Father was tall. Much taller than I ever was or ever will be. When I drew him, in little scribbles as children will sometimes create to give their mother or teacher, he stood well above my mother and I and everything else, including the house. Mother would always get this sad smile on her face when she looked at those pictures. I never knew just why. Mother was small. She had these tiny little hands that seemed to do so much. Cook, clean, build whatever we needed around the house, she would provide. My clothing was hand stitched by her. Always these dark colors, navy, black, gray. She always tied my hair back in a neat little tail. I didn't play with the other little boys. I was special.
Ghestal came to the house when I was born. I don't remember this of course, but I was told about it several times. He informed my parents, who were, at the time, very poor and destitute, that if they would sell their little boy to him he would pay them handsomely. They refused at first, but he informed them that they would be able to keep me through my early years and would only have to give me up to them when I was of the age of twelve, and even then they would be allowed visits every day and I the child would be well cared for. Not to mention the boy would have a chance at a very high rank. They agreed to it. It seemed quite a fair deal. He did not tell them what would be done to me.
Ghestal visited the house often in my youth. He was much younger then, of course, and sometimes I would notice him looking at my mother strangely sometimes when my father wasn't there. I didn't understand it at that age. I didn't know why my mother would blush when he would say something very quietly to her. I didn't understand why they would leave me to play by myself while they 'cleaned the bedroom'. I only knew that they never did this when father was around.
One day, I asked him.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Kefka?"
"Why does Mommy act funny when Mister Ghestal is here?"
"What do you mean?"
"He looks at her funny and her face turns all red, and then sometimes they leave me all alone to go clean the bedroom."
My father stared at me for a moment. His eyebrows slowly met in the middle of his forehead like they always did when he was very mad at me. I took a step back, afraid that I had done something naughty and not knowing what that could possibly be. He hit me, hard, in the face. I tumbled backwards. I was six years old and it was the first of many beatings I would receive from him. He was screaming at me and telling me not to talk that way about my mother.
I think it was the next day, when Ghestal came over. There was a knock on the door, and I answered it. Mother had been sleeping all morning so I figured she must be sick. He looked down at me.
"Hello, little Kefka. What are you doing up so early? And with your hair all messy." He put his hand on my head and rubbed my head a little.
He stepped in and past me, leaving me to close the door. I followed his heels into the living room. He looked around, and into the kitchen. Then, he turned back to me.
"Where is your mother?"
"I think she's sick or something. She didn't get up this morning."
He knelt down in front of me and took hold of my face.
"What happened to your eye, Kefka?"
I turned the bruise away from him, "I fell down."
"Well, you've got to be more careful with that face, little one, that face might be very important to you some day. A leader's got to look like a leader." He smiled, it was quite a charming thing at the time. It got less so as he grew older, "Now you go check on your mother ok?"
I nodded and scurried into her room. I didn't like being alone with Ghestal. He frightened me.
I swung the door to my parent's room open. I looked in the bed and she wasn't there. It was neatly made, the sheets totally smooth, the pillows fluffed perfectly.
"Mommy?" I whispered into the early morning darkness. I searched to room with squinted eyes. There was a strange shadow in the corner. It looked like my mother standing there, but she looked taller. I took a step toward her. The sun found it's way above the horizon, as if knowing I needed the light. The golden pink light fell on her. Her eyes wide, her tongue hanging sideways from her mouth, bloated and purple, her neck red and black and brown where the rope had broken it and chaffed it. I stared at her hanging there for a moment, not understanding fully. Something finally clicked in me and I screamed.
