BY: MIKALA WONG, 11TH GRADE, CVHS

I remember running in the grass of my family’s garden. The rose bushes neatly lined up, painting a beautiful scene. My parents followed behind me, a parasol in my mother’s hand. No fear, no worries, no hunger. Just carefree childish enjoyment.

I walked the red velvet halls and admired my family’s portraits lined up against the wall. I see my father, standing gallantly in uniform, decorated in his metals and charms. His mustache stands high, matching the color of his brunette eyes. My mother, a true woman of elegance and beauty. She has a soft smile and kind blue eyes, her hands gently clasped in her lap. Those very hands were the ones that raised me, fed me, and loved me. But then there’s me—a professional portrait, sitting quietly at the end of the hall. I wear a flowy blue dress while sitting in a chair embroidered with hyacinth flowers. I was beautiful, but behind the eyes my mother had given me, they were empty. They were not mine.

I remember the fanciest parties in a ballroom of angelic murals and gold. I wore a new dress every time. A white dress with gold stitching, a pink one of flowers, a green one in jade. Hundreds and hundreds of dollars poured out of my parent’s pockets to maintain my reputation as the daughter of a King. The same dollars that should have been spent to serve the people. 

The nobles laughed, and danced, filling their stomachs with food but still hungry for more. No amount of food would have ever been able to suffice their disgusting greed. I could still feel the melody leaving my fingers as I pressed every key on the marble piano, its sound barely heard through the chatter of the ballroom. I felt like a mere centerpiece for the people to admire without a real purpose. Even as a princess I was not unaware of the world falling apart. The peasants were growing angrier by the day as they starved and ached. The king ignored their cries and for that, I was killed. 

The creak of my balcony door and the cold night air filled my bedroom. Footsteps crept slowly, the heavy boots pressing against the carpeted floors. And then, I feel a cold blade puncture my skin and pierce my stomach. I didn’t let out a single cry or scream. Instead, I felt mercy. Mercy that maybe this was the punishment for my father’s sins; for his blood was mine as well. He let the people starve while he adorned me in jewels made of their blood. It wasn’t until the heat of the blade finally left my stomach, that I felt free again. 

I lived my next life as the daughter of the assassin who killed me. I awoke cradled in a new mother’s arms; her hair messily tied and the fabric of her clothes coarse. Her eyes were gentle, but I saw a mysterious pain within them. Her cheeks slightly sunk in and dirt stained the wrinkles of her face. Upon realization of my circumstances, my newborn instincts kicked in and I began to cry. In every life I’ve lived, I could not fend off those infantile habits.

Time had passed and I had gotten used to being in this body. I spent my days exploring the village and then coming home to my mother, where she cooked with what little food we had. I roamed the alleyways and passed the rundown buildings that were barely standing. I made my way to the town billboard where we received the latest news of the kingdom. Pinned upon the board were dirty newspapers, listing the events of the week. A revolution was about to begin. I peeked my head through the crowd and caught a glimpse of the most recent paper. I saw a woman wearing a beautiful dress, her hands clasped in her lap as she sat in a chair. Next to her, was a man in uniform covered in metals and charms. They were the king and queen, posing for the portrait stained in my memory. I looked closer and saw spit staining the print of their faces. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when I felt I was going to be crushed by the passionate rebellious crowd. 

“On this day! A hero who was a part of this revolution assassinated the royal princess to pay for the suffering we have endured. The king throws parties and indulges in luxury while we all starve! Tonight, we shall storm into the palace and kill the rest of the royal family!” the crowd roared. All of a sudden, I was picked up by the man who was giving the speech and placed on his broad shoulder. 

“This child is the daughter of the great man who killed the princess for our cause! He was a brave soldier who did not deserve to be executed for what he did! We shall avenge this child’s father and receive justice for the people!” 

The crowd started cheering even louder, but my eyes were still set on the billboard. The queen does not deserve to be killed. She was the mother in my last life who loved me with all her heart. I sometimes wonder how she felt when her daughter died. If she witnessed the princess’ body slain in the bed meant to keep her warm and protected. Or if the scene had painted another portrait for the palace walls to keep.

But I didn’t entirely oppose the revolution. Although my last life was on the royal family’s side, I felt hollow. I was relieved of the king’s sins for letting his people starve, but I was now part of the people. My stomach rumbled and ached, every day a mystery if there’d be enough for me and my new mother to eat. When the king is slain, I wonder if he’d find mercy in his death like I did. 

The crowd dispersed, preparing their weapons to storm the palace. I ran back to my house but then suddenly stopped at the door. If the king and queen knew I was their daughter who had experienced an untimely death, would they have treated the people better? I step into the house and see my mother in the rugged kitchen. 

“Will you avenge your father, dear?” my mother asked suddenly. She placed one plate with a single slice of bread down on the table. I didn’t respond. She welcomed me to the table but I froze in place. An overwhelming feeling rose over me. I ran out of the house and ran straight for the palace. I snuck into a wagon heading into the palace and ran to find the king and queen. I wanted to save them even if they were the ones who caused my starvation. 

I made it inside but where could they be? I felt that maybe, my memories wouldn’t be the cause of my suffering for once in my eternal life. I headed for the portrait hall on instinct; and there they were, standing in front of the princess’ portrait. They turned their heads and the queen gasped; her eyes, filled with fear rather than love. The king quickly pointed his sword at me and shouted,

“Are you one of those rebels!?” 

“I- I’m here to warn you.”

“I know that they’re coming, what brings a peasant girl here!” the king roared.

“I beg of you mother and father, just provide for the peasants and it’ll all be over.”

“M- mother? What mockery is this! How dare you claim to be my deceased daughter on the day she was killed!” the queen clenched her white-gloved fists. The king gripped his sword tightly, his eyes locked onto mine. I ran towards the princess’ portrait but before I could reach it, I was met with his cold blade. 

What a familiar feeling. 

I collapsed on my knees and turned to the queen’s gaze as she trembled in fear. The king withdrew his sword when shouting arose outside as the angry peasants banged against the palace doors. I fell to the floor, looking at the portrait that once was me.

Of all the lives I have lived, this one was the most cruel. I can only wish for mercy.