King
My dad has always been larger than life. He’s been this huge muscled, hilarious pain-in-the-ass sort of superhero that even Batman or an Avenger couldn’t beat. I remember watching those movies growing up and almost laughing, like what? That’s all you got? Have you ever met my dad?
I’m not proud of it, but when… ahem, one of the key heroes died in Avengers, I started laughing like a sadistic fuck only to have my mom come running out with a smile that turned to a frown like I was one of those freaky kids who was going to start murdering my own pets and end up on Dateline.
“Mama.” I laughed harder. “He’s so weak!”
I was twelve.
Mom knelt next to me. “Who is?”
“Him,” I pointed at the TV. “Dad would never die so easy. Never!”
Tears filled her eyes as she pulled me against her. “Nah, Dad’s superhuman, right?”
“Right.” I was almost angry that the TV would show me something so wrong and against what I’ve always believed because if a superhero could die—did that mean he could too? No, I refused to believe it, so I rejected it to the point of living in a reality that meant Dad would always be big, strong; he would always protect even if it meant it was protecting you from yourself.
I lifted my head. “I’m going to be like him.”
“Aw, you want to be like Iron Man?”
I scoffed. “No Mom, duh, he saved the world but come on—I want to be like dad.”
She was quiet for a minute. “But dad didn’t save the world like Iron Man?”
“Yeah, he did,” I argued. “He saved us, remember? All those stories? All those times he saved the Families? He’s saved us even when he was afraid, and he said, he said—” I stumbled over my words. “He said he’d save us forever no matter what.” I looked up at my mom. “And I believe him. Don’t you?”
My mom was silent for a moment, then ran her fingers through my unruly hair only to cup my cheeks and whisper. “Until it ends. He will protect you until it ends, son.”
Tears stream down my cheeks as I stare at the bed, at my larger-than-life father lying there, his arms neatly placed at his sides, the scars of wars from the past few years covering his arms along with a few bandages and then one wrapped around his head.
Mom is sitting in a chair next to him, her feet tucked up underneath her looking like she’s thirty versus nearing her fifties.
She’s beautiful with gorgeous jet-black hair lying in waves around her shoulders as she shudders against the giant black blanket someone already put on her. I’m assuming she’s wearing her typical outfit while at home, some sort of lululemon shirt and pant combo so she can do yoga at any point in the day at any area of the house.
Her eyes flutter open, landing on Del and me.
And then she’s stumbling over the blanket and running toward me, pulling me against her, Del completely forgotten. I drop her hand and hold Mom close, knowing that this is bad.
Very bad.
Dire.
That I won’t have time to grieve or worry.
That I have hundreds of people relying on me not to break, not to fail my kingdom. I hold her, and I stare at my dad lying in that bed, and I imagine the sword he still carries, heavy in his hand, heavy on his heart, and I reach for it, I mentally reach for it.
“It’s time,” she whispers against my chest, then starts to sob and repeat over and over again. “It’s time. It’s time. It’s time. We can’t go without someone leading us, we need you. I need you.”
The Families need me. They need me to keep order, to rule with an iron fist. They need me to grow up so much more than I already have.
Normally I would look to my brothers, my cousins, my friends. Instead, I find myself turning to my right and locking eyes with Del. Does she realize how much I need her right now? How much is riding on this? I need her strength, her love, and I would even sacrifice the rest of the days we had together just to know I had someone by my side.
She stares at me for a very long time, at least that’s how it feels, and then she’s embracing my mom, pulling her into her arms, and looking at me like she has her, which means I need to face him.
They move toward the chair, and Del pulls my mom, a grown woman, onto her lap and rocks her back and forth, wiping away her tears.
My mom just sits there and cries softly.
It hurts so bad I don’t know how to process it. I feel like I’ve been stabbed, but at the same time, I wish I would have been stabbed instead of sitting here looking at my dad in a coma.