(I can't believe these torturers continued this even longer.)
(It's been three months.)
(I don't even know whether I should even call him Piggy anymore)
(Is he ok?)
Time became an endless blur, like sand slipping through his fingers, each grain another grueling task, another failure, another step toward something he didn't want. (Come on Alex, salvation comes in many ways. Lets think of it that way). Alex could feel the weight of his body shifting, the plushness of his belly and cheeks slowly fading away, replaced with hard, unfamiliar muscle.
He didn't care. (But objectively, I care. I love it but I feel despondently guilty for admiring it)
His body was changing under the relentless pressure, his muscles tightening from hours of grueling exercise, his limbs becoming sculpted and leaner despite the exhaustion that weighed him down. Every drop of sweat, every grunt of pain, every time his body screamed at him to stop—none of it mattered. His once soft, round face was slowly chiseling itself into something angular, his cheeks hollowing out, his jawline sharpening into something fierce and unforgiving. (If I had a dream hero, it would be you Alex, you should be proud. And I should feel ashamed for thinking happily while you are hurting)
He should have been proud, he should have felt some sense of accomplishment, but all he could feel was an overwhelming emptiness. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be beautiful. (Correction, not beautiful. A sculpture of the gods smuggled out of heaven. Oh I'm sorry Alex, but I think I'm going insane right now). He didn't want to become a perfect reflection of a ruler he didn't even desire to be. He wanted to be free. He wanted to curl up in a corner and disappear, to escape this suffocating world where every breath felt like a demand to perform. (I totally understand you. If I were you I'd feel the same thing---No, I would feel even worse)
Alex stood in front of the mirror one morning, seeing the evidence of the harsh training reflected back at him. His chest was broad now, his arms thick with muscle, and his legs, once too soft and round to hold any strength, were lean and firm. His face, once puffy and full, had been replaced by something sharp, almost ethereal, something that belonged to a prince, to a king. (But Alex, think positively, you are close to salvation from torturers #1-3 than you think. All you need to do is become King)
But Alex felt nothing. He didn't recognize the man in the mirror. (I recognise you, Alex). The handsome, sculpted stranger staring back at him was a prisoner, not a ruler.
"I look like a king," he muttered bitterly under his breath. (Why do you sound so sad, Alex? You look amazing. You also looked amazing as a Pig but this is also good. Don't be bitter. Think happy thoughts, my friend). His voice was raw, a reflection of the countless days without proper rest or food. He ran a hand through his hair, still disheveled and tangled from the sleepless nights. It wasn't his body he hated—it was everything that had been done to him. The manipulation, the constant pressure, the sense that he was no longer human, but a vessel to be shaped into something the kingdom could be proud of. (scoff~ I think the kingdom deserves you. You deserve the kingdom. Not the other way around)
And for what? So he could take on a responsibility he didn't want? So he could bear the weight of a crown that had no meaning for him? (It does have a meaning, Alex, if you take revenge)
He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. I wish I could just die, he thought, the words almost a comfort in their simplicity. (No, no, no Alex, don't wish that. I'm here even though you don't feel me. I need you to be okay). There was a part of him that wished for an escape—any escape—from this nightmare. But that wasn't an option, not in his world. His siblings wouldn't let him quit. The crown wouldn't let him quit. He was stuck in this hell, and it felt like there was no way out. ('m sorry I have no solution for that)
The harsh clatter of boots echoed outside his door, followed by the sound of the door opening. Lorelei's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. (Ugh, her again. I wish she would just disappear)
"Alex, stop staring at yourself. We've got work to do." Her tone was as cold and calculated as ever. She didn't care about his pain, about the way his eyes had lost their spark, about the slow death inside of him that was impossible to hide anymore. He wasn't a person to her; he was a project. A broken, spoiled prince who had to be remade into something useful. (If I had a body, I would've strangled you for Alex. Be grateful I don't have a body, Business-magazine)
Alex didn't answer. He didn't have the energy to fight anymore. His eyes flickered to her, but he saw nothing of the sister he had once hoped to confide in. In her, he saw only the cold, ruthless instructor, the cruel taskmaster who would never let him rest. (Alex just strangle her, you are stronger than her now. Just do it. I won't blame you. I'll gladly take the blame if you want)
She walked over to him and gave him a sharp, appraising look. "You're finally starting to look like you might be useful. But don't get too comfortable. You're still far from where you need to be." (As if, he's better than you now, you self-centered brat)
He didn't say anything. What was the point? (Why? there is a point! Come on! Blast her!) He was used to the insults now, the criticism that came in waves, each one more cutting than the last. He was used to the hunger, the aching muscles, the fatigue that never seemed to fade. His body was becoming leaner, stronger, but it was hollow. He could feel the emptiness inside, a black void that even the perfect physique couldn't fill. (Just stab her or soemthing. Hurry, no one is here as a witness--I don't exist)
"Good," Lorelei added, though it lacked any hint of praise. "We'll push harder today. More strategy drills. If you can't keep up, you won't eat. Do you understand?" (How long are you going to keep this up. He's been barely given food for three months. He's starving. How much longer is this going to go on for. Alex, she isnt worth your time. Just slap her or blast her with words, your choice)
Alex nodded mutely, not trusting his voice. (No! Trust it!) It wasn't the first time she had threatened him with food deprivation. It was becoming a regular part of his miserable routine. Every time he failed, every time he faltered, they took it from him. His only source of comfort—his only release—was the food he used to binge on. Now, it had become a cruel carrot, dangled just out of his reach. (You aren't just get rid of her! Don't self-deprecate! You are the otaku king! Come on, Alex!)
As they made their way to the training room, Alex couldn't help but notice how different he felt. Every step felt heavier than the last. Not because of the weight of his body—though it was still heavy—but because of the weight of his soul, the slow, steady erosion of what little hope he had left. He had been reduced to a machine, something that existed only to perform, to obey. His transformation wasn't just physical; it was mental, emotional, too. It felt like part of him had died along the way—perhaps the part that had once dreamed of being something more than just a figurehead. (Come on---just rebel!)
It was the constant state of hunger and exhaustion that had done it. The food deprivation, the sleepless nights, the mind-numbing repetition. His body had become a prison, a reminder of his failures and the impossible task before him. But the real torture was what lay inside—what had started as resentment and fear was slowly turning into a deep, gnawing apathy. He didn't care about his appearance anymore. He didn't care about his family's expectations. He didn't care about the crown.
But deep inside, a voice still whispered, You have to care. You have to survive. You have no choice.
And so he endured. Even though a part of him wished he could escape this life of torture, he kept going. There was no other option.
(Alex, you do have a choice)
(You do have an option)
(You just need to choose it)
(And trust yourself. And me)