Hey! I'm back again with another holiday fic, just like I promised.
Dedicated to my father, Richard, for always finding a way to cheer me up; as well as in loving memory to both my late grandfathers, Roger and Samuel. Both of you will be missed dearly, as well as a shout-out to all monster daddies out there.
I learned from you that I do not crumble
I learned that strength is something you choose
All of the reasons to keep on believin',
There's no question, that's a lesson I learned from you
-Miley and Billy Ray Cyrus, "I Learned From You"
You know that one quote where they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder?
When I was little, I couldn't understand that phrase. At the time, I used to think it was total crap. After all, you hear the teachers and the adults and all those campaigners preach about equality and that people are fine the way they are, but the second it doesn't apply to their standards, they're quick to drop the act and start throwing the stones.
Like my mom, for example.
Everyone knows the story. Or at least, they think they do. Medusa, the harlot turned hideous beast after Athena caught her trying to seduce Poseidon in her temple. The woman was said to be more beautiful than Aphrodite, to monster who later spent her time turning people to stone before Perseus chopped her head off. Everyone's heard the story time and time again. Everyone thinks they've heard it all before after what was, supposedly, written down.
What people don't know is that my mother is a broken woman. That she was the victim of a brutal rape, someone who was forced upon by the sea God himself all because he couldn't take no for an answer. That even to this day, some two-thousand years later, she still has nightmares about the whole ordeal. But does Poseidon get his just desserts? Hell no. When Athena walks in on the two of them, does she take out on him? No sir.
You see, even back then in Ancient Greece, when nobody could keep it in the pants, there was slut-shaming. My mother was a beautiful woman, the only one of her sisters who didn't mind death-being the only mortal of them-and was utterly and completely devoted to Athena, willing to sacrifice her body to appease her goddess. And in the end, the same goddess she trusted with her life ended up cursing her. It wasn't just her either. When my aunts heard of what happened, they did what any sister would do and stood up for her, and from what you've heard, you can pretty much guess Athena didn't tolerate defiance.
Because, let's be honest, do you really think anyone's going to stick around a woman who has snakes for her, her entire body covered in scales, yellow snake eyes, fangs, and bronze claws? So pretty much when word got out, everyone joined the bandwagon. My mother went from having men at her feet constantly to having people running away from her.
On the contrary to what the textbooks tell you, my mother never went out on a rampage and purposefully turned people to stone. After what happened, she went into hiding with my aunts. Whoever her "victims" were idiots who challenged each other to dares to see if they could conquer over her. They all failed horrendously, of course. And as the story seems to tell, Perseus comes along to save his mother from a marriage, finds Medusa, chops off her head, everything's fine. The spoiled brat gets all the glory and my mother, the rape victim who had done nothing wrong, gets to have her head as a trophy and unknowingly give birth to her two children from Poseidon.
My mother was saved, luckily- obviously, or I wouldn't be here. My aunts Stheno and Euryale came along, stole back my mother's severed head from Perseus, and basically fused it back to her body using the blood from their right arms. And that's pretty much where the mythology ends.
For the next thousand years or so, my mother lived in silence. She trusted nobody; hell, she barely trusted her own sisters, but could you blame her? She lost her chastity, her humanity, and her dignity. The least she could have was some peace and quiet. As time went on and monsters started to finally come out from the shadows, she got a little better. She befriended Arachne and Lamia and started to go out more. Started to breathe and show herself to the world a bit more.
Then my Aunt Euryale convinced my mom to go Athens, explore the city. Well, 'convinced' is more along the lines of 'dragging my mom out the house and forcing her to board a train.'
Anyway.
My mom had been pretty disconnected with her roots. Greece really meant nothing to her anymore. Don't get me wrong, my mom is pure Greek when it comes to every tradition out there, but the city she once adored was now nothing more than a threshold of pain. She told me that it had brought nothing but shame and bad memories for her. But, after some constant whining and demanding from my aunts, she decided to go.
She says it was one of the best decisions she ever made.
Because there was where she met my father.
A lot of people wonder who my dad is. Because, seriously, who would have a kid with Medusa? (Heath made that joke once, but he quickly learned I don't appreciate my mom being the punchline when I nearly kicked his ass.)
Some kids asked me if I was somehow a third child of Poseidon from my mother, though they quickly realized it wouldn't make sense- what with generations of age difference between my brothers and I. Some actually asked me if Perseus was my dad. Get real. Seriously, what type of logic draws you to that conclusion?
When I first asked my mom about him, she'd tell me he was where she actually began to live again. I didn't understand her at first. Now I do.
His name was Thaddeus. They met one night when he was out on a walk. My mom was on a bench, overlooking a fountain in the park. She was having a bad night, as what was supposed to be of sight-seeing turned into a day of having glances, glares, pointed fingers, names, and degrading photographs aimed at her. Well, on this particular day, it simply became too much for my mother, and she sat down near the bench, crying and just trying to let her frustrations out.
Well, according to her, a voice suddenly came from behind and asked her if he could sit down. At first, my mom was pretty hostile. Besides other monsters, nobody came close to her with a ten-foot pole. When she actually saw him, though she was still a bit hesitant, she scooted over and let him next to her.
Unlike the typical Greek males who'd sport olive skin, long wispy dark hair, and were built like Adonis himself, my dad was- in Mom's words "looked a bit more on the Germanic side; honestly I thought he was a bit of a wuss." With a fair complexion, short brown hair, a bit on the scrawny side, and green eyes, either way, he looked like a typical normie. Which was what made my mom hesitant.
However, as soon as she saw his eyes, as she tells me now, she knew that he wasn't like the others.
He was blind. The details of how are still a bit sketchy to me, but from what I can remember, he had told us he got stuff in his eyes when he was two that damaged his sight.
A few seconds after he sat down, he had asked my mother what was bothering her, and said he could hear her crying from a few feet away. My mother did not automatically open up to him, of course. Even if he couldn't see her. Though they began small talk at first, my mother revealed who she was. To her surprise, he didn't change his attitude towards her. He didn't freak out and try to run away, he didn't become disgusted and try to beat her with his cane; he didn't even frown or show any emotion that she made him uncomfortable. He just kept sitting there, waiting for her to get it all out.
And well, as you can probably guess, the rest is history. They talked for a few hours, and then talking turned to exchanging phone numbers. Phone numbers turned to going out, going out turned to dates, dates turned into moving in, and moving in turned into marriage.
I was the only product of their marriage, born precisely a year and two months after their wedding. We moved to Salem a few months before I turned seven. And to my father, I and Mom were the greatest things to ever happen to him. He'd tell me that when I came along, it was the happiest he'd ever seen my mother. That she had more of a melody in her voice than when they first met. Don't get me wrong, I know my mom loves my brothers even though she hates how they were conceived. And she does try to bond with them, but with Pegasus working alongside the jerks and Chrysaor doing….whatever he does, the three of them just couldn't get the relationship that my mother hoped for. Dad was actually the one who encouraged to try and make amends, actually.
He always had this..this air about him. Like he could walk into a room full of strangers and you just knew that he'd try his hardest to let everyone know he was there for you. I get it, Medusa's affairs aren't exactly on the history books. But honestly no written word could describe the kind of man he was- a sensitive soul with a penchant for pottery and a love for playing the guitar; an equal rights activist who'd never hesitate to lend a helping hand to anyone in need, even when they didn't deserve it. No historian could tell you that he hated coffee and how it was always a wonder with how much he ate, how he always looked like he was starving (let me tell you, that man could down gyros like nobody's business!) He hated country but had a soft spot for R&B and memorized every Chiclawgo song like his life depended on it. He hated litter, always did the chores when it was his turn, was never one to like the spotlight on himself.
My father was always a pacifist. He saw the good in everybody, and was never one to hold a grudge. He'd get angry, sure, but he'd always tell me he found it too tiring to always try and find a reason to stay mad at someone. Hate was a vicious cycle that never achieved anything- love was the key. A philosophy which he'd always try to pass on to me. He taught me manners, to learn to appreciate the things I had in life, and to never give up. Looking back on it, I knew there were times where I was a difficult little cretin, but seeing his smile, I know he never stopped being proud of me. Our eyes never met, and he was almost always looking in the same direction, but every time he looked down at me, his eyes unseeing, I could see the love and good nature in his eyes. And I loved my father for that.
As a child, I was confused about exactly what I was. Today, it's a pretty simple concept: If it looks like a monster, talks like a monster, and acts like a monster, then it must be a monster. Early on, from how my Aunt Stheno would act, I could see the contempt monsters held for normies. When I was two, I overheard a conversation over the phone between my dad and my paternal grandmother- who, to this day, I have not met, along with the rest of his family- and it was made pretty clear to me that normies thought of monsters as the scum of the Earth.
So where did I fit in?
I had snakes for hair and snake eyes and scales on my arms, so was I a monster? But since my dad was a normie, was I one too, only slightly different? Did I even have a place in this world? How could I possibly fit into either category that were total opposites? Two different species that only saw the worse in each other?
It spawned so many questions that, when you're a kid, you get overwhelmed just at the complexity of it. I finally had enough of not knowing at one point, and ran to my father, tears running down my face and my hands grabbing onto his leg for dear life, asking him where I fit into. I just wanted to know where I fit into. What I was. Was I a normie or a monster? My father bent down to my level, put his hands on my shoulders, and simply asked:
"Well, Deuce, who do you want to be?"
Who. Not what. Not like I was an object or animal. At first, I didn't understand that question. I was still at that age where I thought adults held all the questions to life. But my father sat down next to me and asked me the same question. Where did I feel like I belonged? When I was older and looked back on it, I was never more grateful for my dad. He taught me so many things. That your life is what you make of it, and in the end, how you're affected all depends on how you want to be affected.
Of course, there are also times where you have grow up and see the world for what it really was.
I was always curious about my father's family. I had already met my aunts from my mother's side and my cousins, but what about him? Judging from how tense he and my mother got whenever I brought the question up, I knew it didn't seem like such a happy subject. I had an idea, but I never really understood how bad it had been until my mom showed me a letter his sister wrote him right before he and my mom's wedding. And let me tell you, it was harsh. My grandparents, as well as my uncles and aunt- all of whom were very devout memories of the Orthodox faith- were ashamed that "their loving, innocent Thaddeus" was engaging in such a "sin" with a "demonic whore" and to not expect them to ever address him as family if he went through with it. The last time my father ever had contact with them was sending them a letter telling of my birth.
When you're a kid, you really don't understand the reason behind conflicts and enemies. I couldn't understand why monsters and normies put in so much effort as to why they stayed away from each other. Sure, we were different in skin color and limbs and all that, but in the end, didn't we all bleed the same blood (well, most of us did, anyway)? Didn't we all feel the same emotions as each other, didn't we all die eventually?
My father didn't try to sugarcoat. He sat me down and told me the truth as honestly as he could without be too graphic. He had told me that sometimes, some are just too blinded by their own prejudice- no pun intended- to see from the other shoe. And that sometimes, people let their grief and grudges take over and block their ears to reason. I asked him why, why did they keep all that anger if it was tiring to keep getting angry like he said? My father shrugged his shoulders and told me that some people just refuse to be reasonable, and they let their anger and hate destroy them in the end.
How true of a statement that was.
I remember the day as clearly as rainwater. I was almost ten, and it was early July. My cousin Alyson and I were out in the backyard, roughhousing and getting each other dirty and debating on whether it was cooler to be a boy or a girl. That was when I heard my mother cry from the kitchen. Forgetting our toys, Alyson and I walked in to find my mom at the dining room table with my aunts gathered around her, trying to offer soothing words of comfort and their expressions grave. My mother had her face buried in her hands, her shoulders moving up and down her and her snakes looking sad. When I asked her what was wrong, they all looked up, and my mother's eyes showed absolute heartbreak, tears flowing down like broken pipes.
That was probably the worst day of my life.
As it turns out, if they hadn't made it clear from the beginning, a few normies- apparently a few descendants of the oh-so-great "heroes" you always hear about- believed my dad was involved some kind of conspiracy, a plan to wage another great monster war against the human populations. How they ever thought of such a ridiculous notion, I can't understand- then again, can you ever understand anything from the normies?- but either way, they thought my dad needed to be dealt with before word of the "war" got out.
And by teaching him a lesson, I mean they followed him as he was leaving work and beat him to the point he could hardly get up. When they realized they may have gone a little too far, they put him in the bed of a pickup truck, drove to the hospital, dumped him out on the curb and whistled for nurses nearby. But by that time, it was too late. He died an hour later.
At first, I was very confused. All she had told me was that he had gotten into an accident and some very bad men hurt him. When we're children, our knowledge of death is still very abstract. And when you finally do understand just how painful it is, see how much it can change your life, you don't want to accept it. You want to pretend they're somewhere and you won't be able to see them. That they're secret agents or they're just in a really deep sleep. But alas, life doesn't work that way, and there's only so many times you can keep repeating the same thing to yourself before you just have to face the music and see that death is very real, and that the world is very much an unfriendly and sinister place to live. And sometimes, the evil villains who you hope are defeated end up winning.
The last time I ever saw my father was at his wake. You can't imagine how much it can fuck up a kid when they see a member of their family laying in a casket, unmoving and as pale as skeleton bones. Never again would those gentle, calloused hands of his sculpt, never again would they play the guitar, never again would they hold us.
I was angry. Angry at the men who did it, furious at the normies overall. Was it really so hard to believe we weren't those barbaric creatures they put in nursery rhymes and fairy tales? Were we really so inhuman in their eyes that we didn't deserve happiness? There was nothing more I wanted to do than go out and let them know exactly how it felt, made them share my pain. My dad was the first person to ever call my mom beautiful, and he was the first person she ever showed real love to. And now he was gone. Dead and gone, his body long since buried and left to rot in the cold, hard Earth.
But the angrier I got, the more exhausted I felt. And the worse the wound in my heart became. My dad's words came to my mind, and that point, I truly understood what he meant. It's a battle to try and stay angry at somebody, to try and get them to realize time after time that things aren't always different from the other side. Plus, it wouldn't be fair to my father. He was a normie, and he wasn't like the others, was he? Just like how not all of us monsters are the bloodthirsty night stalkers that love to hunt and terrorize the innocents.
I still miss my dad. Sometimes I still wish that the whole thing was a dream, and that he'll come walking through the door, all better, and we can be a family again. But sadly, this is real life, and it's not always fair to people. The only thing you can do is to keep moving forward and learn how to make your life different. So the only thing I can do is heed all my father taught me, and use to make myself a better person and to make it through the life the best I can.
One thing I've since learned is, things are not always the way they seem. That one person may see something different the others. He told me a story of, when he was younger, because of his blindness everyone would think he couldn't do anything by himself.
"You see, Deuce," he'd tell me as we sat on the couch, a blanket thrown over us, "Some people will act a certain way that will make others upset, and we're sometimes quick to judge them. We're quick to assume that we know everything about their life. But you know, you gotta dig deeper. People are going to treat you badly, make you mad, and seem to have no sense of respect whatsoever. But before you get mad, put yourself in their shoes, and you may be surprised of just how alike you are to them."
When I came to Monster High, that philosophy stuck right on through. It's really why it was so hard to leave when I graduated. We weren't just a student body, we were all family- whether it be friends, or by blood, we suffered together, laughed together, and cried together.
I think that's why Cleo and I work so well together. Don't get me wrong, there are times she can be pretty bitchy and a big pain in the ass, and there are times where I know I'm being a dick or a complete pushover. And to a lot of people that may make our sanity questionable, but that's exactly it. We balance each other out. We're not afraid to call the other out on it, and we're not afraid to be ourselves to each other. When I started going out with Cleo, I heard the rumors that she was going to drop me like last year's newspaper, and a lot of the guys on the casketball team told me I was in over my head. But they didn't see past Queen Bee Cleo. They didn't see the girl who has the weight of a lost kingdom on her shoulders, who had an overbearing father and was living in her sister's shadow, who had gone years tormented by the unknown fate of her mother and was bossy to all her friends as a defense mechanism so she won't be treated the same way. And, my mother loved her (not to mention she shares my love of A Day to Dismember, so that's a plus).
Was I pissed off when Cleo broke up with me that one Halloween? Hell yes. But the more I looked at it from her point of view, I could understand where she was coming from. That's not saying she wasn't at fault, but I had to respect her at a certain level for putting others' needs ahead of her own. I know from personal experience that I've done a few things I've regretted for the sole purpose of pleasing my mother. Plus, Dad had always said that relationships weren't easy, and that sometimes, you had to reach your lowest point before you could see how to fix it.
Our relationship's better, of course. She's learned to be mellower and easy going, I've learned to be open about how I feel and that I can speak my mind. These improvements and realizations kept on coming, and even after I put that ring on her finger and we got married, they're going to keep coming. We'll have our good days and bad days, and I know that as long as she's here with me, it doesn't matter what people say. I know there's a chance Nefera and their father will never wholeheartedly welcome me with open arms, but that's fine with me as long as Cleo is able to.
Ramses and I don't have the perfect relationship that would be thought to be normal between father and son-in-law, but it's a lot better than it was when Cleo first introduced us to each other; now it teters more on love-hate rather than walking on dragon eggshells. He still kinda hates me and won't hesitate to stick in one of his little assbag comments here and there, but I feel that we now have a certain degree of respect to each other; that is, we make fun of each other, but know when to draw the line and accept we're family now. Nefera's still got a stick up her ass, but we're now at the level of siblings who can stand each other…for a while.
And I have my father to thank for all of it. He taught me that life doesn't always go the way you planned, but when the going gets tough, you brush off your shoulders, wipe your face, and you keep on trucking. Up to the day he died, him and my mom taught me so much about life and love and everything. I thank him for that, because had he not shown me this, I don't think I'd be where I am today. And I can only hope I can do the same thing with my own children.
Whenever I look at Isis and Antony, I will admit, I do sometimes feel like doubt. I feel like I'm not doing things right and question whether or not I'm being a good role model for them, but when they look at me with those big round, puppy dog eyes- Antony got blue eyes from Cleo while Isis's are green like mine- they let me know that, I may not be the perfect parent, but I'm doing a pretty damn good job at it.
I will always miss my father, and I will never stop loving him. Sometimes I find myself wondering how he would react if he could see me now: his own son, a grown man who was married to a wonderful woman and the father to two loving children.
I think that a lot. Sometimes I look above and wonder if he's watching, and if he's proud of me wherever he is in the clouds or the stars, or wherever people end up after they die. And every time, a little gush of wind goes by to let me know he'll always be there for me, teaching me and guiding me, even in death.
Playlist to this fic that also inspired it are: "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins, "Dance With My Father" by Luther Vandross, "If You Could See Me Now" by The Script, "The Living Years" by Mike and The Mechanics, "Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas, "Nobody Else But You" from The Goofy Movie and "We Are One" from The Lion King II.
Happy Father's Day, everyone.
