The Inheritance of a Crown
Olivia Todorovitch
As a child, my father placed a crown of rage upon my head. From his apathetic hands he sculpted serrated edges into its form, spikes that I could not feel as a girl.
‘The crown is your inheritance,’ he told me, ‘your gift from god’.
I grinned up at him in glee; an inheritance? I said to myself. Something we shared, something that binds us. He had gifted me with a legacy, and the giddy child I was revelled in such an honour.
I was so enamoured by the crown that I did not see the chain snaking around my ankles, nor the shackles on my wrists. Yes, we are bound. Linked by invisible bonds, but when one fell, so did the other. At the time, however, falling was never a free fall so long as my father was by my side, for I knew his wings would hold us both. I was such a stupidly, naive little thing.
…
I can still recall when my first blood was drawn from the jagged crown. It’s one of the few memories I can hold onto anymore. At times, I feel as if I can still taste it, the blood that leaked down my brow. It was my first taste of contempt. So unfamiliar, so raw, that I ran to my father in desperation. He was asleep in his bed when I found him, so I carefully snuck to his side and shook him. He stirred as the barbs on my temple pierced my skin, dripping blood onto the bed sheets.
I cried out in pain, ‘I’m scared! I do not know what this is, Father!’ I could not mask the fear in my voice; I did not feel I needed to.
My father smiled sleepily. ‘This is your gift,’ his face dropped slightly as he smoothed my hair, ‘and your curse.’
I waited, but he said nothing more, just turned away, gesturing to the door. I took my leave, discouraged and confused. But beneath it all, I felt the awakening of a gnawing hunger within me, and despite the blood leaking down my face, staining my teeth, it could not be sated.
As I grew, the desire for blood increased, and although I was met with a steady flow from the tightening crown burrowing beneath my skin, I still could not overcome my insatiable want. I had begun to fear the crown, and the pride that once made me whole trickled away with each passing day. I was still a child, with needs and wants, but the older I became the less they were met. My father’s presence had dwindled, and despite my numerous attempts to find him — to ask him what was happening to me — he would always disappear like smoke in the wind. I felt like an apparition in my own home those years, floating through the halls, not being seen or heard but still there. Still present, still desperate. I never knew why he avoided me; I assumed it was because he feared me. I didn’t blame him for I feared myself, but that didn’t make it any easier. It wasn’t until years later that I realised he did not fear me; he was afraid for me. He was so riddled with guilt for what he had passed on — what he could have tried to stop — that he could not even bear the sight of me.
It’s amusing to me now that it was guilt that kept him hidden from me. I believed for so long that he was not capable of such emotions, and maybe he isn’t. Maybe I delude myself into rationalising him because it makes it easier to accept.
…
Growing up, I didn’t have many friends. The instant connections of childish friendship never came easily to me, but there was one girl who I held close to my heart. She was the type of childhood friend that lingers in your life long after you leave each other. I met her at a park after I had spent the day wandering aimlessly. The sun was setting, and we weren’t supposed to be out. We were avoiding our lives, and the swing set seemed the most fitting place to abandon the world. We didn’t say much at first; we just sat quietly, wondering who would breach the gap.
‘I’m Mara,’ she said, holding her hand out to me.
I reached out and took it. ‘Rue,’ I replied with a faint smile.
Her grip was strong, almost reassuring. It had been so long since anyone had approached me, let alone touched me, that her skin against mine felt like a divine blessing. It released me, screamed at me that I was alive. I was real. I was sitting on this swing beside this girl I didn’t know, and I was here. She could perceive me and that was so overwhelming, so astronomically new to me that I nearly fell to my knees. In that instant, I had no father, no crown, no hunger. Just myself, and this mirror of a girl swinging beside me.
I suddenly felt I didn’t want her to let go. I wanted to hold onto her forever. To drag her home with me, talk with me, laugh with me, unravel the world with me. But she let go, and I didn’t even have the chance to hold onto her. Her touch left me so jolted I hardly realised she was speaking to me. I can’t remember what she said; probably some childish comment that I replied to in turn. But it was so simple with her, so comfortable, even on that first day. I didn't have to struggle desperately for her to notice me, she saw me no matter how far I shrunk into myself. In truth, I think she saw me best when I made myself small.
Mara and I were girls together, and even as we grew up, we remained an inseparable pair. She drew me away from the insanity of my life, and I held her through the wreckage of her own. We formed a world of our liking, one void of burdens and suffering. Mara communicated with me in a language of her own design, and I found that it was a cryptic language I spoke fluently. No one, not even God above, could understand what we said to one another, and that was exactly how we liked it.
With her, the crown was a forgotten thing from another life. I was not my father’s daughter. I was not the girl with a sullied inheritance. I was just Rue, and that was enough.
A part of me latched onto Mara, and I wish more than anything that I could say we worked out. But I became so preoccupied with my own struggles that when my tongue lashed out at her I was completely oblivious to the fire in my words. I burnt her, and the wounds scarred so deeply, that no apologies would keep her by my side.
I despise the crown for so many reasons, but forcing Mara away from me was unforgivable. She is now as distant to me as the innocence of my childhood, and as much as I place the blame on the crown or my father, I know deep down that it was me that pushed her away. There is so much that I must atone for, but Mara, she has always been the ghost of my sins; not a day passes where she does not haunt me.
…
The madness inside me is a horrifying beast of immortal wrath. It houses within my mind, eats at my table, and speaks from my mouth. It reminds me of my father. Of his inconsolable ravings. As a child, he ignored me, but in my adolescence he clung to me, like a stench I could not be rid of. I had yearned for him so eagerly as a girl, but when I finally had my wish, I discovered it was such a misguided notion.
He would speak at me tediously for hours on end. Pacing before me, back and forth until his feet had tracked marks into the carpet. I saw no point in speaking; he would not hear me. Besides, I had nothing to say to him in this state. So, I sat quietly and watched him. The tick in his jaw, the crease in his brow. At times, he would pause, standing so still I thought for a moment he had frozen, but beyond the stillness, I could hear the whirring of his mind. Spinning invisible solutions for invisible problems. It intrigued me, this misplaced anger. I wondered where it came from, how such rage can grow inside a person. But then I would remember my own fits. The inconsolable aggression. The venom. How my blood would boil as I spat out curses and accusations. It wasn’t something you could fight; it was only ever something you could enable, hoping that when the smoke cleared, the house hadn’t burnt down around you. Maybe that was why my father searched for me in his fits; he knew that when all was said and done, I would always be standing beside him in the flames. He saw me as a mirror. I saw him as a sentence.
It was in these moments, when he reached his most irrational inner turmoil that I finally saw the markings on his own skin. I don’t know why it took me so long to discover but once the truth stood before me I realised this was not my sickness alone. The scars around his head were as infected as my own. There was an opportunity of understanding presented to me then, but I did not comprehend it. My only thought was if he suffered as I did. If he spent his nights clawing at his head, rocking back and forth as his nails peeled away his skin. I wondered if he tore at his flesh in agony, searching for the source of his madness. I pictured him begging for a cure, any solution to dilute the unsteadiness plaguing him and I’m sure he came up empty-handed each time. Just as I did.
…
I wasted years of my life attempting to rid myself of my crown. It was like I was caught in a rip, struggling to reach the shore, and the harder I fought, the further away I was dragged from safety. I would have persevered this way until I was ultimately lost in the yawning waters had it not been for a moment of clarity. An epiphany presented to me in the form of a triptych.
I had known my father suffered from the same illness as I did, but I never considered where this blaze had originated from. That was until I envisioned myself — my lineage — as a triptych. I could see my father and myself, but also his father. Three generations, all joined together in an artwork, all adorned with matching crowns. We were depicted separately in three panels, but each one linked to the other to create a masterpiece. It was such an eerie sight, but it revealed something to me — something hidden beneath years of resentment. All three of us had the embers from a larger inferno planted within us. It didn’t matter where it came from or when it started but it passed onto us, and we had no choice but to accept it, because we could not outrun it. I had tried numerous times, and I continuously failed. I am sure — if I asked — my father would say the same.
It should be crippling to know we stood no chance, and perhaps it was for them, but I found it freeing. I didn’t have to search so hard to place the blame because it wasn’t my fault, nor was it my father’s or his father’s before him. It just was. It existed and we endured it.
I felt exonerated to know I was never the original sinner.
Yes, this condition will remain with me forever. Yes, I will always be treading its waters, but I do not have to drown in them. I don’t have to fight so hard to overcome it; I just have to learn to live with it. To live with what it gives me and what it takes away from me. There will be more Mara’s in my life, more people I will hurt and send away, but this was a familial curse, and I know that my father had his own Mara too — someone he loved, someone he burned.
My father and my grandfather didn’t have the chance to overcome the illness anymore. They were far beyond repair. I, however, could separate myself from the artwork that made us whole. I could rip my panel off and form myself into a masterpiece of my own right. The crown will always be a heavy burden to carry, but for my own sake I must tend to it and cradle its weight gently in my hands to ensure it does not bleed me dry.
Olivia Todorovitch is an aspiring writer who has been drawn into the literary world through historical fiction and fantasy. She finds inspiration from shared human experiences and enjoys using history as a foundation for her stories, seeking to tell the untold stories of the past. She hopes that one day she will create a work that people can connect to just as she connects to literary works.
