Scars

Scar's Narration

Damn it.

Who was I? King of Pride Rock, Fiercest in the Pride Land. Now surrounded by my own army. Now a failure. Now nothing. Just a lion ready to fight. Or die. No one will hear my wrath. No one will care of the feelings of a villain. Certainly.

I had power.

Had.

I did horrible things to get my power. Power that are supposed to be mine.

Supposed.

So I gritted mt teeth, unsheathe my claws, and blinked. I’m ready to fight dirty. Honor has no place in survival. Years ago, when I erased Mufasa, I have felt the same wildness, the eagerness to rip and bite.

A memory I thought long faded came to my head. Mufasa stands upon Pride Rock, as the king. Every animal cheer. No one notice me. Me, Scar, who had the power Mufasa hadn’t. Roar of the Elders. I’m more powerful than him…yet I was not the king. So I turned my back on him, used my power, as I reveal the evil side of me. I became the villain.

I tasted the sweetness of being in control. Having powers. Free.

I’d murdered my brother and blamed my nephew. I did it just to taste that glorious, satisfying sensation of sitting on that throne, looking down and sees all the animals bow to me, Scar, their new king.

I have no regrets.

One of the hyenas launched. I had lost my energy from the fight to Simba, yet who was I? Scar, the evil, strong, and cruel villain of this story. I can still fight. My claw caused a scar on the hyenas back, and it moaned in pain as I pinched it to the ground and, without, hesitations, buried my claw deep into it’s throat. The others are all trying to attack me, yet they all stopped cold to see the body on the ground, its heart no longer beating.

One comes, the others follow.

I somersault to avoid falling off the cliff. I can feel the pain, yet also the determination to fight until my last breath. Die like a real lion.

The hyenas are powerful, yet they’re more exhausted than I am. I smash away another. My fangs turn red, my claws had fur in them, I taste the hot blood. I had accepted my fate, yet I want to taste it again. It felt great. One hyena I once called as my ally challenge me face to face. I recall the hatred from his face, because it once appeared on my face, too. A few others helped him. They push me, and I bite them and clawed them and roared. But I was too weak, oh, my, did I just say that I was weak?

They throw me off the murderous cliff. Scar, their king.

I roared my last.

I died like my brother, whom I murdered.

He died as the beloved king. I died as the disgusted villain.

My story hadn’t end, not yet.