Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Lone Wolf ❯ Papa ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

 

“To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys.

 

And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me.

 

To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.

 

But if you tame me, then we shall need each other.

 

To me, you will be unique in all the world.

 

To you, I shall be unique in all the world...”

 

 

 

[Antoine de Saint-Exupéry; ‘The Little Prince’]

 

 

 

 

 

********************************************

 

 

 

I. Papa

 

Papa was a Saiyan King.

 

At least, he was meant to be.

 

 

 

In truth, Papa was not even my real dad, but the second love of my mother’s life.

 

My biological father was a brilliant man of Science, a one-of-a-kind inventor who rose to the greatest heights of international fame at an unusually young age, marrying the woman he’d fallen in love with, and amassing a vast fortune that turned him into one of the wealthiest self-made men on the planet.

 

He lost his life when I was little more than one year old, perishing on a tragic plane crash while he was on his way to holding a conference on modern robotics, leaving behind a successful company worth literal billions, together with a young widow and a child who were utterly incapable of assuming control over such great responsibility.

 

I wouldn’t know just how much my mother cried over her heartbreaking loss, all I know are the smart choices she was forced to make at such a painfully delicate time, choices that would shape and mold me into the woman I am today and, ultimately, changing our lives in ways we wouldn’t have ever thought possible, even if we’d tried.

 

My memories from those early days are practically inexistent but, many years later, Mama would patiently take her time explaining to me why she did the things she did, and why she decided to gift me with an existence so incredibly different from the one I was initially born into, in West City.

 

She claimed to have heard far too many stories of spoiled little princesses, too many accounts of wealthy, orphaned heiresses growing up in an artificial reality, surrounded by greedy parasites and shameless sycophants, and hounded by the kind of ruthless tabloid culture that seemed to enjoy building up those in the public eye, only to tear them down with just as much ease.

 

Thus, for my sake and her own, and only a mere week after burying the body of the first man she’d ever loved, Mama resolved to leave Capsule Corporation in the competent hands of the private circle of my father’s most-trusted friends, a small committee of talented scientists who promised to take care of Doctor Briefs’ legacy until I was old enough to take my rightful place as the new head of the company.

 

Unbeknownst to me, and even long after we moved far away from the urban area, my mother was always shrewd enough to keep a close eye on the business’ figures, studying on her own as much as she could, in order to make sure that, not only my father’s inheritance was preserved intact, but that it grew at a steady pace, year after year, as we consolidated our position as the only manufacturer of hoi-poi capsules in the world.

 

Mama’s next decision was perhaps the strangest of them all, the decision to buy a massive piece of land in the countryside, a wide rural area encompassing the extensive terrain holding the house that’d become our home, as well as several mountains and forested hills too, bordered by a long, crystalline river, and a handful of ancient villages whose population had been progressively decreasing in recent times.       

 

The legal details of such an eccentric purchase were kept in tightlipped secrecy, so much so, that the residents of the nearby townlets never realized that their new neighbors were, in fact, the owners of the very same lands they’d populated for years.

 

On top of that, Mama spared no expense to keep our names outside of the media, and publicly detached from the revered memory of Dr. Trunks Briefs, at least, until the time was right for me to be deemed mature enough to handle the pressure of a more public life, and always promising me that it would be my choice, and mine alone, to carry on with the family heritage that my departed father had left awaiting me.     

 

Out of the many deserted houses scattered all throughout those green mountains, my mother chose one of the biggest and oldest ones as our new home, developing a surprising streak of self-reliance by restoring the place to its former, traditional splendor, all on her own.

 

I was much too small to be of any assistance back in those early years, but Mama would later tell me that her newfound desire for independence bloomed from the first promise my parents made to each other on the night I was born. A loving vow to always allow me to be myself, and to watch over me until I decided which path I’d wish to follow in life.

 

Sadly, my father’s life was truncated before he could fulfill his end of the deal, but Mama never failed to remind me that someway, somehow, his presence was still alive all around us, and that his luminous spirit would guard me forever.                               

 

I now believe that promise to be the silent impulse behind my mother’s admirable strength, the one driving her every step of the way, helping her hammer every single nail into that worn-out wood, fixing every floor, every hole of our old, leaky ceiling, and dusting off every speck of dirt from those opaque windows, until that pattern of beautiful flowers gently emerged from the delicate glass.  

 

I’ll never find enough words to thank my Mama for all she did for me, for creating a home that was warm, happy and safe, a home where the kind memory of my father was kept alive by enjoying our present to the fullest.

 

As soon as I showed the first signs of having inherited my dad’s brains, Mama turned the old barn located behind our house into a marvelous learning space, with large, shiny blackboards hanging from each of its high walls, overflown with lively notebooks, boxes of colorful crayons, and more books of Science than any child my age could have ever hoped to read.           

 

I grew up, wild and free, in a world of my own, a world filled with early mornings and long walks by the river, a world standing on the most perfect balance, suspended somewhere between nature and science, wilderness and civilization, a world where I could spend hours lost in the imaginative sanctuary that was built for me alone, only to run outside as I pleased, sinking my hands into the soil of my mother’s splendid vegetable garden.

 

Mama said that it was here where she finally found peace again, and it wasn’t long before she could hardly imagine ever having lived her life in any other way.

 

And so, years went by as we both abandoned ourselves to our own little Eden until, one day, on a cold, snowy night, two magical men fell right from the Skies, turning the world as we’d always known it upside down forevermore.

 

 

 

 

 

II. Encounter   

 

I’d just blown six candles on my last Birthday cake, and it was business as usual for my young, intrepid self, just one of those days in which my mind was way too restless to waste such a sunny winter’s morning locked up in my laboratory.

 

It’s always been said that children often feel too small and vulnerable in the world surrounding them but, as I look back, I now realize with no shame that I never felt quite as invincible as I did back in those days.

 

So, I run and run up the mountain, childishly ignoring my Mama’s prudent warnings about legendary wolves and the odd, elusive bear sighting, armed with one of my latest inventions as sole means of self-preservation, and completely oblivious to the fateful encounter about to cross my naïve way.

 

“Who’s there?!” I instinctively yelped, turning around like a flash the minute the faintest rustle of leaves reached my ears, shaky hands pointing my small weapon at the strange man standing solemnly in front of me, with the same aura of a hazy ghost.

 

The tall warrior would have intimidated even a fully adult man, but to a small ragamuffin like me, his larger-than-life figure resembled that of a dark God, and I could do nothing but freeze in the spot, secretly hoping that my homemade electronic zapper would be powerful enough to make him lose consciousness, while I somehow managed to make a quick exit.

 

“Is that a weapon, child?” He asked with unnerving calmness, the hint of a cheeky smirk curving his chapped lips. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me…” His challenge came without delay, slow hand rising, a wide-open palm facing right at me as he invited me, without a hint of fear, to test my clever invention on him.      

 

At the risk of tooting my own horn, I’d say I stood my ground pretty well under such unusual circumstances and, although I won’t deny the two or three drops of cold sweat running down my neck, I still succeeded in pulling myself together for yet another bluff.

 

“You sure?” I frowned menacingly, more intrigued than frightened by the remarkably cool stranger staring back at me. “Because I’m real, real scary, you know?!” I barked, and my wimpy scowl must have been the most terrifying thing he’d ever had to battle, for he responded to my second threat with the loudest, raspy guffaw.

 

“I bet you are!” The older man chuckled, thoroughly amused by my ingenuous bravery. “Go on! Show me your power, child…”       

 

I shouldn’t.

 

I shouldn’t have.

 

There were so many reasons why I shouldn’t have pointed such a powerful gun at him, let alone shoot in his direction, but his annoying defiance was far too tempting, making me ignore even my Mama’s advice, and the promise I’d made to her to never, ever, use my weapon against another person, unless it was a life or death situation.

 

So, I did.

 

I shot at him with all my might and, despite my more than obvious lack of skill, I succeeded in hitting the bulls-eye, or I would have, if it weren’t for the supernatural resilience of the man who was never even a man in the first place.

 

His hand didn’t waver, didn’t move an inch, remaining immobile instead, and closing his fist around the electrical forces that would have knocked to the ground a man three-times heavier than him.

 

“Woah!” My dry mouth gasped in amazement, utterly dumbfounded by the alien way in which this mysterious stranger kept handling the energy in his hold, tilting his head to the side as he examined it with genuine curiosity, and slowly rotating his fist while he observed it, almost playing with it, in the same way a puppy would with a stray tennis ball.

 

“Not bad,” he concluded after a few seconds, flinching in slight pain when he finally threw it away, a feat that I consider a small personal victory, still to this day. “Not bad at all…”

 

My young brain was already short-circuiting by the time he took his first step towards me, his movements slow but determined, allowing me very little time to take a good look at his full figure, but long enough to absorb the handful of details I vividly remember, even today.

 

His built was tall and muscular, but without falling into the excessive bulkiness of the bodybuilders one can watch on the television nowadays. But his most unique feature was surely that wild mane of black, flame-shaped hair that would soon become so dear to me, together with an unkept, salt-and-pepper beard, crowned by lightly sunken cheeks, all of it wrapped in a lovely shade of caramel skin.

 

A long, thick scar crossed the base of his sturdy neck, highly visible thanks to the wide neck of the ragged linen shirt covering his torso, together with the pair of equally old pants that, given the much-too-short length openly displaying his bare ankles, showed signs of having once belonged to a way smaller man.

 

But the one thing that struck me the most were his naked feet, dirtied by a thick layer of damp earth; not just because the weather was still insanely cold for anyone on the ball to go outside without any shoes on, but because, despite the hardness of that mountain’s soil, not a single cut or wound had been able to damage such toughened skin.

 

“What’s your name, child?” He demanded with shocking gentleness once he fully stood before me, laying a hand as large as my skull atop my head.

 

“Bulma,” I replied without hesitation, and I still wonder how it was possible for me to stay as calm as I was in that instant, even as I gawked in marvel at the penetrating eyes analyzing me to the very bone.

 

Perhaps it was because I sensed no real threat within the dark depths of that predatory stare, a stare that looked more like the drained eyes of a retired old lion, rather than the danger of a much younger one, one of those restless hunters with an unquenched thirst for fresh blood, and a whole lot to prove.

 

“Bulma…” The gargantuan stranger repeated after me, the tinge of an exotic accent lacing his alien tongue, freely testing my name on it. “You’ve got spirit, child,” he praised me at once, lopsided smirk widening as he playfully ruffled my messy blue hair. “I bet he’d really like you…”

 

I was given no chance to ask who this secretive ‘he’ even was, and all I could do was keep my jaw dropped as the barefoot warrior turned around smoothly, returning to the spot where we’d first exchanged words, and picking up the dead deer he’d dropped on the ground when I’d interrupted his wild hunting session.

 

He then threw his prey over one shoulder as if it weighed less than nothing, refusing to acknowledge me any further while slowly disappearing into the heavy mountain mist, cheering himself up with the ancient tunes of a light whistle.

 

My legs reacted faster than my brains this time around, and they run for their lives as I tried to go back home as early as I could, eager both to leave the kooky hunter behind, and to share my extraordinary adventure with the caring Mama waiting for me in our warm kitchen.

 

“Careful there, child!” That now familiar voice reprimanded, lifting me off the ground at superhuman speed just as I was about to eat some serious mud, not even hiding anymore just how ridiculously tickled he was by my small, clumsy feet.

 

“My name is Bulma! BULMA!” I screeched in retort, openly defying this deadly stranger, like the cocky little pest I’ve always been at heart. “And you can put me down now, you know?!”

 

I twisted and turned like a squirmy ringworm, but every one of my pointless efforts only served to make his hold on me even stronger, his laughter bolder. “Oh, I will, Bulma…” A simple promise came, his pace never faltering. “But let’s wait until we reach the foot of the hill, shall we?” He snickered at my irritated little huff. “That’s such a pretty dress you’re wearing, isn’t it? We wouldn’t want it to get dirty…”

 

This should have been the perfect time for me to talk back and try to humiliate my temporary kidnapper, letting him know that my brand-new burgundy coat was not a damn dress, but by then I was so frustrated by my imprisonment, and so childishly impatient to see my Mama again, that I had no energy left in me to discuss fashion choices with the most bizarre,  arrogant man I’d ever seen in my short life.

 

So, I let him win this battle too, wearing crossed-arms and my most petulant pout as I let him carry me like a sack of baby potatoes, tiny legs dangling in the air as he kept my small midriff firmly grasped under his left arm, holding just as tightly to the dead animal still hanging from his right shoulder, and noisily whistling that grating song of his like there was no tomorrow.   

 

My captor was true to his word, just as he often would be in years to come, settling me on solid ground, with surprisingly great care, the moment we reached the damp road at the bottom of the mountain, watching me with the interest of a silent hawk while I run like thunder back to my home’s safety.

 

“Mama! Mama!” I called for her in my loudest voice, fidgeting on anxious feet outside her large vegetable patch, too hyper to even make any rational sense.

 

“What is it?” She stood on slow feet, wiping the faint sheen of sweat off her brow as she obeyed my impatient gestures, signaling for her to join me outside the house as soon as possible.

 

“I met a strong man!” I confessed, so incapable of waiting anymore that I run to her, meeting her halfway, and holding onto one of her legs as I babbled breathlessly. “In…! In the mountain! I met…! A strong man! Real, real strong, Mama!!!”

 

That sweet, eternal smile of hers didn’t fade, but even I could see a touch of honest concern taking over her calm features. “You did?” She asked again.

 

“Yup!” I stated without a care in the world. “And…! And then I…!”

 

“Is…? Is that him, Bulma?” Mama questioned in a lower tone, her gaze now firmly fixated on the dark, but unmistakable silhouette of my new forest friend.

 

“Y-Yeah…” I whispered, caught wholly off-guard for once; as mischievous as the uncivilized warrior seemed to be, I truly didn’t expect him to be audacious enough to chase me right to the front of our wooden porch. “I shot him, Mama,” I guiltily admitted, shyly pulling from one of the sleeves of her jumper as I murmured my confession in her ear. “And it didn’t work…”

 

“Bulma! You shot him?” She susurrated right back, real horror in her bright blue eyes as she undeniably thought of the kind of damage my little weapon could have inflicted on an actual human being. “I thought I told you about that. Didn’t I? You know how dangerous…?”

 

“But Mama! He asked me to! He asked me, Mama!” I moped at full volume, because I’d be damned if I was going to let our uninvited guest make me take the blame all on my own.

 

“He did?” Mama asked in quiet disbelief. “Bulma, why…?”

 

“Is that your daughter?” The enigmatic foreigner interjected, revealing, yet again, that vague hint of an accent much too rare for us to dare identify.

 

He kept standing perfectly still, just as oddly solemn as he’d been during our first encounter; but, despite the impressive deer still hanging lifelessly from one of his broad shoulders, there was a sincere effort on his part to look as nonthreatening as he could this time, together with a roguish glint beaming in that deep, black stare, that I now know Mama must have found so utterly irresistible.

 

“Yes, she is,” she acknowledged, not without prudence. “And she just told me she shot you back in the forest. I’m… I’m terribly sorry.” Mama lightly stuttered. “I’ve always asked her not to shoot people, but…”

 

“That’s quite alright,” he chuckled in good nature, looking just as amused by my mother’s coyness as he had been by my intrepidness just hours earlier. “There’s no need to apologize. I asked her to.”

 

“She really did?”

 

“See? I told yah!!!” I exclaimed triumphantly, rewarding my new ally’s support with my proudest told-you-so grin.

 

“She really did,” he nodded in confirmation. “I merely wished to measure your child’s power,” he explained matter-of-fact, as if measuring a kid’s strength were the most natural of practices. “Your daughter is brave. You must be proud.”

 

The sincerity in his approval cleared the air in an instant, and I guess it must have been right in that very moment that Mama saw what I’d already seen back when he’d first praised me in the mountain.

 

Whoever this man was, and wherever it was that he’d come from, he carried tragedy on his tired shoulders, the kind of grief that only those who’d barely survived to the cruelest twist of Fate by the skin of their teeth would ever get to bear, the kind of sadness that even a naïve, secretly frightened child like myself, had openly noticed when he’d allowed himself the dangerous luxury of letting his guard down.    

 

However, the red threads of Providence work in mysterious ways and, what the Gods had so mercilessly taken away from this man and his one descendant, a generous human woman was about to restore in her own loving way.

 

Mama may have always had to endure the reputation of being a bit of an airhead, falsely accused by those idiotic enough to mistake her kindness for weakness, and wrongly believing that not much substance could hide behind her more than evident beauty, and those dreamy, brilliant smiles of hers.

 

But, on a clear-skied morning of Winter, my mother’s heart overruled her reason, making the amazing choice to give an honest chance to a man who’d never even known the true meaning of honesty, a man born and bred in violent chaos, so unaccustomed to being tended a candid hand, that he didn’t quite know what to do with it when it was finally offered to him.

 

“Yes, I am,” Mama assented, running long, nurturing fingers across my ruffled hair. “I’m very, very proud of her…” She declared, smiling straight at me to make sure that I knew her to mean every word, and making me feel high as a kite as she did so. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves,” she carried on after a brief pause. “My name is Panchy, by the way. And this is Bulma. And you are…?”

 

The way that man’s eyes bulged at the sight of my Mama’s innocent hand would have been almost comical, if it weren’t for the sad reason hiding behind his noticeable mistrust. I suppose there’s hilarity in the realization that someone as immensely powerful as my second father could have been afraid of a couple of weak, defenseless women like ourselves. Then again, it’s a universal truth that genuine emotions can scare even the toughest of men and, by the subtle blush tinting his bony cheeks, my Papa must have been feeling something back then.

 

A really good something.

 

“Vegeta,” he answered at last, the hesitancy in his unsteady hand a telltale sign of his unfamiliarity with our human traditions.

 

“Vegeta…” Mama softly murmured, almost to herself. “It’s such an unusual name! So pretty! Right, Bulma?”

 

By then, I’d probably lost the thread of whatever it was that was happening around me, but I must have surely nodded in agreement with my mother, if only to show my support to the arrogant stranger I’d befriended in the mountains, and who was suddenly looking more and more like a lovesick little lamb in the presence of my beautiful Mama.

 

“How about some tea?” She offered without airs, already removing her boots as she stepped into our home’s entrance. “It’s sunny today, but it’s still pretty chilly, right? How about we make some tea for our new friend?” She half-asked me, helping me take off my coat and gently coaxing me to go help her in the kitchen. “You can leave that outside. I’m sure it’ll be safe out there…” Mama playfully winked at him, eyeing the dead animal that our cryptic guest kept stubbornly carrying around everywhere he turned.  

 

A few minutes passed before I joined my future Papa back in our living room, and though it should have already been more than apparent that he was far from an ordinary man, I still remember just how odd, how painfully different he looked to me now that he was a klutzy figure standing gracelessly inside our home.

 

Mama and I had built our very own piece of Paradise, spending countless hours happily isolated from the outside world, and yet, we still welcomed a guest or two every now and again. Our visitors mostly consisted of snoopy neighbors from nearby villages, and ever the perfect hostess, Mama would always offer them snacks and a warm cup of tea, listening with quiet resignation to their mundane stories as she smiled and nodded politely at them.

 

Some of our company turned out to be quite interesting, and most of it wasn’t in the slightest, but for all their differences and idiosyncrasies, they all shared some common behavior, the kind of manners that at least proved them to be comfortable socializing with other human beings.

 

But Papa, standing by our small dinner table, with tense arms hanging anxiously on both sides of his impressive body, looked nothing like those gossipy housewives and old farmers. Instead, he more closely resembled an awkward giant, one of those magical creatures, raised away from civilization, that inhabited the fantastic fairytales of my youth.

 

He took a seat only after I did, imitating me with poorly concealed embarrassment, as if he’d never even seen a kotatsu before, let alone sit around one; and it was impossible to not feel a tinge of sympathy for him and his bruised fingers, twitching uncomfortably while he squinted at the large tray of pastries that Mama made me set on our shiny table.  

 

“These are real nice,” I mumbled in between nibbling on a yummy blueberry scone, shyly pushing the tray closer to him, trying to get rid of the distrust in those flaring nostrils of his. “Mama makes them almost every day…”

 

My hungry bites must have finally convinced him of the lack of poison in our homemade food, and I’ll never forget the way his dimmed eyes widened in sheer pleasure, or the raspy hum purring in his throat as he found joy in my mother’s delicious cooking.

 

“It’s warm, right?” I giggled in delight, pressing my chubby cheek against the table when I saw my Papa almost melting into the cozy heat of our great invention.

 

It didn’t take long for his voracious appetite to materialize, a gluttonous hunger that was out of this world, and which became one of my mother’s favorite qualities in him, in years to come, the perfect excuse to spend hours upon hours looking up new recipes, using my Papa as a more than willing guinea pig to test her already impressive cooking skills.

 

One devoured pastry became two, and two quickly turned into three, and, by the time Mama finally showed up in the living room, bringing some of her best white jasmine tea with her, not a single crumb was left as evidence that those fluffy scones ever existed.

 

“Oh my!” Mama jokingly gasped at the discovery that our new guest was, quite literally, a cutting-edge eating machine. “What a healthy appetite you have! Isn’t that great, Bulma?” She asked as her gaze fell gently on me, making me instinctively agree with her, even if I wasn’t totally sure of what was going on anymore. “I think we have some pie in the fridge. Oh! And some nice plum cake too! Wait a second, darling…” She chirped, almost trotting on her happy way back to our full kitchen.

 

For the next couple of hours, Mama and I sipped wordlessly on our hot tea, watching in awe as this alien warrior eagerly disposed of practically every available sweet in the house. The rarest thing of all was that, despite his deplorable appearance, Papa possessed some surprisingly good manners at the table, using our humble cutlery with the skill of a seasoned pro, and even wiping his mouth with a napkin whenever he felt like chasing off yet another mouthful of food with my mother’s fragrant drink.

 

The deepest, most contented sigh announced that his bottomless pit of a stomach had been satisfied, and Papa spent the rest of the brief time he dedicated to us, on that first day, in utmost silence, a cheek resting on a lazy hand while he drank slowly, listening to my Mama’s stories with enraptured attention.

 

It soon became clear that our secretive guest was a man of few words, and the only real bit of information we got out of him was the admission that he’d come to our country, not long ago, from what he only described as a “faraway land”, and that he’d recently purchased one of the abandoned old homes scattered in the surrounding area of our own vicinity, and he still hadn’t had the chance to fully settle in his new home.

 

Why did my mother never call him out on his blatant lie, I’ll never know; perhaps she was already too captivated by this handsome stranger to let him in in the little truth that, unbeknownst even to my younger self, we were the secret owners of every empty house in these isolated mountains. Or maybe, she felt just as much pity for him as I did when I first saw the poor state he was in, wondering if his insane appetite wasn’t just due to the natural voraciousness of his exotic race, but to the sad fact that he mustn’t have eaten a decent meal since only the Gods knew when.

 

Whatever the reason, Mama was as generous as ever, ignoring his pathetic fabrications, and even going as far as offering to visit him, and help him out around the house, or even cook him a meal or two if he was ever too busy to properly take care of himself.

 

It was at the mention of this imaginary visit that the spell was broken, and both my Mama and I jolted at the sudden way in which he stood from our table, the rarest rush of guilt assaulting his ragged features at the mere idea of us ever visiting this mysterious home of his.

 

He clumsily stretched his long limbs, numb after having spent those few hours cozily snuggled underneath our comfy kotatsu; and he said his goodbyes with, yet again, an unexpectedly regal demeanor, visibly shivering when he stepped outside in his flimsy clothing, throwing his prey over his shoulder with his usual ease, and getting ready to go back to wherever it was that he’d come from to begin with.

 

But I guess my Mama’s charms must have already worked their magic, because this time, my soon-to-be Papa didn’t just turn around and walk away with the same indifference he’d shown me during our early encounter.

 

This time, my father couldn’t help but take my mother’s friendly hand when she offered it to him in kind goodbye, just like he couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping slightly when Mama told him just much she’d enjoyed meeting him, and how she couldn’t wait for him to visit us again as soon as he had a chance.

 

Back then, I used to believe that, maybe, he’d found it shocking to be welcomed back into a home where he’d just rudely abused our hospitality by gobbling down every tasty dessert in sight.

 

But now, knowing what I know about the past of the fierce fighter who’d just stumbled into our lives, I can see that he was simply the kind of man one never wanted to see again after a single encounter, the kind of man with the power to instill such fear in the hearts of those beneath him, that the belief of most people being glad to see him walk away, never to return, was far too ingrained inside of him.

 

Mama’s proposal must have been the first sign of true compassion he’d ever experienced, and her kindheartedness must have been so hard to resist, that Papa found himself assenting with little reluctance, meekly agreeing to pay us another visit sometime soon.

 

I stood by the door by my mother’s side, clinging to her muddy gardening pants as I silently watched this weird giant disappear into the distance, holding the naïve certainty that it wouldn’t be long before our new playmate would safely come back to our home.    

 

 

 

 

 

III. Dandelion

 

I’ve never needed one real memory to know my Mama’s love for my first Papa to be unconditional, just like I’ve always carried his love in my heart, even if my actual recollections of him are half-invented ones, unreal visions made out of my mother’s tales, a handful of worn out photographs, and the few boxes of personal belongings he left behind, all of it enveloped in the musky scent of vetiver cologne and cigarette smoke that I’ve always come to associate with him.

 

But I’d be lying if I claimed to know what my mother had once looked like while he was still alive, such as the gloomy look in her eye as she looked out the window while he was gone, waiting for him to join us at the table as she kept our meals hot just a bit longer. Or the coquettish smile subtly painting her lips as she did her hair in front of the mirror, combing and pulling it back with more care than usual, and even embellishing her already lively mouth with a faint touch of glossy rouge.           

 

These are things I came to know only when Mama finally considered opening her heart to a new man, subtle changes that might have been imperceptible to anyone else, but that, through our unbreakable bond, were plain as day even to old little me.              

 

I must admit that, if Mama was quietly looking forward to a new visit from our enigmatic hunter, I didn’t fall that far behind, feeling myself growing impatient by the second, and grateful that my father’s shameless interest in my mother couldn’t keep him away from us for more than three days.

 

His presence remained a stoic one when he appeared announced at our door, but the sprinkled feathers tangled in his wild hair made it impossible to be intimidated by him, and Mama couldn’t contain her giggles when she raised her eyes from her beloved garden, not even bothering to hide her excitement at seeing him again as she practically jogged towards our home to greet him.

 

The two large pheasants hanging limply from one of his big hands were the reason behind his messy appearance, and when Mama understood that Papa had brought them as a genial offering to us, she wasted no time in asking him to pluck them outside while she got the kitchen ready to turn them into a heartwarming stew.

 

By the look in our guest’s face, it must have been mouthwatering indeed and, this time, my mother wasn’t caught by surprise by my father’s avid hunger anymore, serving him dish after dish of all the delicious meals she’d cooked for him in his absence.

 

One would think that Mama was cheekily trying to prove that the way to a man’s heart was through his insatiable stomach, but my Papa’s very presence in our home, and the docile way in which he spoke, and mostly hung on to my mother’s every word, was proof enough of him being completely smitten with her already.

 

His reserved nature hadn’t changed much yet, but Mama was more than happy to make up for his shortcomings, keeping the conversation flowing with no trouble, and even encouraging me to join them as well, giving away the existence of my precious laboratory, and asking me to show some of my newest inventions to our accidental friend.

 

I don’t exactly remember what kind of silly gadgets I showed him on that day, but I distinctly recall my tiny chest swelling with pride at his honest praise, and how amazingly insightful his questions were, showing an interest in my still immature achievements that none of our rural neighbors ever had before.

 

For a man who looked every inch like the adult version of one of those abandoned children, who’d been found and raised by wolves in the middle of nowhere, my father felt at home around high-tech devices, and the issues he raised went beyond the dumb, generic ones often asked by those so obviously clueless about the functioning of my inventions.

 

Papa left our home that afternoon with a full stomach, a spanking new capsule bursting with Mama’s perfectly packed meals and confectionaries, and the hint of a conceited smirk playing on his lips, happy as a clam to see my mother’s face flushing so prettily when he bid his goodbyes by pressing the most chivalrous kiss on her timid hand.

 

The promise of a third visit was left unspoken, but it took place a meager two days later, when Papa nearly gave Mama a heart attack through jumping on our tattered roof without warning. He practically took her hammer from her, offering to fix one of the many leaks that Mama, for reasons I couldn’t fully comprehend back then, used to always try to fix all by herself.

 

The repairs were simple for a strong, seasoned warrior like him, and though they didn’t leave much extra damage in those coarse hands of his, my mother used them as a great excuse to take a good look at the many wounds ravaging his flesh.

 

It would be the first of the endless times in which my mother would care for my father, disinfecting and bandaging his cuts and bruises in a way that was as loving as it was intimate, a quiet routine that grew into an almost sacred ritual, the two of them kneeling on the tatami while I sat right between them, happily munching on juicy oranges as I gave all my attention to my Mama’s every gesture.

 

I know now that Papa was, once upon a time, healed by the most advanced doctors money could buy, but no one would say it, judging by the pure gratitude shining in his eyes, carefully clenching and unclenching his dressed fists in wonder, perhaps because no one had ever healed him before without asking for something in return.

 

His fourth visit was to be the first planned one, and it would also be mine and Mama’s turn to disappoint him this time, running back home late after having wasted too much time buying provisions on a nearby village.

 

It’s hard to believe that the beaten man, sitting dejectedly on the stairs of our locked house, was the same vain stranger who’d challenged me in the mountains not that long ago. And yet, there he was, hunched shoulders, head facing the ground, and a yellow dandelion twirling idly between his dirty fingers.

 

It was a wildflower.

 

Small and sad.

 

But to my Mama, it must have looked as resplendent as a lavish bouquet of roses. “Is it for me?” She chuckled warmly, standing in front of him as she extended an eager hand. “So beautiful…” She whispered in reassurance, holding the tiny thing in her fingers, and brushing it lightly against her nose. “Thank you…”    

 

Maybe the flower had been for my mother all along, or maybe my father was just using it as a harmless pastime until our eventual return. Whatever the reason, I’ll never forget how adorably flustered he looked in that instant, his features freezing in profound shock when Mama treated his humble gift like a precious treasure.

 

That evening went along just as smoothly as the others, with Papa gorging on my mother’s food like his life depended on it, while us gals stared at him dumbfoundedly, eating a bite or two as we exchanged silent but mischievous smirks, still finding his ginormous appetite absolutely hysterical.

 

Off and on, Papa’s glance would wander across our rainy window, losing itself within the cloudy skies but, mostly, contemplating the fluffy dandelion that Mama had so fondly placed in a small crystal bottle on the windowsill.

 

The look in his eye was at times pensive, at times vacant, but most of all, he looked like a man who’d just solved a great enigma, a man who’d just learnt that this Universe was made out of forbidden secrets privy to everyone but him.

 

 

 

I don’t know why Papa chose that day to entrust us with his most prized possession.

 

I wouldn’t know.

 

All I know is that a drizzly afternoon was the time chosen for this alien pariah to spin the Wheels of Fortune of my own personal journey, setting every life force into motion, and kindling the dazzling flame that would guide me through every step I’ve ever walked from then onwards.

 

 

 

Papa wasn’t alone.

 

He had a son, a little boy around the same age as me whose mother had died, giving birth to him, back in the unnamed country they both originated from.

 

As I dig deep inside my most cherished memories, I now realize that Papa didn’t even mention the child’s name back then, but I can still hear the light wingbeat of the butterflies fluttering wildly in my chest, reverberating with an excitement that no sane person should have ever felt towards someone they’d never met.

 

My father was guarded as he could be, carefully measuring what he could and couldn’t share with the couple of nosy females listening to him with beguiled attention, but the pain seeping through his every word was enough to imply that, just as we’d guessed, his tale was one of woe.

 

The day his boy turned five years of age, a powerful man who held control over the territory that used to be their home, requested that the child be given to him as some sort of apprentice, offering to raise and mentor him in exchange for protection for my father’s family, and his country’s people.

 

In my poor, immature eyes, the deal sounded like a pretty sweet one, and it might have been, if it weren’t because, almost two years later, Papa heard word that his son was extremely unhappy, and he arranged for a group of his comrades to join him, and to embark on a secret mission to get his boy back as soon as they could, safely bringing him back home with all of them.

 

Their quest was a successful one, but they grossly underestimated just how disturbingly displeased this powerful leader felt when he discovered their sly betrayal, culminating with Papa, his son and their friends being officially accused of high treason, sentenced to a lifetime of exile, far, far away from the lands where they’d once belonged.

 

As it was, the story was depressing enough to a silly little girl like me, and if I have to thank my mother for all the good she did for me, saving me from a childhood of nasty scrutiny and unnecessary worries, my father deserves just as much credit for choosing to protect my innocence, edulcorating his life story in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

 

It would be many, many years later, that I’d find out the horrifying details that Papa had so carefully kept hidden from me, such as the fact that the ‘powerful man’ who’d once enslaved his son was not a man but the most despicable monster; or the terrible truth that they’d never get to set foot back in their homeland again, not due to ‘exile’, but to the entire annihilation of their alien race, burnt to scorching ashes by the same bastard who’d once tried to groom my father’s child into his own vile image.

 

But tiny, carefree me didn’t care.

 

Tiny, carefree me only cared about the unexpected existence of a mysterious boy I couldn’t wait to meet. “Mama! Mama!” I gasped ecstatically, presuming that, if I’d enjoyed the visits of our strange new friend so far, I’d love playing with his miniature version even more. “Can we go visit? Can we?!”   

 

“That’d be nice,” Mama smiled at me, and only now do I understand that the prudence in her tone meant she already believed my father’s story to be way more tragic than he’d let us know so far. “But it’s up to Vegeta to invite us, don’t you think?”

 

“I…” Papa visibly hesitated, his now fuller cheeks flushing crimson in response to my girly enthusiasm, perhaps not used to seeing some frail child showing any real interest in meeting his extraordinary son. “I’ll have to discuss it with him first.”

 

The vagueness of his lukewarm promise felt as if he’d just thrown cold water all over me and, as always, Mama was quick to settle things, paving the way for a change of subject.

 

“We’d love to meet him, Vegeta,” she spoke in her softest voice, her hand looking smaller than ever when she rested it atop my father’s battered one, a subtle gesture of affection that would become more and more common in weeks to come. “But we understand if your son is too shy to meet us yet. It’s okay to take your time. You can bring him here whenever you like, you know that…”

 

I can’t, for the life of me, remember what else was spoken during that stormy afternoon, except for a foreign, red-hot anger boiling in my stomach, an impotence I’d never known before, feeling so small, so helpless, mad at myself for not being an adult and being able to do as I damn well pleased.

 

I wanted to run.

 

I wanted to run to that lonely, empty house, throw my arms around that sad little boy with no home and no Mama, and tell him that it’d be okay, that everything would be okay because I was here.

 

And I always would be.

 

 

 

I had to meet him.

 

I needed to meet him.

 

 

 

 

 

IV. Moonlight

 

There were eight jars on our window the one time Papa broke his promise.      

 

After learning of my mother’s love for anything beautiful, no matter how humble its origin, my father never came back to us empty-handed again, and Mama gladly kept a generous supply of small, empty jars in our kitchen, ready to fill them with the freshly cut handfuls of wildflowers always clinging to my Papa’s hands.

 

As happy as I was to see the blissful smile on my mother’s lips, pouring hot tea for the embarrassed warrior sitting by the window as he clumsily arranged his modest gift on each one of those glass jars, every one of my Papa’s following visits filled me with a greater sense of despair.

 

‘Where is he?’ ‘Why doesn’t he come to see us?’ ‘Does he hate us?’ I asked myself over and over, the ghostly image of that child, so close to us and yet so far away, haunting even my dreams, and setting my imagination free to roam on all the possible scenarios in which we’d eventually meet, and whether or not he’d be just as fascinating as his outlandish father.

 

It didn’t help that Mama, well aware of my daily escapades into the wild, strictly forbade me from straying too far from our house and, more specifically, from ever attempting to find out just where exactly our new neighbors lived, practically begging me to obey her, if only this once, and to give that little boy time to mentally prepare before he invited new people into his life.

 

I’m not ashamed to admit that my nature has always been a rebellious one; but, despite having broken my Mama’s lenient rules once or twice, I like to believe that I’ve always listened to her intuition when it truly mattered. So, I caved in, holding the secret hope that my future best friend would already be readying his heart to soon embrace mine.

 

But the story I was trying to share on this occasion was a different one, it’s the story of how my Papa made up his mind at last, coming to the lifechanging decision to bare his soul to the woman he’d share the rest of his life with.

 

I didn’t witness such a memorable night with my own two eyes, and my mother selfishly kept such a priceless memory to herself until I was a fully-grown woman, but I can attest, as sure as the Moon rises every night, to the veracity of her fairytale.

 

The early signs of my Papa’s imminent confession manifested the day before his first failed visit when, after enjoying his usual, opulent meal with both of us, he sat in the shade of our large porch with my mother, sharing some iced tea with her while I took a catnap nearby.

 

Winter had just made itself scarce, giving way to shiny blue mornings, and to those hot, lethargic noons in which all one could do was laze around until the Sun went down.

 

Don’t ask me how, but I remember, I do remember hearing my father’s bashful proposal as I dozed on and off on the tatami, gently lulled by the buzzing sounds of our small fan, and of the hardworking bees flying around in the garden.

 

“It’d be nice to have a home,” Papa muttered, seemingly out of nowhere. “To say ‘I’m home’, and to wash my face and my hands,” he paused for a long minute, leisurely draining his drink until all I could hear was the cooling noise of clinking ice. “I’d sit in a large armchair. That’d be nice…” He carried on, followed by a long, insecure sigh. “I’d build a bookcase for Bulma, and once that bookcase was full of books, then I’d build her a new bookcase. I’d be able to do whatever I wanted because it would be my own home…”

 

My eyelids blinked in my weak sleep, and I smiled drowsily into my small pillow at the thought of a new Papa filling my world with even more books, a smile that only grew when I peeked at my father’s hand, timidly reaching out for my mother’s as he lay it on the ground without another word, waiting for her to meet him right in the middle.

 

“Then, I’ll say ‘Welcome home’, if you want…” Mama’s response came without delay, not a drop of reservation in her voice, nor in the fingers that entwined themselves by instinct with my Papa’s.

 

It must have been one of the very few stances in which I’ve seen visible incredulity in my father’s body language, in the way his shoulders rose at my mother’s confident touch, to the point of turning to face her, making sure that Mama understood, beyond doubt, the veiled meaning behind his words.               

 

“Panchy,” he said after a bit, his glance falling back on that sunny sky once he was reassured by my mother’s honesty, and if only I’d possessed a talent for the Arts, I would have loved to paint that ethereal instant, the delicate silhouette of my parents against that colorful field of wildflowers, their hands entangled, hopeful eyes lost in the distance as they realized their feelings for one another.

 

“What is it?”

 

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

 

“You can tell me anything,” was Mama’s answer, nothing but truth in the serenity that was her voice.

 

“Actually…” He vacillated for what sounded like a small eternity, cracking at the weight of the agonizing burden he was still choosing to live with all on his own. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

Tomorrow came.

 

But Papa didn’t.

 

We waited, and waited, and waited at the table, watching inexorable minutes pass by as my mother kept our food warm for as long as she could, finally taking pity on me when it became evident that our normally punctual guest wouldn’t be making an appearance anytime soon.

 

“I guess we can start eating now,” she broke our awkward silence, plating up a dish and setting it in front of me with the poor attempt of an encouraging smile. “I’m sure Vegeta’s alright. Maybe something came up, right?” She pondered with a goofy grin, almost as if cheering herself up, taking her time re-doing my sloppy ponytail before going back to her spot, digging into her own food with miserable apathy.

 

Mama had always prided herself on following my late grandfather’s advice, the one who taught her from a very early age to smile like a flower at all times, no matter how hard things got, to just keep smiling, even if the smile became contrived, because only then, he said, one could overcome most things in life.       

 

But, on the day that Papa first went back on his word, the woman who’d once even smiled at her father’s funeral, became the living picture of sadness, forcing herself to pick at her food for my own sake while stealing quick glances outside, never resigning herself to the idea of the man she loved having already forgotten his promises.

 

Never before had I realized how contagious Mama’s happiness was, only grasping how much my emotions reflected hers when I found myself spending the remains of that day chasing her around the house, clinging to her skirt and babbling about whatever funny story I could dream up, craving to turn my mother’s frozen smile into a beautiful, genuine one.

 

I’m convinced that all my silly efforts were in vain, but when she tucked little me in bed that night, I could at least fall asleep knowing I’d done the best I could to raise her spirits, blissfully oblivious, as I melted into my futon, of the magical incident that would transpire that night.

 

The events that followed have come straight from my mother’s tongue, and as such, I’ll try my hardest to narrate them with the faithfulness that my parents’ miraculous story deserves.

 

After making sure that I’d effectively drifted off, Mama curled up on her favorite spot in our couch, utterly spent by the emotional rollercoaster she’d been through that day, but not ready yet to call it a day. It could be that she was still waiting to see if my father would change his mind about us, or whether some unexpected emergency had actually forced him to stand us up that day.

 

She’d later tell me she didn’t know the exact time in which her dream came true, only that the Moon was high in the sky when that unmistakably husky voice woke her up from her light slumber.

 

“Panchy…” Papa whispered in the dark, and any woman in her right mind would have run for the hills at the ghostlike figure of that towering man standing in front of her, barely illuminated by the dim flame of a fairy light.

 

But not my Mama, who languidly rubbed the sleep off her eyes with her fists, making all the heartache they’d both been through disappear with a silent, indolent smile.

 

“I’m sorry, Panchy,” he regretted, voice breaking, moved by how easily Mama’s forgiveness seemed to come. “My bad…” His head bowed in submission, dropping on one knee, and gingerly holding my mother’s hand, pressing it against his lips as he freed a long, shaky breath. “There’s something I need to show you. I should have…” Papa wavered, and I can only imagine his dread at exposing himself, like he was about to, to the woman he’d already chosen as his future mate. “I should have told you sooner, but I…”

 

“It’s okay,” Mama put him at ease, and only then did she find the strength to walk one step closer to his heart, kneeling before him and reaching out by wrapping her arms around his solid neck. “Show me, then…”

 

Down the road, my mother admitted to having had reservations about Papa’s murky secret, but she also told me that something about him made her feel strangely at peace, as if she’d unconsciously known, even then, that my father would never cause us any harm.

 

Papa’s domineering instincts kicked in just as my Mama’s embrace enveloped him all over, and he never once let go of her after that, carrying her in strong arms as he prepared to bare his very essence to her. After reassuring her that they wouldn’t be gone for long, and double-checking on me as I slept peacefully underneath my light, pink sheets, they both went outside, locking the door behind them, and venturing into their nocturnal adventure.    

 

It was then that Mama finally learnt what she’d suspected all along, that my father was no everyday man, and that he possessed the extraordinary gift to do things that us, mere mortals, could have never dreamt of.    

 

 

 

Papa could fly.

 

He really could.

 

And that’s exactly what he did, taking off into the star-filled skies with the smooth effortlessness of a legendary Firebird, one arm firmly enclosing my mother’s waist, his other hand resting on the fragile nape of her neck, delicately encouraging her to protect herself from the cool elements of the night by hiding her face in his shoulder.

 

Not only could my father navigate the air like no human ever did, his nocturnal vision was also unparalleled, swinging and zigzagging without a hitch, and easily avoiding every obstacle and trap on his way until they reached the secluded top of one of the nearby hills, not far from our own house.

 

Mama’s eyes still sparkled in exhilaration when she tried to explain to me the giddy sensations overwhelming her the first time she flew in my father’s arms, a sensation like no other, and one I would experience in my own flesh not long after my parents’ first attempt.

 

There are no words to describe that excitement, and both Mama and I giggled complicitly as we struggled to put a name to such thrill, a thrill I’ve only ever been able to define as an electrifying explosion, a delicious blend of primal fear, and the irrational conviction that the warrior holding me above cottony clouds would never let me fall.      

 

Once they made it to Papa’s chosen spot, a remote clearing on top of that timbered hill, he gradually released my mother from the shelter he’d built for her, taking one reluctant step back, and only letting go of her trembling hands when he made sure that his dizzy darling had recovered enough to stand on her own two feet.

 

I wonder if my father was taken by surprise by Mama’s silence, or if he ever knew that the reason behind her quietness was not the lack of a million questions, but admiration. And I would have loved for him to see just how adorably my mother’s cheeks blushed when she confessed to me, in the most demure whisper, that he’d never looked more handsome to her than he did that night, the night in which his true self was set free, at long last.

 

“Don’t be afraid…” He pleaded in a tremulous murmur, calloused fingertips still brushing my mother’s a little longer, terrified of never being given the chance to touch her again if worse came to worst.

 

When he ultimately found the courage to unloose her, he distanced himself from her even further, his back always facing the majestic full moon reigning over the night, and Mama said that, despite the spectral quality emanating from his every pore, the rousing sensation swirling wildly all through her was one of anticipation, never of fear.

 

“I told you…” Papa began with a hesitant stutter. “I told you I came from a faraway land…” He reminded her, hands reaching for the wide neck of his thin shirt, stripping it over his head with one smooth pull, and drinking in my mother’s reaction as he undressed his torso for her.

 

I’ve never dared to ask what she thought when she first set eyes on that mesh of scars, that somber labyrinth of violence that I myself would get to see, carved in the flesh of my most treasured person, not long after that ancient night.

 

But, if I had to guess, I’d say her emotions must have mirrored mine, both eager to listen to the stories buried behind every one of those marks, yet deep down scared witless of actually knowing, perhaps because there are certain things in life that are better left unknown.

 

“Panchy, my land was not on this Earth of yours,” he persevered, unwrapping the thick string of dark, brown fur that he always wore firmly wrapped around his muscular waist.

 

The furry appendage had already caught our attention more than once, getting glimpses of it here and there whenever Papa sat at the table with us. But what we’d always believed to be some sort of exotic belt, turned out to be a full-fledged tail, long, impossibly limber, and dancing to the sound of its owner’s will.

 

If one piece of evidence was ever needed, to prove that my father was unlike everyone else, that should have been it. Despite everything, Papa had no intention to share a future life with my mother based on lies or half-truths and, if he had to expose the two sides that converged into the daredevil of a man that he was, nothing would stop him from sharing his truth.

 

“My home was amongst the Stars…” He said, melancholy dripping through his lips as he closed his eyes, tilting his head back and facing the heavens, prolonging that suspended instant for as long as he could before unleashing his inner beast. “Remember… Don’t be afraid…”

 

Mama had no opportunity to respond, gawking in stupefaction at the surreal transformation flourishing before her the second my father’s gaze bound itself to the full moon.

 

Eyes turned unnaturally white, rolling to the back of his head as his heartbeat hammered frenetically inside his chest, loud, so damn loud it was audible even to my mother’s much weaker ear. The brawny nerves under his neck’s skin tensed like a live wire, and even as his fists clenched until his bruised knuckles lost almost all color, and his whole body twisted and shook while the animal within fought for release, Mama told me that she could tell, that she knew Papa was still somehow restraining himself as much as he could.

 

And then there was red, red eyes burning in the dark like molten lava, and a face that lost any resemblance of humanity, contorting painfully as its flesh stretched out and its squared jaw grew prominently, magically adjusting to the wolfish teeth growing and sharpening beyond any control. That naturally bronzed skin covered itself in lustrous fur, and he grew, and grew, taller even than some skyscrapers, with hands and feet framed by razor-edged claws, honed enough to tear up any creature right to the bone.

 

Mama’s lips were sealed for a while, long after my father’s chilling metamorphosis reached its zenith, and the only way in which she could relate what it was like to fix her eyes on that giant, ape-like creature, dwarfing her to the point of making her feel insignificant, was a stark belief that the world as she knew it had changed forever.

 

“Panchy…” Papa spoke her name, turning the rumbling voice that was meant to instill the most sinister terror into the hearts of his enemies into a fearful, echoing whisper. “What do I look like to you?” He asked, the land they both stood on shaking beneath their feet when he dropped his titanic figure on his knees.

 

It would be some time later that we’d learn of his people naming such a lethal transformation their Oozaru form, a mutation that would only occur when any member of their extinct race would stare at a full moon with eyes wide open. It was a lethal technique, a weapon whose purpose was to increase the fighter’s strength tenfold, and one that very few rivals ever survived to when blows were exchanged in a battle of life-or-death.

 

Knowing the kind of prodigious power that he held in that moment, I bet none of Papa’s old adversaries would have ever imagined him kneeling submissively before a vulnerable woman like my mother; but that’s what he did, all thirty feet of him waiting for her to accept him for who he was, the good and the bad, until Life would choose to break them apart when the time came.

 

‘The world is full of things I don’t know…’ Mama thought to herself, embracing every one of his imperfections by reaching out to him, running a full, quivery hand across the thick fur of one of those mighty fingers, and flashing him a smile brighter than the heavenly stars glowing in the firmament.

 

 

 

The first rays of dawn were already peeping, and my kiddie self still cozied up in bed, when Papa returned to his human form at will, taking flight in our home’s direction, and relishing those last few minutes together with my mother before he’d have to go back to his own elusive son.

 

Mama’s acceptance of him was plain to see, yet none of them spoke to the other until Papa carried her straight to our doorstep, settling her on the stairs with touching tenderness. He even let her hold his wrinkly shirt tight to her chest, a humble hand melting into the curve of her flushed neck when she shyly offered to wash it for him.

 

“Were you surprised?” Papa asked in a shrinking whisper, pressing his brow against my mother’s, a gesture of trust and intimacy that meant so much to those belonging to his race.

 

Mama nodded yes.

 

Eyes low.

 

Unaffected.

 

“Will you leave me now?”

 

Mama shook her head no.

 

“But you’re shaking…” My father recognized, large fingers gliding across her skin. “Are you afraid?” He delicately tipped her chin up as he muttered his question, the only question that mattered.

 

“I’m not afraid,” Mama smiled at him, her sapphire eyes on his, watching him through rose-colored lights. “Because it’s you…”   

 

 

 

In the years my parents lived under the same roof, sharing the first existence I’ve ever filled with real memories of my own, I caught endless proof of their undying love for one another.

 

My father’s nature wasn’t one to easily give in to public displays of affection, a maddening trait that seemed to run deep in the hearts of those with Saiyan blood. But, whether they’d be hidden kisses, cheekily stolen by my sneaky mother whenever Papa would let his guard down, or furtive fingers, interlacing under the table as we all gorged on Mama’s delicious food, I have little trouble evoking what my parents looked like whenever they indulged in their feelings for each other.

 

But that kiss, that first, unforgettable kiss that Papa laid on my mother’s wishful lips under the warm breeze of a morning of Spring, was the one kiss I could never describe, for it was the one kiss that Mama would forever keep all to herself.

 

 

 

 

 

V. Lost

 

The old tatami creaked beneath my naked feet as I walked in the dark, seeking to satiate the kind of thirst that often bothers me when the weather gets too hot for me to sleep through the night.

 

A few days must have passed since Papa’s special confession of love, and though I hadn’t yet been clued in on who exactly my new father was, or on his extraordinary alien origin, even my young, naïve self could see that the air surrounding my parents was growing more romantic by the day.

 

Nothing had changed, in appearance, on his almost daily visits, those quiet, friendly visits that never lasted more than a few hours at a time, bringing handfuls of tiny flowers for my Mama, helping her fix whatever had recently broken around the house, and getting a succulent meal as a hard-earned reward in return.

 

Just like there was no difference in his covert, almost obsessive silence in regards to his lonesome child, that mysterious son of his who was never ever mentioned anymore, not since his first and only admission, which was starting to look more like an indiscretion he’d want us all to forget.

 

Still, there was something oddly refreshing in the way my parents stared at each other, in my mother’s hand brushing Papa’s shoulder as she walked past him on her way to the kitchen, or in how close Mama sat beside him in front of our small fan, handing him a couple of oranges, and a pixie smile, while we patiently waited for him to peel them for us.

 

I suppose this is why I wasn’t all that surprised to discover that my father’s need for my mother’s comfort was such that, eventually, a single visit just wasn’t enough, secretly dropping by our house for a second time that day.

 

What surprised me instead was the scene unfolding before my dopey eyes as I stood in that unlit corridor, greedily drinking more than half of the large glass of water in my hands, and suddenly spellbound by Papa’s rugged fingers, shakily stroking my mother’s waterfall of blonde hair.        

 

To me, there was nothing unusual in seeing Mama wearing her long hair down after a hot bath, and I was no stranger to the view of those beautiful waves cascading above her shoulders when she untied her hair at night, even knowing by heart the familiar melodies she used to hum to herself as she run a lazy hairbrush across those glossy curls.

 

But I also knew it was a vision reserved for the privacy of our home, and that Mama wouldn’t be caught dead, in front of our few neighbors, without pulling her hair back into a modest, high bun.

 

The faint glow of our night lamp played games with her luminous locks, and with the ivory skin of the palm of her hand when she daintily took my father’s, tucking it against her heart as she watched him closely, more pity brimming in those oceanic eyes than my father could stand.     

 

“My boy…” His voice wailed hoarsely into the night, a mortally wounded animal begging desperately to be put out of his misery. “My boy has lost his spirit…” He blurted out, squeezing his eyes shut in pain, and covering them with his free hand, deeply ashamed of his own emotional weakness, yet powerless to keep bearing the burden of these poisonous feelings on his own. “I… I just don’t know…” His chest violently quivered, a loud sob stuck in his throat. “I don’t know what to do anymore…”        

 

I’ve always been aware of my coddled existence, and of how incredibly lucky I have been to hide no real traumatic experiences under my belt. But the image of my father, that strong and proud warrior who was once a venerated Saiyan King, now lying on the floor with his head on my mother’s lap, clinging to her like a lifeline, and pleading as if only she held an answer to the torment eating him alive, still remains one of the most painful spectacles I’ve ever seen.

 

“Vegeta,” Mama whispered in turn, clearly dazed by my father’s infectious grief, but still refusing to let go of her kind, languid smile. “Bring him to us…” She suggested, her entire self screaming that there was no other way, nothing else that would restore that poor kid’s heart than tangling his path to ours. “Bring him, Vegeta. Let him meet her…”      

 

Papa’s laments about his son tore my chest apart, and my feet instinctively walked backwards when he rolled on his side like a helpless child, curling even closer into my mother as her fingers carefully petted his rowdy hair.       

 

The scene was harmless enough, yet I felt, even then, that I’d just witnessed something forbidden, something that a clueless brat like myself wasn’t ever meant to find out.

 

So, I walked across the dusky corridor, half-drunk glass of water hugged against my chest, and a torrent of hot tears pooling in my eyes, trying my damnedest to catch up with a world that was changing around me at a speed I could hardly keep up with anymore, and finding nothing but the most profound sadness instead.   

 

I lay on my tiny futon and rolled into a little ball, just like my father had done, wrapping my shivering arms around me and howling my eyes out, crying tears I didn’t understand for a child I’d never even met.

 

It would be the first time I’d shed tears for my father’s son.

 

And it wouldn’t be the last.

 

I sobbed quietly and I looked out the window, and as that blurry firmament spoke to me about the past and the future, I wondered if the fallen boy who’d just lost his spirit was counting the very same stars I was counting that night.

 

 

 

 

 

VI. You

 

I first saw you on a hot day of Spring.

 

A day like any other.

 

 

 

Papa had joined us for an early breakfast in the morning, announcing, out of the blue, that you’d finally be meeting us later in the day.

 

I was so raptured with joy that I didn’t even try to tame my enthusiasm, asking Mama to help me take a long bath, thoroughly washing my hair with my favorite strawberry shampoo, and carefully selecting a new summer dress just for the occasion.

 

My poor mother must have brushed my hair a thousand times as I counted each and every minute, pacing restlessly all over the house while giving my future Papa the third degree, drilling him with the silliest questions in hopes of learning as much as I could about you.

 

He wouldn’t say much, holding his tongue instead, and hiding his many fears behind the friskiest smirk, a pretty convincing one, judging by how little I suspected back then of his actual state of mind.

 

“You’ll see…” He’d say to me, a statement as cryptic as the thoughtful purse of his mouth, sitting serenely by the open door of our home’s porch, and gulping down glass after glass of Mama’s homemade lemonade while he stared off into space.       

 

I’ll never know just how nervous he must have been, and his tremendous effort at putting on a brave face as he waited for his traumatized child to show up, and interact, with two complete strangers like us. I can only guess that the one thing keeping his sanity alive must have been their innate connection, and that indestructible sense of honor which precedes every promise made between Saiyan warriors.

 

“We can eat now,” Papa conceded with a light sigh, dissuading us from waiting for his little boy by taking the first bite of the tasty lunch Mama had cooked for us. “I’m sure he’ll come later…” He swore with apparent nonchalance, ignoring mine and my mother’s confused side-glances as his cool stare fell, once again, on the field of flowers swaying outside.

 

 

 

The midday Sun had long gone down when you decided to make your anticipated arrival, and if Papa’s first entrance had been a solemn one, yours was only comparable to a divine apparition, a frail silhouette revealing itself amongst our wild garden of white daisies.

 

I remember everything about that moment.

 

The way those soft petals tickled my naked arms, flowers gently flowing in sync with the warm breeze blowing all around me as I lay on the grass, killing time by playing one of my favorite pastimes, counting bright clouds in the sky, and rearranging them as my imagination pleased.

 

A soft rustle of your feet was all it took.    

 

 

 

I felt you before I looked at you.

 

I knew you before I met you.

 

 

 

And as I rose my body, sitting lazily amongst those daisies with the goofiest smile on my face, I knew that you were to become my most special person, the one I’d want walking by my side no matter what.

 

The fuzzy figure slowly approaching mine under the afternoon glow got clearer and clearer, turning into a scrawny child whose clothes were much too big for someone with such a small frame.

 

You were a dead ringer for your father, same eyes, same fire-shaped hair, except yours framed your grumpy face with the most adorable bangs. We were about the same age, with you being one year older, yet you were still a tad shorter than I was back then; and, despite looking like a tiny bundle of nerves, hiding behind a cranky scowl and arrogantly crossed arms, you were still as cute as a button to me.

 

“It’s you!” I yelled, standing up at once as if hit by a light bolt, fidgeting from one foot to another on eager toes, because I couldn’t wait, I simply couldn’t wait to hold your hand and show you my dewy little world.

 

“Bulma,” Papa’s voice came from behind me, standing beside you, and squeezing one of your narrow shoulders with a paternal hand. “This is my son, Vegeta,” he gave away, the great pride he took on your name, on your very existence, moving me to tears even to this day. “Vegeta, this is Bulma…”   

 

“Vegeta…” I chewed over under my breath, happy as peach pie to know your name at last, but really disappointed to see it was the same as Papa’s, ignorant to the deep significance that such a name held for the both of you.

 

You deserved a name that was yours alone.

 

So, I gave you one.

 

“I know! I’ll call you Geta!” I decided on the spot, and Gods, Geta! I know you must have been so offended by my insolence, but you looked so damn cute, with those black eyes popping out of your head, surely not used to being treated so casually by a crazy girl like me.

 

“Ge-Geta?” You stuttered comically, the right corner of your mouth curling in the most hilarious way, your left eye twitching, in that loveable gesture of embarrassment of yours that I’d soon label as ‘the thing’.         

 

“Yeah! Geta!” I resolved, no ifs or buts, reaching for your distracted hand in one of my finest sneak attacks, and pulling hard enough to almost make you lose your balance. “Come, Geta! I’ll show you my lab! I’ll show yah!!!” I gasped, out of breath already, running towards our house like a puny bat out of Hell.

 

If I hadn’t been so absurdly engrossed in my own emotions, I would have paid more attention to Papa’s loud, triumphant guffaw booming in the background, surely enjoying every minute of your mortification, perhaps because any reaction would be a positive reaction in a child whose spirit had just been broken.

 

“Mama! Mama! He’s here! He came!” I barked when I reached my stunned mother by the door, not even stopping to allow her to properly introduce herself, because I wanted you all to myself, all of you, Geta. “Mama! HE’S SO CUTE!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, circling the house and heading straight to my secret base, setting phase one of my mischievous masterplan into motion.

 

I wanted you to like me.

 

Gosh! I wanted you to like me so bad.

 

Which is why I spent a good couple of hours babbling like an incoherent puppy, rummaging through every clutter box in sight, and making a fabulous presentation of each item I’d ever invented, trying to steal a gesture of approval, if only a small one, by resorting to the most charming smiles in my infantile repertoire.

 

If your father was far from a loquacious man, then you talked even less, but only now that I’ve come to know every step of the gruesome journey that brought you to me, as if I’d walked those steps myself, do I realize how incredibly patient you were with me that day, putting up with my bubbly antics with a kindness you’d probably never shown before.

 

You were quiet but polite, showing enough interest in my primitive gadgets to even take them in your suspicious hands, inspecting them with a curiosity that felt honest, before being quickly forced to move on, trying to catch up to my chaotic mumbo-jumbo as best as you could.

 

My early creations have been long on the blink but, if there is one memory I’ll always keep, is the way your eyes kept following me around like a zealous shadow. At times, you’d subtly peek at me from the corner of one of those inscrutable eyes, stealing a look while poorly pretending to examine one of my high-tech toys; the rest of the time, you were too bad a liar to even pretend anymore, openly fixing your gaze on me, and only looking away when I’d catch you off-guard, your cheeks blushing the most gorgeous shade of crimson as you did.

 

We were both far too young, too naïve to even envision the kind of irresistible attraction that would grow to burn like a cursed flame in years to come. But, even then, I couldn’t stop this wicked emotion, the egotistic pleasure I always took in being watched by someone like you, so unique and untamed, yet so utterly beautiful, making me feel like the only girl in the world, the only one worthy of your precious attentions.

 

 

 

I felt special in your presence.

 

And, in turn, I wanted you to feel just as special as I did.

 

 

 

My hopes of helping heal your shattered spirit crumbled like a house of cards when my mother eventually came by, introducing herself with poignant care, as if you were a young deer caught in the headlights, some fragile little thing about to flee from us at any minute.     

 

An ugly itch twisted painfully in my gut when you rejected Mama’s offer to stay for dinner, and it was then, in that nasty, scornful sneer, violent enough to even shake my sweet Mama, that I knew something was awfully wrong with you, something deep and perverse, something so morally depraved that it made you reject the world’s most comforting meal, even when your undernourished body was so clearly plagued by every visible sign of starvation.

 

“It’s okay, Geta. I’m not hungry either…” I lied in a weak mumble, praying that my stomach wouldn’t suddenly growl loud enough to betray my clumsy lie. “You wanna see my room next? It’ll be nice! Mama just got me some new books!”

 

My mother smiled a sad smile, understanding naturally what I was doing, or at least trying to do, and getting out of our hair, not without planning to give it one more try soon, promising to bring us snacks sometime later in the evening.

 

Your fingers twitched awkwardly when I reached for them once more, but you still managed to calm down somehow, giving in to my wishes and relaxing under my possessive touch, even tightening your hold on me as you followed me inside the house.

 

Up to that day, the unspoken rule I’d guided myself by was the instinctive belief that Mama always knew best, that she always knew what to say, and how to say it, to make everything alright.

 

But it all changed for me that night, the night in which my heart, rabbiting inside my chest at the sounds of your obedient steps, walking behind me like a good Saiyan doggie, told me that I knew something about you that no one else did, not even my precious mother, and that I alone would be the one to resurrect you, picking up the pieces of your old, broken self, and breathing new life into you.

 

“This is my room…” I muttered sheepishly, my earlier confidence leaching through my fingers, suddenly self-conscious of how ridiculous my girlish pink futon, and those countless shelves, crammed with Barbie dolls and fairytale books, must have looked to someone like you.

 

It didn’t help much that you were glancing around like you’d just landed on an alien planet, narrowing your eyes in confusion at my fluffy plushies and scattered crayons, only to look back at me, staring in wonder as if I’d just grown two lovely heads.

 

But Bulma Briefs was no quitter, Bulma Briefs had been put on Earth with the sole purpose of proving just how stubborn a cocky little brat could be, and if you didn’t like me already, then by the Gods was I going to make you kiss the ground I walked on by the time I was done with you.

 

“Geta! Come! Come sit!” I gasped with renewed strength, not ready yet to let go of your bony hand, not until I made damn sure you had no way to escape from my plot to sweep you off your feet.

 

It’s hard for me now not to laugh at how absurdly out of place you looked sitting on one of my small, chunky chairs, fidgeting with your arms in an attempt to cross them and recover your composure, all of it while scowling at the heaps of wrinkly paper piled up on the table, expecting one of my dinosaur drawings to jump out and attack you at any minute.

 

“Geta, I could read you a story…” My best offer occurred to me at last, maybe because, behind that impassable attitude of yours, I could sense an innate curiosity, not too different from my own. “You like stories?”

 

“Stories?” You raised an eyebrow at me, your first gesture of real interest since we’d come back from my lab.

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Stories from your people?”

 

It was me who scrunched her nose this time, glad of having found something to get your attention again, but totally clueless as to what you meant by ‘your people’. As far as I knew, stories were just stories, and I never cared much about who wrote them, or why, as long as my suffering was rewarded by a mandatory happy ending, when all was said and done.  

 

“Um… I… I guess?” I tripped over my tongue, shy eyes roaming all over my impressive book collection, then right back at you, squirming with the skirt of my dress as I tried to put a name to this foreign emotion, wondering just what in the Heavens were you doing to me.

 

People’s admiration wasn’t something I’d ever truly struggled to achieve, fully conscious, early on, of my own genius precocity. But, with you, there was always this desire, this yearning desire to earn your approval, to make you see my uniqueness, even if you’d lost count of how many worlds you’d explored back when you belonged to the Stars, needing you to see that no one else would bring you as much joy as the one I was so ready to share with you.

 

“Then, read one for me,” you conceded, either succumbing to my gauche charms, or feeling sorry for my failed plan to make an impression on you.

 

“Really?” My face brightened up at once, heart doing backflips as I practically ran to one of those massive shelves, chewing on my bottom lip when I avidly asked about your preferences. “Which…?! Which one you like?!”

 

 

 

And it was then that you did it.

 

It was then, sitting on one of my minuscule chairs, looking like a child way older beyond your years, that you puckered your mouth in the most wonderful way, not in disdain or in mockery, but in absolute enjoyment, stifling the first honest-to-Gods laughter I’d ever heard from you, with bright, cheeky eyes to match.

 

And it was glorious, Geta, so damn glorious that, even today, it doesn’t matter to me whether you were laughing at me or with me; the only thing that matters is that feeling, the unwavering feeling of your Spirit bubbling deep inside of you, a red-hot spark of Life that Papa had feared gone forever, but that I could still see as clear as a flawless diamond.

 

“Read me the one you like the most…” Was your request, barely keeping your amusement in check, letting it settle into the ghost of an impish smirk.

 

It was no easy task to select just one out of the many stories that shaped and accompanied me during my youth, just like it was near impossible to shake off the penetrating glance piercing me to the very core as you kept your eyes on me, waiting patiently for me to blow your mind with a kind of tall tale neither you, nor your People, had ever known.

 

“Alright…” I mumbled to myself, small fingers tracing the fantasy characters drawn on the glossy cover of the one book I always seemed to go back to, the one I wished to read for you the most. “This one!” I exclaimed resolutely, already rushing to join you back.

 

I wanted nothing more than to sit right beside you, but by then I’d already seen enough of that fickle nature of yours, and I discreetly chose to respect your personal space, taking a seat almost on the opposite side of the tiny table instead.     

 

If memory serves me right, I jumped straight into my story, forgetting to even tell you its title as I engrossed us both into the modern retelling of a heart-rending tale, that of a handsome prince, who lived inside an opulent palace.

 

One fine day, the prince’s purity of heart was put to the test by a beautiful enchantress who, disguised under the semblance of an unsightly old woman, showed up unannounced at the doors of the young monarch’s castle, seeking shelter from a wild, stormy night. Repulsed by the woman’s appearance, the proud boy refused to lend a helping hand, cruelly ordering her to immediately leave the premises, never to come back.

 

It was then that the fairy’s true identity materialized before the prince’s astounded eyes, punishing the boy’s arrogant coldness by casting a curse upon him, turning him into a hideous beast, so frighteningly grotesque that no ordinary woman would ever dare to even look his way.

 

A single red rose would be the instrument chosen to deepen such torture, a flower created with the mission of measuring the unstoppable passage of time. If the haunted boy wasn’t fortunate enough to find true love before the magical flower withered, and lost its last silky petal, he’d never again get a chance to return to his old human body.    

 

Years went by, and despair took over the young man’s soul, his character souring, consumed by the hopelessness of a wretched spell that only a supernatural marvel could undo. But my Mama would never buy me a book that ended in tragedy and, in the land of my still uncorrupted imagination, miracles were just as common as the most mundane everyday occurrences.

 

As I take a trip down memory lane, reflecting on the reasons behind my love for that particular story above all the others, it wasn’t the shamelessly romantic aspect of such a fairytale what fascinated me the most, but the fact that, on some level, I always found a bit of myself inside the spirit of the brave heroine.

 

While my childhood was, by all means, an idyllic one, there was always a voice resonating in the back of my mind, a natural inquisitiveness matching that of the young woman whose Destiny would soon bind itself to the cursed prince, a distant echo reminding me that I was perhaps a tad too different from those around me, and that, someday, these isolated mountains would be too small to hold the many gifts my father had passed on to me before he departed this world.

 

I won’t elaborate on each detail concerning the first of the many stories I ever read for you, Geta, but I’ll allow myself a little self-indulgence, glorying in all that happened that night, the night you became mine in my heart, just as much as you stole a piece of mine in return, forever keeping it to yourself.  

 

My voice didn’t falter as the narration progressed, but I never once forgot that I was doing this, all of this, for you, resting the open book on the table to make it easier for you to glance at the intricate illustrations while you hungrily listened, hanging to my every word, even if you averted your eyes at times, trapped in that thousand-yard stare I’d sadly come to know so well.

 

I didn’t know, Geta.

 

Please, forgive me.

 

I didn’t know your eyes were those of a child soldier, a child who’d seen too much Darkness for his young mind to piece together, struggling to comprehend horrors I couldn’t begin to imagine, the kind of bloody abominations that would never make it to one of my innocent books.

 

But I wanted to tell you just the same, I wanted to tell you the story of the young woman who found herself prisoner of an irascible Beast, and how she succeeded in captivating a man whose heart had turned to icy stone so long ago.

 

I wanted to talk to you about love, a romantic love I wouldn’t get to experience myself until I’d become the bud of a young woman, but a love I was already dreaming of in my own childish way. It’s the love that blossoms drip by drip, a bitter fruit ripening leisurely under the Sun, until its sweetness becomes impossible to restrain, overflowing beyond the point of no return, until it’s impossible to drink every single drop.

 

I needed you to know that even the most selfish, lonesome Prince, could love and be loved, sacrificing himself for the woman who’d stolen his heart, to the point of freeing her from the chains he’d fastened around her himself, letting her abandon his side, even when the chances of his curse finally breaking were so close he could almost taste them.

 

You had to, Geta, you had to learn that such love existed in my world, a love profound enough to move mountains, to make a woman throw caution to the wind, and sacrifice it all for the sake of going back to the man buried inside the inhospitable Beast, the one she’d liberate from his wicked spell, restoring his human form, and living happily ever after for all time.

 

 

 

“Are all…?” You spoke in a wary murmur, your brows knitted in what I now know to be pure incredulity. “Are all your stories like this one?” Your question spilled, a silent plea written in those alien eyes of yours, so obsessively transfixed on mine, as if secretly praying for my fairytale to be more than just child’s make-believe.

 

“What…? What do you mean?” I shyly asked back, my lips ghosting the back of my shut book as I clutched it tightly with both arms, pressing it close to my chest and using it as shield, hiding half of my flushed face behind it. I may have been a sassy little thing back in the day, but I’ll be damned if I’d ever felt the hurricane of confusing emotions that that pair of pitch-black eyes ignited in me.       

 

“The… The Prince…” You replied, the pain in your voice, when you whispered that particular word, almost unbearable. “The Prince and the… The…”

 

“You mean the girl?” I finished your sentence, my earlier worries about trying to make you like me quickly morphing into rare amazement.

 

My guess was followed by your awkwardly sharp nod, the confused frown crinkling your nose growing more adorable by the second. “The Prince and… And the girl… In… In the end…”    

 

“Oh! The Prince always gets the girl in the end!” I proudly proclaimed, bless my clueless little soul.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Of course!” I squeaked happily. “I mean… It’s not… It’s not always a normal girl! Sometimes the girl is a Princess too, but… Yup! The Prince always marries the Princess in the end!”      

 

Your mouth curled into the funniest little “O”, surely stunned by my ridiculous ingenuousness, and by the simplicity of my views on something as complicated as romantic love.

 

And, I’d bet every cent I’ve ever earned, that you were trying to protect me just like Papa did when he first revealed your existence to us, ready and willing to preserve my innocence for as long as you could from the aching truth that, in the faraway lands where you were born and bred, happy endings were an exception to a cruelly violent norm.    

 

“Bulma,” you called my name for the very first time, the reverence in your tone sending electric sparks down my spine. “Read me another one…”

 

 

 

I didn’t question you.

 

I didn’t care.

 

I didn’t understand that the reason behind your request for more of my infantile stories didn’t stem from an actual enjoyment of them, but from a deep disbelief.

 

There was one thing I could give you that night, the one thing you’d waste years of your youth seeking so desperately, and that was hope, an honest reassurance that you were now part of a world where even an errant sinner could have a claim for love and forgiveness.     

 

“Sure, Geta! I’ll choose one for yah!”

 

 

 

And I did.

 

I read story after story as the last rays of Sun fell down, and a crescent Moon took its fitting place, falling into the comfy ritual of setting my books on the table to let those pretty pictures join us in every journey we explored together.

 

By the third fairytale, our stomachs’ loud protests must have reached all the way out to Mama’s ears, and she gingerly interrupted us, knocking at my bedroom’s door uninvited, and setting a large tray of snacks for us to devour, leaving us alone again with just as much attentiveness, and gifting me with a knowing smile on her way out.

 

This time, I was way too hungry to pretend for your sake, and I instinctively found myself reaching for a warm blueberry muffin, eagerly chewing on it, and chasing it down with some of my mother’s homemade iced tea, while I carried on with my chirpy narration.

 

You’ve never said so yourself, and you’ve always been too respectful of my childhood’s candor to ever admit such a thing; but I do wonder if sometimes I bored you to tears with all those frivolous characters, filling your already troubled head with grumpy ogres and fire-spitting dragons, and witches and dwarves and fairy godmothers, and naughty children bathed in gold pixie dust.      

 

But I also want to believe that each one of them touched your heart, if just a little, and that those stories were responsible for a metamorphosis which felt just as magical as the wizardry enveloping those enchanted creatures.

 

The boy who’d just sneered in disgust at my kindhearted mother, the one who’d watched that tray of delicious treats like it was brimming with deadly poison, would soon copy my every move. Distrustful arms no longer crossed into your chest, but reaching for whatever it was I was munching on first, nostrils flaring like a puppy’s snout, before giving in and taking a first bite, your face softening in the most marvelous way as you realized that maybe your future Mama wasn’t that bad, after all.

 

Before you knew it, you’d sampled every tasty sweet, guzzled three glasses of honeyed tea and, by the time I lifted my gaze to check your reaction to yet another one of those syrupy, happy endings, I found you sleeping like a mellow baby, curled at the table with your head resting heavily on now relaxed arms.

 

There was no one around to share my enthusiasm, but that didn’t stop me from grinning like an idiot, quickly covering my mouth to repress a silly giggle, feeling like a million dollars, so damn proud of myself for having just tamed my cranky new friend, that I just had to rush outside to share my greatest achievement with my Mama.     

 

 

 

“Geta…” I whispered huskily when I came back, using everything in me to resist the urge to sweep your fluffy bangs aside, and settling for the sleeve of your ragged shirt instead, delicately pulling from it to avoid startling you as I woke you. “Geta, wake up…” I murmured once more, another smile on my lips when you stirred softly, the expression on your sleepy face so different from the one you’d worn when we met.

 

You looked like a child.

 

Just like a child should.

 

Red, teary eyes blinking drowsily, your grumpy scowl nowhere to be seen, and not a hint of surprise or shame, for having just fallen asleep in a stranger’s home, when you entwined your fingers with mine, kneeling just like me, and following as we both crawled on the floor.

 

“Your Papa said it’s okay to sleep here tonight,” I let you know, already lifting my cotton sheets for you. “Mama says we can share my futon. Here…” I tucked you in with one hand, the other one stubbornly refusing to let yours go, perhaps still fearing that this all might have just been part of a beautiful dream, because who would have thought that the lost little boy I’d once cried for, would now be sleeping in my bed.

 

You were still draped in a cocoon of sleep when you rolled languidly on your side, curling up as we faced each other, a face so peaceful, so soft glowing under the moonlight as you freely allowed yourself to fall into your first placid sleep.

 

I was far too overexcited to immediately follow, so I just stayed as quiet as a mouse, the day’s events still dashing frantically through my head, pondering on what else I could have done today to make you like me, and plotting what kind of fun games we could play soon to make your fondness of me grow even larger.

 

My hand lightly squeezing yours while you slept is the last mischief I can recall, before going out like a light, just like you. I was already testing your affection, burying another string of dizzy laughter into my pillow when you contentedly squeezed it back, claiming me for yourself, and refusing to let go for the rest of the night.

 

 

 

I dreamt of you and Papa joining us for breakfast in the morning.

 

And every morning after that, for the rest of our lives.