Title: Through the Eyes of a Child
Author: Chervil
Summary: Anita reflects on things that were, that should've been, and that are.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
My life has never been simple. I could never claim it to be so--it was a foolhardy thing to think, especially because of Papa's identity. Papa was one of the most famous men in Japan and he loved me with all his heart. I was a goldmine for those who wanted fame, money, and revenge alike. Papa treasured me--he still does--and I find that most gratifying. I'm sixteen now, old enough to understand many things, but when our lives changed forever, I was barely twelve.
It all started with the stranger. I had barely gotten home from school when I heard a knock on the door. Papa had always warned me to be careful of strangers and press the silent alarm if I ever felt myself in danger. He never wanted to coddle me and taught me things in a fashion many other parents would've deemed cruel. I learned what I had to when I had to and I always reveled in the fact that Papa trusted me enough to take care of myself.
So I opened the door. I came face to face with a tall, slim man in his early thirties dressed in a black three-piece suit. He had a briefcase in one hand and was tapping those shiny, shiny loafers on the floor in an unmistakably impatient rhythm. I felt a vague sense of uneasiness and my fingers strayed to the silent alarm button beside the door--this man looked like he knew what he wanted, where it was, and exactly how to acquire it.
I plastered a pleasant smile on my face; many said Mama had a charming smile and always used it to her advantage. I planned to make that statement true of myself, also, and to my surprise, I saw the man visibly recoil.
"Kami-sama..." he whispered, "you look like Mai!"
Again, I was twelve at the time and felt myself flush with pleasure. Papa's friends had always told me I looked like Mama. In all honesty, when I looked at myself in the mirror, I never saw any resemblance to the beautiful woman from my memories. But Papa always reassured me, drawing me into his lap and carding his long, slim fingers through my hair.
"Anita," he would whisper, "you have the feminine grace and beauty your mother possessed. She was a lovely creature and she loved you with all her heart. Sometimes I look at you and my heart twinges because you look so much like your mother."
That comment always made a smile appear on my face. Then, I'd twirl a lock of my blond hair around my finger and kiss Papa on the cheek. He'd smile into my eyes, those bright eyes I inherited from him, and I'd feel such a sense of being loved that it encompassed me whole.
I fixed the man with an inscrutable stare. "I'm her daughter," I informed him lightly.
But he didn't hear me--his gaze was fixated on my eyes, those lovely eyes that I inherited from Papa. His mouth worked to find something to say and he visibly gulped.
"Your eyes... you have his eyes."
By now, my curiosity was piqued. I tilted my head to one side, responding with, "Do I know you?"
He shook his head. "No, you don't. I'm here to see your father."
"Papa's not home right now," I said. "May I take a message?"
His lips twisted into a wry smile. "No, it's alright. I'll come back some other time--when will your Papa be home?"
My gaze shifted to someone beyond his shoulder and a bright smile appeared on my face. "Papa's home right now."
The man stiffened and whirled around, ignoring me totally. Papa was approaching the house, with his own briefcase in hand, taking those long, languid strides that were characteristic of him. He had his eyes to the ground and once he saw the stranger, stopped abruptly in his tracks. My brows furrowed; did Papa know this man?
Papa's eyes widened and his mouth opened, gasping out a name that was wholly unfamiliar to me. The man seemed frozen, one hand propped on the wall as if he'd fall if he didn't have that single aid. He whispered Papa's name and that seemed to shock Papa out of his stupor. Papa's eyes immediately hardened, an action I recognized as his way of showing discomfort, and he stiffened.
"Get out." Those harsh, cold words startled me--Papa was always infinitely gentle with me, with the same sweet smile he often graced Mama with lingering on his lips. I had never seen him in a temper before and I was instinctively scared.
The man jerked, as if surprised, and opened his mouth to reply. Papa stopped him by repeating his demand. This time, it was louder and more self-assured.
I let out a small whimper. Papa scared me. The man whirled around at the time, as if just remembering that I was there, and his gaze flickered between Papa and me. His lips settled into a resolute line and he turned back to Papa.
"I'll be back," he assured Papa before he took brisk, long steps off the porch and into the driveway.
Papa stood there for a moment, unaware of my presence. He took in a deep breath and straightened his tie before greeting me with the customary kiss to my forehead.
He stayed in his study all that evening.
"Uncle Mokuba!" I yelled, mindless with joy, and barreled into the arms of my uncle.
Papa was standing in the living room, staring at me and Uncle with a small smile lingering on his lips. He was leaning against the wall with his long legs crossed at the ankles and casually flipped his car keys in Uncle's direction. Uncle's slender hand shot out to grab them and he jingled them jokingly in my face.
It was our routine. No matter what happened, every other Wednesday at five o'clock on the dot, Uncle would come and take me for dinner and a movie. He'd leave his wife, Shizuka, and their two boys at home and spend a few hours with me, his niece. I loved it, as I loved my Uncle, and while I adored Papa with all my heart, I still cherished the time I spent with Uncle Mokuba.
I smoothed my yellow sundress around my knees and gave Papa a quick peck on the cheek before running out to the car. As I turned back to see if Uncle was following me, I saw Papa draw him off to the side to whisper something in his ear. Uncle's expression turned into one of surprise.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Uncle seemed withdrawn, unlike his usually exuberant self, and poked at his food. I uncomfortably sipped my orange soda and prodded Uncle in the shin with my sandaled foot.
"What's the matter, Uncle Mokuba?" I queried.
Uncle put his fork down on the plate; his country fried steak and mashed potatoes untouched. He steepled his fingers, an act that made him look more like a strict disciplinarian than the play Uncle I had become used to through the years.
"You remember that man you talked to the other day?" His voice was slow, casual, as if the mere mention of the man didn't make my heart leap to my throat.
I instinctively disliked the man; he transformed Papa into the cold, cruel person I saw the other day. I didn't like him one bit. Papa was a kind, gentle man and I loved him with all my heart.
"Yes," I answered, keeping my voice equally cool.
Uncle met my eyes with startling boldness. I felt relieved; I hated when people walked on eggshells around me, merely because Papa was who he was. It seemed silly to doubt that Uncle would treat me as anything other than a civilized equal. "Do you like him?"
"No," I shot back quickly, "he made Papa mad. Papa doesn't like him at all."
"You're wrong," Uncle interjected quietly. "Your Papa loves him."
It came as a surprise to me. Not because Papa liked his own gender; Papa told me the truth a long time ago, shortly after Mama's death. I was surprised because the man who appeared at our door two days ago seemed so prim and proper, the opposite of the Papa that I spent every day with. He was so unlike Papa, who believed that I should know the truth in all things and never hid his discreet romantic liaisons with me; always introducing the young man to me should Papa become attached to him.
I had only met two men. The first had the most ridiculous hair, huge and spiky with blonde bags. He had, strangely enough, crimson eyes, and always told me stories of Mama before she became pregnant with me. I liked him very much so. I was heartbroken when Papa came home one day from work and told me they had broken up. When I asked why, Papa merely said that the man had found someone else.
The second man I remembered clearly. He had long, silky black hair that he kept in a ponytail, though he often graciously let me play with it when I was bored. He was wealth--I recall something about him owning a game shop--and had a fondness for dice that I found oddly endearing. I still have a pair of sapphire dice earrings he gave me for my eleventh birthday. Papa later said that they weren't meant for each other.
"Papa loves him?" I echoed, disbelieving. "He can't! He yelled for him to get out..."
Uncle's eyes turned sad. "Your Papa's hurt."
I pursed my lips. "Tell me the story, Uncle Mokuba."
"It was their junior year in high school," Uncle started, spearing his hand through his long black hair. "Your Papa and the man were deeply in love... even though they acted like they hated each other." A small, pained smile twisted at Uncle's lips, as if retelling the story was the equivalent of reliving it. "They managed to see through their pride and confess their love for each other. I had never seen your Papa so happy, Anita, and I felt that he deserved it. It lasted until the second semester of their senior year--right about the time they'd applied for colleges.
"Your Papa wanted to stay in Japan. He'd already know by then what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He had family back here and didn't want to leave them. But the other... the other wanted to pursue business opportunities in Japan. He wanted to live abroad. Your Papa was deeply hurt that he would want to leave--and did everything he could to dissuade him of the notion.
"The fight that ensued was, to say the least, horrible. I was young and they never noticed me, but I heard everything. Your Papa accused the man of using him and tossing him out once he was bored. The other accused your father of restricting him, of limiting him, of not letting him make his own decisions."
Uncle paused then, as if it hurt too much to continue. He continued, "They parted on bad terms. The sorrow and grief your Papa felt sent him into the arms of your Mama--and they had you. And while they might not have loved each other as husband and wife should, they loved you unconditionally as parents should. They married for your sake and until your Mama's death, I believe, were the best of friends."
I felt the insensible urge to bury my face in Uncle's neck and cry my heart out. What pain Papa must've felt; what pain the other man must've felt!
He smiled then, a small, pained smile and asked, "Any other questions, you little imp?"
"Uncle," I whispered, "what's the man's name?"
Those syllables echoed hauntingly in my mind.
I shouldered my way into the living room, jingling my keychain in my hand, though all it had was the house key, a spare key to Papa's car, and some accessories I thought would make it look prettier. Papa was nowhere to be seen. Odd. Unless Papa was working overtime again--and he usually text messaged me when he did--he always made sure to greet me at the door; especially on those days I had orchestra practice, because he hours rarely tended past the end of practice.
The living room lights were dimmed, as if Papa hadn't bothered to turn them up all the way, and suddenly, I heard the ominous sound of something expensive crashing. I immediately dropped my violin, which complained with an affronted twang, and bolted in the direction of Papa's study.
My school skirt twirled about my legs and my chest heaved in unrestricted bursts as I made the long run to Papa's study. I barely managed to stop before crashing into the door. Something--instinct, my mind tells me--bade me to merely wrap a hand around the doorknob and push the cherry wood door in about an inch. I gasped at what I saw through the slit between the door and the door frame.
The man had Papa pressed against the wall, just beneath a large family portrait. Mama, Papa, and I smile benevolently down at the scene, as if giving our blessings, and my attention immediately reverted back to them as Papa gave an angry hiss. I resisted the urge to bolt in and drag the man away from Papa; if Papa couldn't get away, then I was certainly no match for him.
As I watched, the man grasped both of Papa's wrists in one of his hands--Papa's wrists were always remarkably slender for a man--and brought them behind Papa's back. Papa struggled fruitlessly and I had a fleeting, disturbing thought. What if Papa wouldn't be able to get away?
The man brushed his bangs out of his eyes and leaned forward, whispering something into Papa's ear. All the tension leeched out of Papa at the words. The unadulterated joy shone out of his eyes, intertwined with a love so blissful that my heart ached. Papa's full, lush lips parted, and he sighed.
"I love you, too," he whispered.
I smiled as the man's eyes widened to comic proportions. Then, suddenly, he dived down and claimed Papa's mouth in a kiss of which I had never seen the likes of before. Papa kissed back equally intensely, a moan escaping his lips as he ran his fingers through the man's hair.
Katsuya Jounouchi pulled back and buried his face into the pale line of Papa's throat.
"Exquisite."
Smiling, Anita Kaiba closed the door with a barely audible snick.
fin.