Glass House

Light spills from the doorway gaps, the precise cuts eating away the hallway darkness. Battered remnants of tableware sprinkle the floor, some shards catching the dribbling tapestry.

Prince Isaac's ire targets the most breakable things, many irreplaceable and valuable. A non-issue for a man as wealthy as he. It has become a more consistent hobby lately; the problems of the family business. His unrelenting hubris makes it hard for him to adapt. Despite his age, his mind does not match, especially for a man born to be king.

***

Monday Morning, Aleth, Capital City of Tetna.

Streets web the ancient metropolis, footfall swelling the cracking pavement and trams. Ageing tenements and cuts of green interlude the sprouting metal towers in the city. Trees line every street, round like bulbs and interlocked by bunting. The patriotic sun over moon emblem on every nook and cranny in the city; every flag, window, and pen.

The ever-present symbolism is not lost on Simone, the city native is proud to wear its pin, even when off-duty. The new media secretary for the palace, she is stringent on presentation. And so solid her self-assuredness, the rattling stop of the tram does little to perturb her. Simone welcomes the breakdown, not as an inconvenience but as an experience; she's too early to be late.

Simone ambles the streets towards the palace and eyes a coffee vendor, a good excuse to stop. The transaction easy, Simone waits for her coffee until a fallen poster catches her mind. She picks it up, the edges worn with water, it reads:

DEATH TO TYRANY!

The bold red lettering watermarked by the national emblem. The juxtaposition is strange and unnatural to Simone, her first instinct is to crush it. But she stops herself, her resolve weakening with curiosity.

***

The Palace

Gold lines the drawing room, meeting the flowering wallpaper. The image is the picture of royalty; it bubbles excitement in Simone, like boiling water. And she waits, excitement still simmering within her thirty-five minutes later. The Prince is an important man with important things to do, and duties he cannot ignore. She assumes.

And when the doors open followed by the port-bellied prince, Simone wheezes in the moment. The Prince, worn with time wears the national emblem in his collar, pointing out like stingers. The pointed symbolism somewhat lost on the Prince's cheery demeanour. After a moment of awe, Simone curtsies to the pleasure of Prince Isaac who wears a red cheeked grin.

"Your highness." Simone greets, the use of such professionalism making her dizzy.

"A delight to meet you, my dear." The Prince smiles again, clasping

the handshake into his sweaty hands. A strange turn of protocol, Simone thinks, but exciting nonetheless.

"Likewise your highness."

"This will be the beginning of a prosperous career for you" He clenches his hands tighter.

***

Simone quibbles the list sat in front of her; handwritten and etched with the Prince's royal seal. She thinks it's a test of character, it must be. Its absurdness is striking; criminal, even when, 'defending the Prince's honour'.

Simone peers at her new colleague, Susan Stinson, a veteran of the Palace for 20 years and counting. "Excuse me, Susan" The woman turns, waiting. "Uh-this list, this is a test no? I mean- cyberstalking-"

"Orders are orders, Miss Price" She says, meeting Simone's eye with cold disdain.

"Oh-of-of course." Simone bumbles, failing to stop her tone conveying the deflation she feels inside.

***

Weeks later.

Simone's travels home have become somewhat a convalescence for her. Despite her hope, the list was not a test, and the Prince's demands have grown more inane. He was not the man she expected him to be. And ever since a deep ache has resided within her as she realises that not everything is what it seems.

Simone can't help but notice the cracks in the pavement, even in her convalescence. How everyday the number of street dwellers grow, how many more shops close, how tired people look. Even, the streetlights seem to glow dimmer.

But pushing open her front door, Simone find a note. Caught in her letter box, small fine-printed text reads an address:

15 Tinatha Road,

Aleth City,

8pm

The paper is thick and textured in the Prince's seal. And Simone's stomach knots in guilt, feeling wrong for doubting the Prince. He is not a shallow man, after all; but the revelation still stings like betrayal.

***

15 Tinatha Road

The distant site of Fifteen Tinatha Road reinvigorates Simone with fresh resolve. The door lies in a shadowy recess with the number Fifteen half-eaten, painted in peeling paint. The imagery adds to Simone's anticipation and reinvented purpose, finally feeling free. Simone takes a deep breath and knocks on the door, the frail wood bouncing underneath her knuckle.

Knock. Knock.

Two rhythms and the door opens. A greasy-haired man stands there, overalls covered in paint and oil, face grave.

"No visitors." He snaps and goes to shut the door, but Simone stops it with her foot.

"No Sir, I have had instructions to come here." Simone replies, surprising herself with her forcefulness.

The man scrutinises her, mouth agape, his brows crossing in indignation.

"Testing our people skills, are we Mark?" Another voice chimes, undertone thick in implication. And the man grunts, leaving the entrance in guard of a younger man.

"Michael" He greets, hand outstretched.

"Simone" Simone replies, accepting his gesture. And he smiles, his face turning upwards in a soft lilt.

"Please, come in. We've been expecting you."

Entering the home, she finds it bare, the only visible furniture, a plastic pop-up table and two chairs. Definitely, a place meant for secrets, Simone thinks as she enters a basement. The basement, a place brimming with people and walls paved with concrete is alive with people. People from all walks of life, people dressed in suits, scrubs and overalls; old and young. Simone has never seen a collection of people like this. And all murmuring assent to a speech by a man on a coffee table. On a soapbox. With red posters dangling from overhead pipes like the back-drop to a play.

Simone listens, captivated by the sight. The man talks like a parliamentarian, like a lawyer but dresses like a mechanic. He talks of corruption, the failing economy, the growing poverty; all true things. And all things she agrees with; the Prince doesn't like these people...

***

Shards of broken glass crunches under Simone's step, biting. Limbs shaking, Simone shudders under the thickening rainfall. She tastes bile and blood at her intrusive thoughts, she almost chokes. The milky eyes. The blood. The colour of it. Simone shrinks, her body unfeeling and numb. Simone doesn't feel the slap of the wind. Or the depth of her coldness. She screams. Familiar words playing on her mind.

DEATH TO TYRANNY.