• The night sky is as blank as a canvas, the moon the only source of light guiding your path. You look ahead of you, you see the luxury mansion, the beautiful garden. It disgusts you. It disgusts you that you have worked for 20 long years of your life, and you have gotten nothing, and these, these pigs are swimming in silver and gold, in a large mansion, people waiting on them, hand and foot.

    The butcher knife held snugly in your pocket glimmers when you walk in the moonlight, casting glares on your glasses, on the glass fountain in the garden as you make your way through. You are careful not to make any noise, wearing only socks on your feet and clamping your lips shut.

    You're thirsting for royal blood, filled with expensive wines and meats, shining as it flows in rivulets from the victims body. You're going to kill the Prince.

    The Prince of this mansion and this luxury lifestyle. You're going to watch his eyes roll back into his head, his face turn pale white. You're going to watch him beg for mercy.

    The thought of your hands bathed in royal blood excites you, your nostrils flare, pupils dialating in a sick murderous way. A lecherous grin splits your chapped lips, but you keep smiling. Smiling like you're on a friendly visit. If only they knew.

    You make your way to the door, pick the lock with a piece of iron you welded into a perfect key. The door opens effortlessly, warm air filling your nostrils and bringing color to your cheeks. You move your legs slowly, feet as quiet as a mouse as you pad down the corridor, hand on your pocket, ready to pull the knife on anyone who tries to stop you.

    You hear the muffled tosses and turns of the maids and the butlers in the servant's quarters, the moans of sleep deprivation and hunger. You wonder if they feel the same way you do, being trapped in such a place, a place of leeches and whores. You push that thought aside though, because you're not here to pity the servants. You're here to murder the Prince.

    After losing your way a few times, you finally find the Prince's room, having memorized the location from spying on him from the large trees in the garden. You open the door with a creak and a snarl, stepping into the room. The Prince does not turn from where he sits at the desk, arrogant and unaware of you, the commoner.

    "Ah, yes, Mary dear. Could you please get me some hot camomile tea?" He asks in the quiet room, the candle light making orange shadows.

    You say nothing, you just wait, You wait for him to turn around.

    After at least a minute, the dense boy, he turns around and he spots me. His eyes widen in surprise, hopefully terror. You want him to be afraid. The last thing for him to hear, his own screaming.

    You make your way towards him in slow strides, grin plastered to your face, sweat rolling down your neck.

    "Who in the world are yo-" He is cut off by your knife at his throat. You smile.

    "I am merely a commoner." You pause, snarl tugging at your lips instead of a grin now. "Your Highness."

    You spit on his face, disgust boiling in your stomach.

    "I demand to know who you are." He yells. "Guards, Guards, Help me-"

    Your smile is full now, your teeth and your knife both glimmering in the white and orange light. Your knife is gleaming a different color though, it is gleaming in red.

    Ruby, scarlet, rose red. The kind of red only a lover would know, or in fact, a murderer. The kind that makes you royalty sick. The kind that makes us commoners know we're alive in the harsh winters.

    The Prince croaks, "Why?".

    "Why?.. Why indeed, Your Highness."

    The blood drips from the tip of the knife, covered in scarlet, a deep ruby red. It pools on the floor, and you see yourself reflected, a commoner. A commoner who just killed the Prince.