I Killed the Lord of the Rings by Argenis Ovalles ('17)

           It has been weeks since I’ve been fed. Whenever I remind Sauron I am a human being too, he slaps me. My pride has been shattered. I thought my life was going to be different outside of Berlin. Instead, these wounds don’t seem to heal. My back is broken from all the heavy lifting the beast makes me do. “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” That’s what people call me. It wasn’t always like this.

           The year was 1875 when Father died. Mother was ill and I was the only hope the Von Schwartz Family had. “Petrov, get out of here. Live your life,” she said. She was always like that: not a selfish bone in her ivory body. She had principles too. “Thou shall never steal” was Katerina Petrova’s motto. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Every once in a while, I would steal and never get caught, until one day.

           I stole two pieces of bread for Mother. That was enough to sentence me for life in prison. It is a cruel world in there. Re-education is the purpose. Torture is what they served me instead. Five years passed, and then I saw him. A tall Aryan with blue eyes. His name was Sauron Morgothson. “I am here to get you out,” he said. “If and only if you accept to serve me for the next ten years.” I did not think twice. I had one condition, though, to see my Mother.

           When we got to her residence, she was laying on the bed. I kissed her forehead. “I love you, son,” she said. “I love you more, mom.” I rested my head on her bosom one last time. I felt her last heartbeat. She was gone. I knew she willingly tried to save me, but I blamed myself. I cried. The fire in my heart died, and my chance of living a worthy life is gone forever. I knew that wherever I stood that night, was wherever I was going to spend the next many nights. This pain was just too real. I was a slave now. I knew what that meant. Eventually, I started to ask him for the details of me serving him. “About that. It’s not ten years. I lied.” And so it began.

           Mistreatment after mistreatment. Whip cracking after whip cracking. Ten years have passed. I am twenty-five years old. And stronger. I was making a break for it, but first, I had to eat something. I knew he kept a turkey in the refrigerator all for himself. I ate it, but heard something. “You self-begotten bastard. Didn’t your parents every teach you to follow orders?” It was him. It became a wild goose chase. I went to the living room and hid underneath the couch. I saw a knife and a bottle. “Come out, come out wherever you are.” He saw me and with a nearby rope, he tried to strangle me. There was a tunnel in sight, but I had to fight back. I wounded him with a knife. He threw a bottle at me. I dodged it and it broke. With a piece of glass from it, I slit his throat. “No! Have mercy!” was all he could say.

           “There's just too much that time cannot erase. I am no self-begotten bastard. The name is Petrov of Karl Von Schwartz and Katerina Petrova.” It was done. Freedom by any means necessary because, well, the action justifies the means. Sorry, Mother, but desperate times call for desperate measures. In that case? No principles needed. The world is a much better place now. His wealth can be distributed to the poor, except for his one ring. That’s mine. As for my faith? There’s still salvation for me. I am still so far from the forever. 


"I Killed the Lord of the Rings" is based on the above image titled, The Misanthrope (1568), by Pieter Bruegel the Elder.