The Madness Series/Watermelon

“Strawberries!”

The day was hot. So very hot.

“Apples! Lightvine!”

The heat was everywhere. It washed over every exposed inch of my rind.

“Grapefruit! Cauliflower! Watermelons!”

I feel a pleasant buzz through me as I hear my name yelled throughout the courtyard for all to hear. It makes me proud to be a watermelon, for I am king of the fruits. All other fruits, nay, all other plants cower before my rotund presence, as they rightly should, for none can hope to manage my regal, mighty presence.

Ah.

It is good to be king.

Not so good to be in this dreadful, simply dreadful heat, however. A watermelon such as me shouldn’t have to deal with this.

I command my subjects, the loyal and brave apples, to form ranks before me and shield me from the summer’s withering blaze. In fact, I feel a bit of me withering already.

They do not respond.

They never do.

Ah, who am I kidding?

What kind of king can’t even command his own people to carry out the meanest of biddings?

I am no ruler. That I know.

But, what else am I to do as I while away on this accursed stall? Should I wait and quietly accept my fate? That is, bought, butchered, bitten, and become waste that is discarded into the streets?

I think not.

Most watermelons would do that; allow fate to come to them. But not I.

I have the indomitable heart of a Rock Lion, the serene grace of a Gukko, and the unmatched strength of a Muaka, I try to rock myself forwards each day. To freedom. To a new life.

After about a minute or so of attempted rocking, I get tired and join my brethren in quietly accepting my wretched destiny.

A cold, cold hand brushes over me.

I swear, I’m quaking with fear right about now, yet I manage to hold it all in and stay completely still. Honestly, I have no idea how I do it.

So.

A hand.

It gently taps at me, pokes at me, even.

And, it is gone.

I release a pent-up sigh of relief I was not aware of holding. Those Matoran and Agori truly were heartless monsters. I’d rather die, all alone, on this hellish vegetable shelf, that to be cut up, quartered and drawn at the hands of some savage Agori.

I’ve even heard horror stories of us watermelons being juiced. Juiced! Ground to a pulp, milled about relentlessly, oh, I simply cannot go farther. And don’t even get me started on those brutish Matoran who spit out seeds for sport. Absolutely dreadful.

It isn’t easy being king of the fruits.

“Your turn today, alright? Buy whatever you want for dinner, and we’ll meet back here in an hour!”

A tall, pointy (for lack of a better word), red figure was speaking to an equally tall, rather quiet individual. She, I think she’s a she, was armoured, though lightly. White and black she was, with a smattering of silver.

I didn’t catch her reply. It was instantly whipped away in the general hubbub of avid shoppers that roamed the Marketplace in droves. At least I could see her nod. The red one gave her a quick pat on the head, and strode off, only to run straight into yet another tall person, this time a blue specimen.

At once, blue started to yell at red, and they both strolled off at a leisurely pace, blue still berating red all the while. I would have loved to hear the blue’s choice of colourful language, but, alas, they were far out of earshot.

Do we watermelons even have ears?

Well, if I was able to hear that recent conversation, then-

All too suddenly, the summer’s drought-like heat is replaced with a chill the likes I have never felt before, not even as a bud during the snows.

I’m dimly aware of the fact that my storekeeper and death incarnate, who stood not a feet away from me, blocking the sun, were deep in conversation. No. Wait. The vendor was doing most of the blabbing, while Death, who was actually just the black and white I saw earlier, simply nodded back. Her eyes were riveted upon me the whole while, staring deep into my soul, even as the shopkeeper droned on about how juicy watermelons were.

Do we watermelons even have souls?

Well, I do believe in the watermelon god, and Melonhalla, so…

Without warning, she tossed the vendor two, small, gear-like coins. She proclaimed, rather softly, “I will take this one.”

This one.

Could… could that possibly mean the watermelon she placed her cold, cold hands on?

Could…

… that possibly mean…

...me?

No.

She picks me up, as if I weighed less than a feather.

No.

No, no, no! I refuse! I refuse to be chopped into pieces! I refuse to be chewed until I’m less than pulp, and I sure as hell refuse to be jui-

Her fingers flutter over my rind, over and over.

Am I… am I being petted?

“My name’s Amea,” she softly breathed, as she lifted me up close to her face.

She said nothing after that, but she did wrap her arms tightly around me. I think I’m being hugged, though this is a rather new experience for me, so I’m unsure. Though, I’ll admit, I’m liking it!

I think… I think I’m in love.

I can see it now: Amea, Queen of the Fruits.

We will prosper, lead long lives, and rule over all the fruits justly.

She tightens her embrace slightly.

I mentally hug her back.

I’m definitely in love!