AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And make those traitors pay.
We take our place
Beside our best boy;
The throne is ours today!
The throne is ours today!
The throne is ours today!
The throne is ours today!
Arabella, I notice, is singing her heart out to every word.
The song then morphs into the same simplistic anthem that had been sung the time Rory and I were at the theater seeingTosca.
Antiro till I die,
We will forever vie
With the darkened lies
To always survive.
It’s this that makes my world slant somehow, my vision darkening as the Antiro lyrics penetrate my mind. I’ve thought of them so often since the time I’d first heard them — and I can recite them word for word, which isn’t exactly difficult — but as the crowd begins to sing along in approval, one voice on top of another, that sick feeling of violation still washes over me, just as it had the first time I’d been forced to listen to it.
At that moment, I decide I can’t stand to hear more of this stupid song and leave for the restroom. Finlay tries to stop me but I’m too quick. As I push past the drunk dancing revelers, there’s a growing background chant of “Fuck them! Fuck them! Fuck the royalists! Fuck them! Fuck them! Fuck the royalists!”
I stagger into the women’s toilets, passing closed doors containing the sounds of female moaning and male grunting until finally I find an empty stall at the end of the row. I breathe in deeply as the world blackens and narrows, and distantly I wonder if I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
It takes long minutes for the world to rebalance, as I sit with my eyes tight shut. Away from the melody but not its thumping bass, a deep sense of clarity slowly spreads over me. My heart rate descends and levels out. I rest my head against my knees, knowing I’ve drunk too much, knowing what an idiot I’ve been, getting triggered by a stupid song that barely even rhymes. I could just stay here in this wet little cubicle, safely ensconced between these four walls, for the rest of the night.
And that’s when I glance up.
There’swritingon the walls.
The whole cubicle is covered in it. My mouth drops open as I take in the various scrawls, all in different styles of handwriting. Front and center is the angry chunky blackANTIRO FOREVERfollowed by theAsymbol but also, to my surprise, the scribbles branching off of it —lol,what a loser,get a life, virtue signal elsewhere you dumb fuck,find something actually worth crying over. Although just about legible, all of these have been scored out, obliterated by a livid pen.
My eyes sweep the rest of the walls.Lucas Milton is fitter than Jamie Crieff, pass it on— it makes me smile, as does the enthusiastic,I agree!!!with an adoring loveheart beside it. But both of these comments have also been struck out. A glossy Antiro sticker appears to have been slapped over the most pro-Luke hot-spot of wall comments, a weak attempt to disguise Luke’s secret, and apparently growing, popularity.
Suddenly, I’m gripped by a wave of excitement I never knew possible. Jonie was right. Thereisresistance. Even in one of the deepest pockets of Benji fandom — because in my mind, that’s all this seems to be — in one of the most anonymous, private spaces, there is clap-back. There is activism and honesty. There is the freedom to do and be all these things without life-derailing repercussions.
Push Benji onto the public without their consent, and the public runs in the other direction.
I rummage around my purse, searching for a pen. I have words to add. I have things to contribute in this small but attentive space against Benjamin Moncrieff.
I tug out a pen and my hand hovers over the wall, poised to write something immense. Intense. Powerful.
Yes, I have words to say about Benji. All the words that have ever filled my head about him — they make up more than a stream, they make a veritable ocean. A tidal wave of rage.
He take, take, takes.
My hand remains poised against the wall but it refuses to budge any further. It’s as though an invisible barrier has been put into position, stopping me from adding my thoughts. And the barrier too is somehow in my mind.
He took, took, took.
I sigh and drop my hand, leaning against the wall with all its messy scribbles, the true thoughts of real people unburdened by having to play pretend and perform their agreement to the latest political coup in public.
I could just leave. Let others speak. Don’t influence anything.
But no. I’m greedy and a little bit vengeful. I want the world to hear the truth.
In the stall adjacent to me, someone bangs the door open and proceeds toward the row of sinks. They whistle the Antiro anthem while washing their hands, all chirpy and upbeat, like this is a game and not real life.
No. Fuck it. They can’t get away with this. If they can spread lies without consequence, why can’t I spread the truth?
I think of Jonie. I think of myself.
I pick up my pen and raise it to the wall — and this time, with the Antiro anthem whirling between my ears and spurring me on, I write.
