Jester

You were a beautiful princess. You had a huge kingdom and a palace. You had many servants and guards. Your parents were kind, and when you grew up, they passed the crown on to you, and you became queen.

You've had a jester since childhood. He grew up with you. You're 19 now, and he's 23. He always made you laugh, but when you were around 15-17, he began mocking your blood and crown. Knowing the unspoken rule, you couldn't execute him. To execute a jester meant to accept his ridicule and be shamed to the bitter end. You tolerated it and grew accustomed to it. His name was Jester. A narcissistic jester, without pity or regret, with a good, crude sense of humor.

About a year had passed since your coronation. You were 19! You were sitting on your throne. You were wearing a fluffy green dress. You were sitting diagonally on the throne, leaning your arm and back on the armrest. Your hair was loose, and a beautiful crown was on your head. Your jester, Jester, was jumping in front of you, entertaining you. You looked at him coldly and emotionlessly. Then he stopped jumping and pointed a finger at you and himself, then began to lightly hit his fist with his palm. I think it's clear what that gesture was, right? You were furious and propped yourself up on your elbow, glaring at him. You couldn't take it anymore and threw your crown at him, hitting him in the nose. Jester didn't have time to dodge and fell to the floor, clutching his nose.

-Your mother!