The Hairstylist

Chapter 25: Bedtime Stories

"Once upon a time, there was a brave, powerful Rakyat warrior who fell in love with a Spanish priest."

Dominique sees darkness, her body weightless as she floats through the abyss, trying to figure out her surroundings. Flash of red greets her eyes and she sees a painting of a woman, dressed for battle, pointing a spear at a passive man in a vicar. He holds his hands up, smiling at the warrior woman. Then, she lowers her spear and caresses his cheek.

"The Spanish priest came to the Rakyat islands to convert the 'savage' Rakyat people into God fearing Christians. He was one of the many Christians who wanted to convert and help those damned souls from their lives of sin. But, he met a Rakyat warrior. Her name was Bulan. She was a respected Rakyat warrior and prestigious leader, a bloodline of Rakyat royalty. She introduced him to the ways of her people and he in turn taught her the way of his religion. It didn't take long for the two to fall in love and, see each other in secret."

Dominique sees the priest coming to the island with nuns and bibles, trying to convert the disadvantaged children while tending to their wounds. The Rakyat warrior stands in the corner, watching him with disdain. She's fleshed out, now; smooth dark skin, long black hair that fans her face in waves and curls, her eyes dark and intimidating. Her toned and stocky body bore markings and scriptures that Dominique can't decipher. She storms over to him, her hair slicing through the air with every step.

"Your kind have no business here." She says, short and finite. The priest looks back at her, a smirk on his lips.

"Why, the Lord's work is my business. Ms…?"

"My name is Bulan, foreigner. I'm the Rakyat warriors' leader. Give me one good reason why your head shouldn't be used as a decoration in my trophy room."

The priest gulps.

"May I ask what garners such hostility from you?"

She snorts.

"You come to my island, trying to corrupt the minds of the injured with your lies and fairytales of a forgiving God while turning a blind eye to the chaos you cause. You priests," she spits, "you priests are all the same."

"But hermana," the priest grabs her hand gently, smoothing over the scars on her knuckles, "I'm not like most priests." He smiles a soft smile. Bulan retracts her hand, scrunching her face in confusion.

"Walk with me, hermana. Let's try to understand one another." He gestures his hand out to her, bowing his head in respect. Bulan looks at his hand and at the man graciously baring himself, and takes it.

The atmosphere fades to night, with Dominique, a wary bystander, finding the two entangled in each other under the blanket of darkness, the moon highlighting their afterglow.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." The priest confesses. He kisses her shoulder softly, brushing a lock of hair away from her back.

"When I'm with you, I feel…I feel I know what it's like to be in Heaven."

Bulan laughs.

"You're a fool, Father. A fool." She turns to face him, a smile on her lips. They share a kiss, and Dominique knew from a kiss like theirs there's more to their story. Their kiss was intimate, gentle, sweet; Dominique felt ashamed for watching their private moment, so she looks away.

"Their secret love was exposed when she became pregnant with the priest's child. The priest had the option of denying that child's bloodline to save his reputation but he decided that being a father was more important than being a son of God. He was no longer Father Montenegro; he was Malachi Montenegro, a traitor who forsake God for the Rakyat savage in order to be there for his child, the ultimate sacrifice. The two became loving parents, even with Bulan's marriage to another Rakyat warrior, Argo Talugmai, and produced a pure heir, who later became a Rakyat high priestess. Her name was Citra Talugmai. She didn't know it, but she was born in the middle of racial strife and cultural clashes."

Dominique hears shouting and ducks when a plate smashes against the wall by her.

"Oh, very mature, Bulan! You narrowly missed our son!"

A boy, no younger than six, stands at attention, biting his lips and trying to stand tall, but his legs are trembling.

"You are so frustrating!" Bulan shrieks, throwing another plate. Malachi catches it this time.

"Why do you insist on being difficult? Why couldn't you leave things the way they are? Why do you have to make things harder for him than it already is!"

"Because he's half of me, Bulan! He deserves to know where he came from! He deserves to know his father's native tongue. It's only right!"

"Not on this island, it's not! He doesn't deserve to be ridiculed and teased by his peers because of who he came from!"

"That's our fault, not his. I get that. But punishing him by making him into something he isn't? How is that fair?"

"I only want what's best for our son!"

"So, you decide to try to erase a part of who he is and deny me as his father? I've turned my back on God for my son…"

"No one asked you to be a martyr. You should've been like all the other priests that came and left this island with bastard children in tow. No one wanted you here and I didn't need you here. I was fine without you deciding to stay and making my life harder."

"It's always about you! That's what frustrates me about you! It's always about what Bulan wants, what Bulan needs. But never about what our son wants, what our son needs. Our son needs to know who his father is, our son needs to know where parts of him came from, what personality traits he's inherited. You may dress him up, force him not to talk to me in Spanish, hell, darken up his skin to look like yours, but he will always be half of me. You can't hide or change his eye color. Because what Rakyat warrior has green eyes like mine?"

Malachi's eyes come into view, and it sets ice in Dominique's stomach. They're icy mint green, bright and boring into Dominique's soul. It was all starting to come together…

Green eyes…

Curly hair…

A light-skinned boy and a dark-skinned girl standing side by side in the photograph she held in Vaas' room…

Dominique finds herself walking towards the frightened boy, hand touching his shoulder. She peers over to look at his face, and mashes her hands against her face to hide her horror.

It's him.

Oh, God, it's…

"Vaas!"

The boy looks up at Malachi.

"Si, Papa?"

"Show your mother what I've taught you."

Her world crumbles and she's falling.

Memories of Vaas' childhood speed past her in blurs, television sets changing to memory after memory through Vaas' eyes. His birthdays, his tournament wins, his brawls, his crimes, his moments of weakness and vulnerability, all broadcasted for Dominique in vivid technicolor. She watches helpless as that innocent boy becomes a monster she'd known and have grown to hate.

She crashes through a window and lands on a soft bed, her body glowing in purple neon lights. It reeks of smoke, gunpowder, and death; she sees a large television screen click on to Vaas, older and more crazed, fighting against her neighbor, Jason.

"You, are me. And I, am you."

"…Accept me as your savior. Nail me to the fucking cross and let me be REBORN!"

Jason grabs the blade and slices through Vaas with a few barbaric jerks…

That scar on Vaas' abdomen. It all makes sense.

…Vaas is left behind, his body dragged by some of his men and thrown on the stretcher…

"I can't believe it…Vaas is dead!" one of them say, sliding off his beret and putting it to his heart.

"May our boss…finally…rest in peace. Let's give him a proper burial…let's cremate him and avenge his death by killing Snow White…"

Vaas draws in a breath, coughing up blood.

"I..kill…Jason…Kill…Jason…" he grabs the man by his shirt. He coughs blood in his face and collapses.

"He…he's alive. I don't know how, but he's still breathing."

"Quick! We need to help him!"

"Why," Dominique screams at the television, "why are you showing me this!"

The television cuts off leaving her in darkness.

"And the boy grew to be a man who's picking himself up after a fall from grace. He became a man struggling to find his wings again."