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Timothy hastily pounced on his bed sheets, and the wooden bunk bed creaked under his insignificant weight. Writhing on the unwelcome cold bed, the boy tried to wriggle underneath the bed sheets. It was an unusually cold night in autumn, and all the windows in the flat were open. But Tim didn’t mind. Fresh air was much better than the usual thick heavy scent of cigarettes. And he enjoyed that, after he quickly slid underneath his bed sheets and his skin was dotted with goose bumps, warmth slowly came to caress his underweight quivering body.

-          Timmy?

The boy lifted his wide icy blue eyes. He didn’t know his sister was already in bed. She wasn’t any older than her brother, although she was still his elder sister – she was nine years old. And yet, her younger brother was the one to always comfort her and calm her down. The tough little man always knew how to at least make her smile.

-          Timmy, – the girl murmured timidly again in her soprano voice, – are you there?

He knew full well that behind that question, another one was hiding.

-          I’m okay, – he assured, – Are you okay?

Brooding and morbid silence was the answer. The eight year old boy bit down on his lower lip, permitting his gaze and his thoughts to wander. He shouldn’t have asked her that, for the answer was too apparent. She was never in bed this early. And Helen didn’t want to dwell on her well-being (or lack thereof). No, she wanted her brother to make her feel better.

-          Helen?

-          Mm?

-          Remember when we would make up our own fairy tales?

-          Yes.

-          You wanna try now?

-          Yeah.

-          Do you wanna start?

-          Can I?

-          Uh-huh.

Helen loved making up fairy tales of her own. Whenever she was grounded, she would read. Oh, how she loved reading. Everything, really – from children books to her mother’s books. Their father wanted to throw them all away, but Helen hid her mother’s favourite literature. The unfortunate girl dreamed of being a writer one day. Oh, yes, she was going to be a famous writer, and she was going to sit behind a desk, smiling as brightly as her mother used to, signing her books for her loyal readers.

-          Helen?

-          Yeah?

-          You gonna start?

-          Oh. Yeah.  – Helen licked her dry chapped lips before starting, – Beyond seven mountain spines and seven seas, at the very Southern edge of the world, there was a dark cave. In the depths of that cave, amongst all the rock that shined with tiny little stars like morning snow, grew a flower of indescribable beauty. This flower was one of a kind in the entire world, and it was said that it was a princess under a curse. The curse left her as a helpless beautiful flower, and it would disperse only if her true love came to pick her up.

Agelessly the flower waited for her true love to come and not only save her, but seal a life of happiness and love.  Much to the dismay of the princess, however, that was not to be. One day, an evil King learned about the princess and her curse. Knowing that it was a perfect opportunity to seize the royal girl’s kingdom, the heinous King went to find the cave. And when he did, he walked down the narrow corridor to find the flower. Shamelessly, he plucked the divine flower, forever taking away hope from the princess.

Years after, the kingdom belonged to the tyrannous King, as planned. And in his throne room he kept the flower for his own dark amusement. Those who have visited the royal hall have noticed that the flower infinitely sheds her petals, and bards have immediately recognised that as the poor princess ceaselessly crying...

-          Helen?

Again no answer came. The girl dug her fingers into the bed sheet and pulled it up to hide her cute little bruised visage in it. Her own petals started pouring down her cheeks, the rough material of the sheets greedily absorbing every tear drop. No matter how hard she tried to keep quiet, the child’s quick and brief sobs were still audible.

-          Once upon a time, – Timothy began, – in a rich kingdom far, far away; a kingdom, which merchants, bards and other travellers alike were lucky to discover, lived a greedy, oppressive King. Just to amuse himself, he would daily order executions. Sometimes, he would execute prisoners, but if there were none of them to murder, he’d order an innocent peasant to be executed. He wouldn’t attend these executions himself – he watched them from afar, from a balcony in his castle.

However, the King was the one to march through the corridors of the prison and decide who would be hanged. So, one day, this King walks past all those fearful peasants kept together in the same cells as criminals, and notices someone who looks exactly like him, just much poorer and dirtier. Surprised, the King asked the prisoner who he was. The old man said that he was the King’s conscience. The King laughed, and picked that poor old man as the one to be hanged.

And the next day, it was the King being led to the gallows. No matter how hard he struggled and fought, trying to tell them that he is their King, nobody listened to him. The rope was put around his neck, and soon... Soon, the King’s conscience killed him.

-          Tim?

Upon hearing his sister speak up through her seemingly endless sobs, he didn’t hesitate to reply.

-          Yeah?

-          What are we gonna do? What’s gonna happen to us?

The boy curled into a miniature ball, hugging his knees on which his chin now rested. He didn’t know. He didn’t know, and he was scared. And it is today that the kid learns that there comes a time when a man must lie, for the truth can chain one’s dreams no less than it can set one free. Closing his watery eyes, Timothy mutters hoarsely:

-          We’ll be okay.