Milestones are never easy
Yawnee puttered around a little, put a Hayden CD in the
stereo, and put a kettle on the stove. He changed into some comfortable clothes
and picked out one of the 15 or so legal pads that were scattered around on his
desk. On its pages was the last complete story he’d written, about a fictitious
King of Sweden was hopelessly insane and in love with a whipping boy.
Unbeknownst to His Majesty, the boy harbored a psychotic desire to become King
himself one day, but due to a degenerative spine disease he was forced to spend
all of his time either sitting or lying down. What subject could be loyal to a
King who couldn’t even stand on his own two feet? Naturally, when everyone in
the King’s court found out about the boy’s ambition to the throne they
ridiculed him. Even the prince, who had been the boy’s best friend since they
were in their mother’s wombs, mucked up everything and caused as much trouble
as he could just to see some sense whipped into the boy. Finally, in a
stirring, passionate, and uncoordinated speech, the King pointed out that his
people had followed him blindly for half a century even though they all knew
how bug-fuck crazy he was and there was no good Goddamn reason why they
couldn’t follow the whipping boy. To prove his point he named the whipping boy
as his new heir, and his son became the whipping boy.
The court was astonished, outraged, even, but they kept their cool. They immediately began kissing the King’s ass and telling him that this move would do wonders for his approval rating. For his part the King was pretty pleased with himself. He had his court sucking up to him again and now he was in a position to be closer to the boy. He fawned over him night and day, fed him extravagant meals, dressed him in the prince’s fancy clothes, bathed him with caring, sensitive hands, and told him erotic stories at bedtime. The naïve whipping boy just assumed that all these things were a normal part of royal life, and except for the bathing and the erotica, they were. He was clueless as to the not so secret desires of the King. He tried his very hardest to memorize the stories, even practiced reciting them to the former prince (who was horrified) so that he might one day tell them to his own children. It wasn’t until the King started to tell him the stories without any clothes on and touching himself inappropriately at certain points in the stories that the boy started to think something might have been wrong.
“Is there something wrong Your Majesty?” he asked.
“Please,” said the King, “call me Erik.”
“Oh. Er, Erik, is there something wrong?”
“No,” the King smiled benignly at the boy, “I think everything is just as it should be.”
Yawnee thought it was the most vomitous, detestable piece of fiction ever to fill the pages of a legal pad. “Ugh,” he sighed, “I can’t believe I wrote this shit.”
He threw the pad on his bed in disgust, turned his attention to the rest of the pads and notebooks on his desk. He sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t do it anymore.”
Jo Jo stepped out of the elevator with two bagfuls of groceries, one in each arm. She was whistling a jumpy little pop tune, pausing every now and then to shake her hips. She opened the apartment door and yelled, “Stop your knee-biting, I’m back!”
Yawnee didn’t answer.
“Eh? Bud? Come on, I said quit it. Now get out of that damn bed.” She went to the kitchen and started putting groceries away. “Yawnee? You’re being awfully difficult.” She walked into his bedroom expecting to see him curled up under the covers again, but he wasn’t there. Then she heard water running, like a fresh stream spilling over rocks into a small pond. She bolted into the bathroom.
The tub was overflowing. Yawnee was laying in it, his wrists hanging over the sides squirting blood onto the white tile floor.
The court was astonished, outraged, even, but they kept their cool. They immediately began kissing the King’s ass and telling him that this move would do wonders for his approval rating. For his part the King was pretty pleased with himself. He had his court sucking up to him again and now he was in a position to be closer to the boy. He fawned over him night and day, fed him extravagant meals, dressed him in the prince’s fancy clothes, bathed him with caring, sensitive hands, and told him erotic stories at bedtime. The naïve whipping boy just assumed that all these things were a normal part of royal life, and except for the bathing and the erotica, they were. He was clueless as to the not so secret desires of the King. He tried his very hardest to memorize the stories, even practiced reciting them to the former prince (who was horrified) so that he might one day tell them to his own children. It wasn’t until the King started to tell him the stories without any clothes on and touching himself inappropriately at certain points in the stories that the boy started to think something might have been wrong.
“Is there something wrong Your Majesty?” he asked.
“Please,” said the King, “call me Erik.”
“Oh. Er, Erik, is there something wrong?”
“No,” the King smiled benignly at the boy, “I think everything is just as it should be.”
Yawnee thought it was the most vomitous, detestable piece of fiction ever to fill the pages of a legal pad. “Ugh,” he sighed, “I can’t believe I wrote this shit.”
He threw the pad on his bed in disgust, turned his attention to the rest of the pads and notebooks on his desk. He sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t do it anymore.”
Jo Jo stepped out of the elevator with two bagfuls of groceries, one in each arm. She was whistling a jumpy little pop tune, pausing every now and then to shake her hips. She opened the apartment door and yelled, “Stop your knee-biting, I’m back!”
Yawnee didn’t answer.
“Eh? Bud? Come on, I said quit it. Now get out of that damn bed.” She went to the kitchen and started putting groceries away. “Yawnee? You’re being awfully difficult.” She walked into his bedroom expecting to see him curled up under the covers again, but he wasn’t there. Then she heard water running, like a fresh stream spilling over rocks into a small pond. She bolted into the bathroom.
The tub was overflowing. Yawnee was laying in it, his wrists hanging over the sides squirting blood onto the white tile floor.