User:Rebuttal/Jenkins

There's a certain level of comfort to it, really. I sit here. Not entirely comfortable, but I can't say it's uncomfortable. I haven't been hungry since that day, so I guess that's a plus. Who needs people, anyway? It, itself, is a cast iron stove. Or, rather, being trapped in a cast iron stove. Quite comfortable, really. Haven't been hungry in a while. Light. That's my problem. Light. He's not around. An illusive one, that Light. No one appreciates him until he's not around. Now, you may wonder, “Prince, why do you confine yourself to a cast iron stove?” and I respond thusly: I do not. I am trapped. So, now you ask of me, “How were you trapped?” and I'll tell you plainly: I do not know. “But you're not hungry?” Nope. “Do you eat?” Nope. “Ok” Ok.

It's a damn shame what happened to him, really. After his father, King Julian, passed he's confined himself to a corner, convinced that he's stuck. When I first talked to him, he recognized my voice immediately, which, as most any doctor will tell you, is a good sign. And it would be in this occasion as well, had I ever met the Prince before. To say that he recognized my voice is a bit of a stretch, though. He knew at once that my voice was unmistakably that of Princess Mia, of singing-the-national-anthem-of-her-homeland, Fewtopia-and -always-deserving-a-standing-ovation fame. My voice, of course, is that of Dr. Tabitha Kenjins, of always-having-the-best-part-of-the-video-of-the-office's-annual-drunken-karaoke-tournament fame. I've never won.

Daily, I receive a visit from a fair maiden, Princess Mia. Her voice is that of angels, and I've heard rumors that none rival her beauty. I wouldn't know though. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her, and cast iron is unbearably opaque. I've already offered her all the riches of the world if she could get my out of this stove. She hasn't even tried yet.

“Prince Daniel?” “Ah, my fair maiden, have you come to double your efforts in getting me out of this stove?” “Nay, Prince, I've come for mere conversation.” “I'd have lost my mind long ago were it not for your conversation, Princess” “I disagree, Prince”

The small talk happens everyday. Daily, I try to get him out of his rut. Post-partem stress is what the other doctors say, but I disagree. Not on any academic grounds, just one of those feelings one gets. Clairvoyance. A patient taught me what that is. Paranoid schizophrenic. Convinced there were things in his closet, watching him. Didn't know how to explain it. Clairvoyance, he says, he just knows. One day, the Prince asked me to sing for him. I didn't want to, but he insisted. I did. He commented my voice, said it fulfilled everything he heard about me.

The princess sang for me today. What a voice. Of the angels. It was a song I did not recognize, though, and I was disappointed at myself. I slept a happy man. One day, I walked into the Prince's room as was startled to see him standing. Erect. Upright. He went to sleep in that same cornered fetal position. He said to me that the forest is beautiful, but is still trapped. At least this box is larger, he says. Invisible, though, and that bothered him more than the stove. He would really like to walk through the forest that contained his stove all these years. “Years, Prince?” “Aye, Mia. While you may have been coming here for the past weeks, I have been trapped in that cast iron hell hole for years” Today, I found my stove open. I wouldn't have realized that it was open had I not shifted my position, and had seen Light creep through the small crevice. An illusive one, that Light. I missed him dearly. We spoke at great distance of a great many things. What he had done over the past few years. We both laughed when I asked why he hadn't come to rescue me earlier. The Princess was shocked to see me today. I can understand, though. All these weeks passing, having conversation with a man who's face she could not see. Cast iron is impossible opaque. I told her of these new boundaries I was facing, though. Larger, but invisible, which bothered me infinitely more than the cast iron stove. For, while here I was allowed to roam an area considerably larger than the stove, the stoves boundaries were concrete. Solid. These new ones are abstract, and invisible. I fell asleep on the grass today, and it felt thick and rich under my bare back.

The Prince killed himself some time after that day. Hung himself with his sheets outside of his window. I guess he saw his boundaries.