I mean, but compared to the huge cake my guardian made and the whole party with all my friends and neighbors invited, this birthday was a about as interesting as playing thumb war with myself.

I had been eager, and uneasy, for the past few weeks as because of my good grades last year, I had been allowed to begin earth history a full two years early. Apparently, my mind and comprehension skills outweigh my impressionable youth and naivete. The atrocities that took place in earlier millennia left a scar so deep on the collective memories of humanity that only in a state of maturity and education were we allowed to learn about them. My minors in psychology and law probably helped in convincing the faculty of allowing my advance. And my majors in English/Mandarin and political writing made my intensions clear of my life path. I have always desired to be part of the rewriting of history, of the retelling of our stories. To be part of the progressive minds creating the teleprompts, screen lessons, movies, and Approved Historic Texts. To me, there is no higher honor, no higher calling. Of course, historic writing is one of the most difficult majors to attain and requires the most time, even with my studious mind. So I have taken a more grounded approach with political writing so I might work in governing as I finish my historic degrees. I don’t know why I’m nervous; this is just another year in the life that I had planned out by the age of eight. I know exactly where I will be in three years, and in thirteen, even in thirty. I could even guess the office number I will be sitting in, as I know the building and floor. But I’ve always felt, or should I say dreamed, of fantasy.

My guardian has pushed me to succeed for as long as I can remember. I was three when entrusted to his care and have no recollection of the child protective services I was in since infancy. I know my parentage to be dead, and I have always fancied them as elitist, masters of industry, prime ministers and presidents, corporate leaders. Royalty. Childish, I know, but forgive a young girl her imaginings. In some way it gave me security, a belonging. However, since to this day no one has come to take me to my palace or hand me my billionaire inheritance, estate, or even dowry, I have succumbed to more realistic delusions of grandeur. I will lead a simple life of class and dignity. And leave all sense of adventure to my Holo Games and the twenty-one vacation days a year my chosen life path will allow. I have chosen the most noble of professions. I have chosen the most noble of professions. I do not doubt this.

The word indoctrination has become more mainstream as of late. Teachers use it in the beginning of class to place approved fact, upon which we build toward truth. I have heard that it was once conspiratorial, which I do not understand, as doctrine is literally defined as approved information. Classes are boring, but for the first time in human history, what we are taught has been established certainty. Substantiated by the State, with considerable amounts of evidence to support the approved information. It is why the term Approved Information exists. I have often debated with fellow students, scholars, and instructors the motivation and rationale of those who reject state law. I apologize, I am still processing the special lecture that I, and few others, had to undergo for advancement. Early history is not allowed to many, and because we are still legally considered underaged, we require a warning.

Warning, they said, that the Approved Information you are about to learn is gruesome and shocking. Concepts will be brought before you as you have never imagined. Words, like genocide and terrorism, will be introduced. Along with the notion of nations separated not only by border but also by government. You will learn of time before the State was formed. Only Approved Information is provided, and only Approved Information is to be used. The information that will be taught you, while appalling and horrific, has been transliterated and is judged safe by the state. Do not meander past given texts and topics; do not read unofficial documents or any Unapproved Information unsubstantiated by the state.

It was not a long lecture, under three hours. And upon completion, we were given the secretive clearance to view our curriculum. They said the words and concepts were horrible and shocking and would be brought to us in the approved order and rate. Of course, the first thing I did was skim the required texts. And I am still decompressing, and rethinking, my life choices. Should I have been a plumber? I jest. Never have I been more convinced of the need for the Approved Information as transcribed by the Approved Historic Texts. No wonder the old world was so lost, such pain constantly surrounding them, overwhelming them. How could they see any other way? No wonder the atrocities repeated so frequently. And to think that I joked, How bad could it be? Now I understand. I was not supposed to read it outside of the classroom. They said that we needed the presence of an instructor so that we could correctly understand what we were reading. I’m smart! I thought. I can understand it on my own. But now I can’t really talk about it to anyone, as I was not supposed to read it. I guess as I learn it in class, I will just have to act surprised. That will not be hard.

As it turned out, most of the student body did exactly what I did. I learned this from the many reports of drunken and disorderly conduct. Multiple people seen weeping, aimlessly wandering the hallways. A few suicide attempts caught by the advanced dorm AI. Apparently, this happens every year, and special group therapy sessions have been made available. Should I be dating these? I was advised to write down some of my thoughts as my education progresses, but I don’t think I need to date them. They will be in order; that should be enough. Non sequitur, I know, but forgive my nuanced approach to the journal process. It is the ideas and base perspective of my younger self that I wish to record. Not what I thought on what day. Perhaps I will mark the years on this diary, or perhaps not. How much do you want to bet that when I read over this years from now, I will regret this decision? But as I learned in early psych, the making and learning from mistakes is paramount to morality and ethical restrictions. Paraquote, I would pull up the approved curriculum, but I am trying to be less bookish.

*     *     *

Today’s classes were wild. My instructor of Racial Conflict 101 was new to this class setting and was unaware that all of us had read the curriculum. He was not prepared for the torrent of questions levied toward him. Approximately twenty minutes into the class, it appeared to many of my fellow students that he was defending some of the actions of our ancestors. I am sure that this was not the case; however, not all my compatriots were so persuaded. Some spoke in anger, some in jest, but all surely overwhelmed our poor teacher. A member of seniority entered and read from an official list of approved answers, which put several minds at ease. There were two of us who did not participate in the vocal shenanigans, myself and a boy. Note to self: Don’t let anyone read this. I will not be reduced to some boy-crazy trollop! However, I will note my initial attraction, and he does have dark-brown eyes. Non Sequitur, I know. But still. From an academic persuasion, he is…very interesting. I will not end this entry on this note. I would prefer the attempted suicides as an end point. Though droll, it does straightforwardly display the essence of the student body at this time. We feel a notion that we cannot explain. I am perturbed by a bewildering conundrum whose purpose and reason elude me. I am trying to use big words because I feel so small. All that I’ve been reading makes me feel…something for all those people who lived back then. I feel regret. Not for choosing this field of study, or for choosing this life—not for me at all. I just feel, to an overwhelming degree, at the behest of billions, the sense of regret. Allow my arrogance for a moment that I see dwelling over humanity as a whole a cloud of embittered and blackened regret. And not to end on a downer, I am convinced to an even higher degree that I have chosen my perfect life path!

*     *     *

Today was a treat! We took a holographic field trip to Early Greece and contemplated the resemblance and relationship of architecture and governing structure. There is an ongoing debate to add historic architecture into the Approved Information and public historic records. A debate that we will join upon gaining the secretive clearance and completing the courses of religious and mythological figures. We also learned the original definition of a library, and the dangers and oppressions that they brought into the world. The concept of debate used to be equally tied to such cruel competition, before it was changed to the spirit of cooperation and togetherness that there is today. It is important for me to remember the lens through which I see the world and the histories of it. The people of those days had neither the education nor the perspective and, quite candidly, the intellect to see the world as we do today. Nor did they have the State and the Approved Historic Texts to guide them. The lesson of tomorrow will be on the nation of Archaia. Even our lead researchers are, as of yet, unable to secure the dates of this kingdom. However, this land is millennia older than Egypt and Greece. We will be learning of war and the will of imaginative functions they called gods. We will be studying the time period of the king. There is a word that describes him, but its translation has been lost to time. Unblooded is the rough translation, having something to do with lineage or progenitors. I have read about concepts of marriage, and monogamy is a foreign concept to me. However, in older times, it was important and seems to be the driving force behind this king and his actions. We will be studying King Bastard for the coming weeks and further in a later class, Conflict Theory. It seems to me—

*     *     *

I fell asleep. To be brutally honest, I am not too interested in the conflicts of the past. I know that this is important, but I don’t understand how or why there was so much. Collaboration is the core of a healthy society; that is more than a mantra. It is a proven fact. The writings of the Approved Historic Texts are the pinnacle field of a secure future. And I will be part of the cleaning and recreation of our vile past. Now that I say this, I understand the need to learn about these hateful times, which I am learning are most of our actual history. I just hate reading and learning of all this violence. Our instructor was sick today, and the old lesson plan was postponed until tomorrow. Today we studied the need and mission of music in a healthy society in regard to the dangers of musical expressionism. I just finished a thesis on how and why the State is paramount in the actualization of artistic works. What is obvious throughout the Approved Texts is how dangerous the insidiously named free thought through art can be. The State protects the human continuum. The more I read of these old times, the more I think of how thankful I am for the State and the Approved Information and the Approved Historic Texts itself.

*     *     *

I don’t know how to begin today. I feel sick is all I can think. I will try to organize my thoughts into a more accessible arrangement. I have, however, been trying to do that very thing for a while now and have found the task to be insurmountable. I do not understand, and I cannot even say that it is a difference of perspective or an alternate life path. No, he was a monster; there is no justification for who he was or what he did, and I cannot accept that I am descended from any living thing so barbaric and calamitous. I am a sophisticated and civilized being, and now I am being told that I came from such animals. Not related to the Approved Theory of Evolution. Yes, we evolved from animals, but not since we walked upright could we have sanctioned such atrocities. I refuse to believe it. This is so much harder than I could ever have imagined, just as they said it would be. My therapist and special youth therapist say that this is not the time to try to make sense of this, but a time to accept. And observe. They say it is natural to take it personally but to remember it was a less-enlightened age. And we must simply observe. I now understand the sheer adversity and difficulty of the venture. To take the truths and lessons learned from our past and defuse its ugliness. To rewrite history and yet not lose any of the veracity or meaning. And also, lest we forget, we must not lie. It is imperative that the Approved Information is utterly factual, even if changed. What a worthy task with