Recounts of an Anonymity - 6

(I have tried to rewrite this 3 times for no reason)

"Y-Your Highness!" The Anonymity exclaimed as he heard the door creak. The crowned prince stood there, a frown on his face. The Anonymity dropped the book he was holding, smiling nervously, trying not to fidget. He didn't know why he felt so nervous, but the letter the second prince sent felt more like threats than instructions.

"So, you really came," the crowned prince said, sitting down heavily on a chair and sighing. "What a good boy, always listening to your master's instructions."

"Ah! Y-You are my master, now, Your Highness," The Anonymity corrected. Although he didn't like the idea of calling the crowned prince his master, he had no other choice. Unless he wanted to end up as a slave again.

"Do you know of a puppet called Ren?" The crowned prince asked, looking idly outside the window. He reminded the Anonymity of the second prince.

"Yes, Your Highness." He was the boy with the lantern in the Anonymity's small dungeon room.

"Good. You must know that he was a messenger boy, other than a toy." The crowned prince handed him a letter. "Deliver this to the queen."

The Anonymity nodded, hurrying to leave.

-

As he walked along the halls, he kept his eyes fixated on the windows, or the delicate designs on the walls, or the pictures of empty people with empty stares. He tried not to think about the bodies of maids and servants resting lifelessly on the ground, nor the metallic smell of blood, nor the red dots on his hands and face, stains on his clothes that wouldn't come out no matter how hard he tried to wipe them off.

As he walked, he got close to the windows, looking at his reflection. It was a thing he did often nowadays, to check if he had any blood on him. He did it in the mirror every night, too.

Sometimes, he would see a red patch, forming at his left hand, the one that held the pail of water. Slowly, the red would creep up his arms, dots on his skin, so many many dots, burning holes in him, so deep he could see bones and flesh.

He would try to wipe the red off, but it wouldn't come off. He scratched the burns they gave him, on his arms, his chests, his neck, and even his face. The more he scratched, the more they itched. He would scratch until he left real blood, and his fingers fell off. His nails were eaten by the red, and the strength left his arms and legs. He would collapse to the ground, as joints hit the ground like wooden building blocks. Then, as he snapped back to reality, the only thing on his face would be tears and bloody scratches.

The Anonymity looked away from the mirror, but as he passed the maids in the hallway, he could hear muffled screams, and an awful thud as they fell. When he put his hands over his ears, he still heard when he dragged their cold bodies across the ground. When he squeezed his eyes close, he still saw their empty dull stares, the holes in their chests where a sword had been, arms and heads rolling on the blood-slick carpets. He still felt his hands on the rough, wooden mop handles, or the metal of the pail, or the cold water that soaked his hands when he squeezed water and blood out. He still felt their heavy bodies as he dragged them across the halls, and watching them fall towards the dungeon grounds. He still smelled the horrible stench of death, and heard his own, ragged breath and silent crying.

Somehow, he made it to the queen's office room.