CHAPTER 22: PRIORITIES AND QUALITIES
The silence made her hold her breath as she peered up at the bed. Darkness, stillness. A candle eating at the last of its wick. Father is slumped in the chair beside her, head hung. A pale hand limp on the comforter. The scent of sickness suffocates her in the stuffy room. Black hair draped over the doctor's arm as he carries Mama away. The white sheet over her body sways as he brings her down the stairs. Papa is crying and she's so frightened. She lays there, staring at the ceiling until light comes again. The tears don't come until she hears the dirt hit the wood, shovelful by shovelful.
Climbing and climbing, eyes burning. Her hair whips around her head and she steps on the bridge. A familiar voice. Shoes scraping against the wooden boards. There are tears in his eyes as he reaches, their fingers touch. One second of stillness before the colors all blend together. Weightlessness, she's suspended in the air. Down, down, into the dark.
She rose with the sun, but she didn't don her sparring tunic. The mug in the sink meant Papa had already gone. At the table, Tifa ate her breakfast alone in the chair closest to the wall. Cheerful laugher in her memories clung to the curtains, the woodwork, and the brightly colored dishware. Closing her eyes produced visions of her mother by the stove and father laughing at the hearth where he told her long tales about elves and fairies. These ghosts chased her with remarkable persistence and Tifa was running out of ideas to evade this specific torture.
The autumn air was brisk against her cheeks as she wandered into the backyard with gardening tools and tin pail in her hand. Without guidance, her attempts to manage the garden had been decent, at best. Somehow, the vegetables were never as plump or plentiful as when her mother would care for them. Last year, the boys had come once in a while to help her dig or draw some water from the pump for the thirsty plants. Now, Thomas was gone. Jason and Jim had begun to treat her as if she was a nuisance. There would be no help from them in the garden this harvest season.
The sun was high in the sky when Tifa stopped to take a break, wiping the sweat dotting her brow and drifting over to the tire swing. Seating herself upon it, she held onto the thick rope and rocked slowly, leaning her head back so that her long hair brushed the ground. Papa used to push her on this very swing, teasing her and making her squeak with surprise when he'd spin her around and around. She closed her eyes. Breathe in, breathe out, Master Zangan would tell her. Center your mind, block out the pain. Soil and leaves and pine filled her nose as she swung in lazy circles.
"Boo!"
Tifa gasped, falling backwards onto the grass. Cloud's voice cracked as he laughed and bent to offer his hand. Her eyes warmed when she met her friend's eyes and she reached out to him. He pulled her to her feet with little effort.
"What was that for?" she asked with mock anger as she rubbed the back of her head. Cloud smirked and shrugged.
"You were zoning out." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder towards the Lockhart's back porch, "I came over to drop off some firewood for you."
"Thank you for your kindness, Cloud."
The smile she gave him made heat rush to his face and he wasn't sure why. Realizing he was still holding her hand, Cloud jerked his back and shyly looked away. Tifa smiled at her bare feet before climbing back into the swing once more, resting her head on top of the tire this time.
"…I asked Jason if he wanted to play yesterday and he told me to bug off. He and Jim walked right past me in town square when I called out to them." Tifa said, staring out at the tree line. "I know you don't get along with them, either. I heard that you bloodied Thomas's nose once."
Cloud shifted nervously, "I didn't want you to know about that. I thought you'd hate me if I fought with your friends."
"Did they bully you?" Tifa asked, tilting her head where it rested on rubber treads. She had suspected something like that had happened, but had never been sure.
"They made comments about my mother, my father, and you. I couldn't let them get away with that. I never told you—that was a part of me that I didn't want you to see," Cloud admitted. He lifted his face just enough to make eye contact. "I've been doing a lot of thinking. Tifa, I have a feeling that maybe, I could be someone. A hero…like the great Sephiroth."
The girl closed her eyes and considered his words. "You are a hero. My hero…who comes riding on his white horse to cut me firewood!" The smirk on his face gave her the courage to continue. "Cloud, if it wasn't for you, life would be so lonesome. You've always been someone."
Moving to lean against the tree, Cloud studied his friend. The bruises on her wrists were faded, but the bruises on her heart were so large he could easily see them with just a quick glance of her countenance. He could see the wound from every harsh word in the way her body curled in on itself, every shout in the dark shadows in her eyes. Years ago they had played on this very swing and her endless laughter filled his heart with hope, day after day. Could he do that for her? Her sadness was something she wouldn't—she couldn't—talk about.
Cloud didn't know if she really thought he didn't know of her father's mistreatment or if Tifa avoided talking about it simply because it was a frightening thing to think about. Admitting such a think aloud made it more real. He couldn't blame her. He knew what it was like to try to stop the bleeding of the heart by pretending everything was alright. One thing was certain—he needed to get her out of here, he needed to take her somewhere safe where her father could never hurt her again. Cloud stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder.
"Thank you, Tifa. You always know what to say."
His eyes moved down the soft curve of her cheek to rest on her mouth. Cloud felt ruby eyes on his face, casting a spell over him that made him suddenly unaware of anything else but how much he wanted to know if those pink lips were as soft as they looked. Something unfamiliar possessed him and he slowly leaned his face towards her only to jerk backward when he realized what he was doing. The sound of horse hooves on the cobblestone street startled the pair.
"Oh—Papa's coming. You'd better get home."
Cloud nodded because he was too flustered and embarrassed to form a complete sentence. As much as he knew he needed to get back on the Strife side of the wooden fence, his instinct was screaming at him: telling him not to leave her alone with Mr. Lockhart. He needed to protect her, to hold her tight…
What was wrong with him?
The two of them split, Cloud hopped the fence while Tifa ran inside to greet her father.
… … …
The girl had steamed squash and carrots, diced and mixed them with rice from the large sack in the larder. He supposed she was being resourceful, using vegetables strictly from the garden instead of asking him for money for the market. She'd go to great lengths to avoid talking to him, wouldn't she? But even if she had asked for gil, there wasn't very much to give her. Reaching for a hunk of bread, Brian watched his daughter carefully. She stirred her food slowly, occasionally raising the spoon to her mouth. There was little he hated more than her silence and timidity. His happy-go-lucky daughter had morphed into a solemn slip of a girl who tip toed through the house and hid in the shadows. What did she have to be so sad about? That Zangan fellow still bothered to give her lessons—what did she have to pity herself over?
There was anger and embarrassment boiling in his heart, and he wasn't sure if he was ashamed of her or himself. What would Lia think of how he watched their daughter sink into gloom instead of reassuring her and lifting her up? He saw Lia in Tifa constantly. While the girl's solemn aura was nothing like Lia's angelic presence, their physical resemblance was uncanny. As Tifa grew, her emerging gentle curves and her graceful neck played tricks with his mind. The girl's deep red eyes and curtain of black hair echoed the exotic beauty of his bride from Wutai. Instead of inspiring fondness in his heart, the daily reminder of his late wife put Brian in a constant state of unease. Some part of him blamed Tifa for the disintegration of their family, something that he knew was wrong. But as the years went by, a dark part of his heart had actually started to believe it.
"Papa…I was wondering if maybe I could get some new clothes?" Tifa asked, eyes steady on her plate. "My shoes don't fit anymore, either. I was worried about the winter…"
Brian leaned back in his chair, "The cobbler won't be back until June, you know that. And your clothes are in good shape. I'm not about to indulge an adolescent prima donna."
A new set of clothes for the girl would cost more than he could afford at the moment. Requests for his services had become few and far between as of late and any spare gil went to suppressing that hopelessness and emptiness gnawing at his heart. Some of his friends had begun to keep their distance and the women would whisper as he walked by. Brian knew of the rumors swirling throughout the village about the sad, alcoholic father and his strange ghost of a daughter who fights with the strength of a man. It was difficult for Brian to admit that the Lockhart family was no longer held in high esteem in Nibelheim.
Tifa's eyes rose up from her plate. Those big crimson orbs with their gentle slope—like the ones he had looked into at the altar on his wedding day. He felt his eyebrows draw together in a frown and the girl quickly averted her gaze. Time heals all, they said. But the enormity of his loss would never leave him. The situation just seemed to get more hopeless as the years passed. Brian rose, taking his plate to the sink. Tifa's eyes were on his back.
"I'll be in the shop finishing Mr. Lambert's order."
Without another word, he descended into his lair.
… … …
The night stretched forward quietly. Tifa sat in a warm bath, eyes roaming over her changing body. Her legs were growing longer and her hips were beginning to flare out into a womanly shape. She sighed. Growing was causing quite a dilemma. If her mother was alive, she'd understand that she was growing and needed new clothes—her current ones were growing indecently short and tight. Mama used to wear beautiful dresses with pretty shoes that always matched. She had lovely white sandals, delicate block flats and feminine winter boots for the snow…oh. All of Lia's clothes had gone untouched for years now. If Papa wouldn't get her anything to wear, maybe she could borrow some from her parents' closet.
Tifa dried off and changed, the hem of her nightgown now rising above her knees. Smiling, she crept into Papa's room and headed straight to the closet, slowly flipping through the garments on wooden hangers. There were a dozen dresses for different seasons, a winter coat and even the beautiful, cream colored satin robe Mama had worn at bedtime. Each piece held dozens of memories and her chest tightened with emotion. At the back of the closet was a magnificent red robe. Gold thread spun images of oak leaves and intricate patterns along the trailing sleeves and hem. Without thinking, Tifa took it off of its hanger and slipped her arms through the silk sleeves. Without the fastening support of the obi, the kimono draped elegantly over her body, falling to the floor in smooth, red waves. Turning to look in the mirror, she gasped as she saw the way the rich color of the garment brought out the unique hue of her eyes. Never before had she worn anything so beautiful. The girl walked and spun, relishing the softness of the silk on her skin.
Closing her eyes, Tifa swayed into the hallway with a smile. Her eyes flew open when she collided with her father's chest.
The familiar smell of alcohol radiated from Brian and grazed over Tifa's senses, automatically prompting her body to tremble. She took two steps back, eyes wide with alert when she saw the look in her father's brown orbs. Brian stared at her with shock and anger, like her couldn't decide what he was looking at. Tifa's sharp eyes and years of training prepared her to dodge the arm that flew out to grab her wrist but she suppressed the instinct to dodge or block. Experience had taught her that it would only make him angrier.
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he snapped. "Who said you could rummage through your mother's things?" Tifa squirmed in his grasp.
"I j-just thought Mama's clothes might—"
"Your own just weren't enough for you, huh? Spoiled little ingrate!" he shoved the girl and she fell to the floor, kimono pooling on the hardwood.
He doesn't mean it. It's just the alcohol. It makes him crazy. It'll pass. The chanting in her head did little to slow the pounding in her chest. The electric light flickered once overhead as Brian moved to stand over his daughter, boots caked with sawdust. His eyes were watery and fierce. Tifa knew how to defend herself, but she couldn't defy her father! Zangan had told her that her father was hurting and struggled with thinking clearly—he couldn't feel better without the temporary release of alcohol. Without her master's guidance she would've been desperately confused. His instruction on how to center her mind allowed her to remain relatively calm in these situations.
"I'm not being ungrateful, my clothes don't fit so well—"
"Don't talk back to me!" Brian fisted the collar of her night dress, jerking her to her feet and pulling her close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "You've become nothing but an expensive burden, you know that? Wearing Lia's clothes won't change that! You may look like your mother, but don't think for a second that you have her charm or her heart! You'll never be who your mother was!"
Deep, deep down, something broke. Rage kindled in Tifa's eyes and she lifted her face to meet his. Energy tensed in her muscles and her fists were clenched at her sides. Her features crumpled into a grimace as she moved to escape his grasp with a practiced maneuver. Stepping back with her right foot, she drew back her right hand. She extended her fingers and locked them before snapping her arm forward to drive her fingers into Brian's neck. Master had taught her how to bring a man to his knees in an instant by utilizing pressure points. Tifa knew how to channel her energy into her fingers with such force that she could burst arteries with deadly accuracy. But the strike against her father was only meant to startle him and it did the trick. He gasped, more from shock than from pain, and the girl twisted from his slackened hold and flew down the stairway.
A blur of red and black, Tifa pushed through the front door and out into the night. Panting, her bare feet pounded the earth, kimono fluttering behind her. Tears in her eyes made the world fly by in a haze of shadows. The light of the harvest moon was enough to see by, but she didn't need any direction. Tifa knew exactly where she was going. It hurt, it hurt. Every tangled thought clawed at the walls guarding her heart: walls that she had carefully constructed over years of guilt, rejection and loneliness. Quiet whimpers broke the stillness of the night as they tore unbidden from her throat.
Run, run, run…Leave it behind.
Half of her knew that it was futile to run from the pain that she carried within her, but she pushed forward. Up the path, away from the village, onto the dirt road she ran. Tifa didn't stop until the grass of the graveyard was soft and cool under her toes. Bare knees shaking, she stumbled over to her mother's grave. Falling to the ground, she finally released the wave of emotion that had been stifled for much too long. Crying over her mother's death was something Tifa did not allow herself to do. Mama had said that she'd always be with her and that certainly was true. Lia's brave spirit flowed through her daughter's veins. Tifa would watch the way her mother soothed away worries with a calming hand on her head. She was awed at the way Mama had chased away insecurities with her playful, gentle voice. The way she'd take Tifa's hand whenever life got too hard always made her feel safe and loved. Even when the woman was sad, she somehow was able to put her feelings aside to make others happy. Tifa yearned desperately for that skill. Mama was a savior, she was an anchor.
She was ashamed of running out on her father. Normally, Papa's comments were things she could stand with quiet acceptance, but not that last one. Papa's moods were like a dangerous see-saw and it was becoming more and more difficult to predict when he'd lash out. Tifa never realized how much she wanted to be like her mother until it was apparent that her wish had not been granted. Mama always knew how to make pain go away—both pain of the body and pain of the mind. Tifa would smile at her father and try to talk with him; she'd keep his stomach full and his house clean, but nothing helped him escape his grief. She couldn't understand how becoming inebriated was his only escape; he certainly never seemed happy when he drank. Why couldn't he share his grief with her? Wouldn't it be good for both of them? She wanted him to know that she missed her mother, too.
"Mama…"the girl whispered to the granite. "I don't know what to do."
She wiped the tears with her sleeve; the softness of the kimono was like mom's palm on her cheek. The realization came upon her that for so long, she'd done her best to avoid thoughts of her mother. If she didn't, she was afraid to end up like Papa. It was so hard to go through this alone and Tifa would give her very soul to know how to help her father heal. She missed his booming laugh, the rough feel of his mustache as he kissed her cheek, the way he'd walk the forest trails with her for hours on end. But as hard as she tried, nothing she did was right. She felt like a flower trying to bloom in the snow.
"I want to be happy. I want Papa to be happy, too. His heart is sick with sadness and nothing makes him better."
The wind rustled through the trees and blew softly at her back. Dry leaves blew to and fro as the mountain wind tore them from their branches. Tifa pulled the kimono taut and the soft fabric made her remember the feel of Mama's loving arms around her shoulders. She realized that she was still trembling as she ran her fingers over the engraving of the name on the cold granite. Drowning her own sorrow to appear strong for her father was hard work. Was it really worth it to keep trying? Dropping her hand to the grass, she closed her eyes and let old memories of her mother flood her mind. Hundreds of recollections ebbed and flowed as she searched the unearthed the thoughts she had hid long ago. One particular piece of Lia's advice rung loud and clear:
"Kindness is such a wonderful medicine..."
… … …
Cloud ran his fingers over the smooth metal of the pistol's barrel. Mom kept it in the drawer of her bedside table, but he never knew about it until now. There was a faded cardboard box of bullets beside it. The night before, he had asked her about what his father did to make a living. She had offered him an awkward smile before explaining about his trade as a gunsmith and showing him the unloaded gun she had stashed away. It fascinated the boy to think that his father's hands had crafted this very weapon—even to the beautiful design carved into the grip. The thought that his fingers were in the very spot where his father's were so long ago made a strange feeling rise in his chest. Cloud had never seen a pistol before. The only guns he had ever seen were rifles that the men used for hunting for venison or the shotgun Mr. Ackerman kept for protecting his small flock of sheep from wolves that occasionally came down from the mountain. None of their guns were as fine as this little pistol and its delicate details.
In the few instances when they had a conversation where his father was mentioned, Mom would get that faraway look of fondness in her eyes and tell Cloud that he was a good man. But what did it take to be a good man? A good husband? His thoughts drifted to his neighbor, alone with her father in the quiet house. He had once envied the cheerful atmosphere of the Lockhart home, but now he pitied Tifa for having to return to there each afternoon. Although she liked to pretend everything was fine, Cloud was an intuitive friend. He knew what hid in the dark shadows of her eyes. He had always thought Mr. Lockhart had the things required to make a good husband and father, but the marks on Tifa's body and her newfound timidity showed Cloud that maybe good men could turn into bad men.
He jumped when he heard the front door open, shutting the drawer with haste. Mom had said he was allowed to look at the gun since she didn't keep it loaded, but there was still guilty, sinking feeling in his heart and he didn't understand why.
"Cloud! Come here—you have mail!" Claudia said cheerfully, shutting the door against the chill of the autumn wind. A wide grin flashed on his face as he ran to meet her in the kitchen.
"It's what you've been waiting for," she said, ruffling his hair before handing him the fat brown envelope.
A few days after he had first seen Sephiroth on the television in the lobby of the inn, he had asked Mom for permission to send away for information about ShinRA, its army and SOLDIER program. After two long months of waiting, a response from ShinRA had arrived—his name printed in bold letters on the envelope. Eagerly, Cloud sat himself in his seat at the kitchen table and tore into it. Hours later, he remained at his place in the wooden chair, reading carefully through the stack of pamphlets and paperwork. His mother floated around the kitchen in her purple dress as she prepared supper for two.
"It says that I can apply for SOLDIER when I turn fourteen," he grinned, prying his eyes from the text to watch his mother finish whipping the potato mash. "If I can take my exams soon and get my diploma, I can go by the end of next year!"
"You'd have to go to Midgar, then. That's a big city, Cloud—a dangerous place. It's not at all like Nibelheim."
"I know. But I'll be careful, it'll be alright. All I need to do is get to this building," he said, holding up a pamphlet with a photo of ShinRA tower. Claudia glanced at the photo as she pulled a tray out of the oven.
"It's huge! If you can find your way out of the Hansen's corn fields, you can find your way to a giant skyscraper, I'm sure!" Mom said as she gave his freckled cheek a loving pinch.
Annoyed, Cloud rubbed the side of his face before once again setting his eyes upon the papers. He sifted through to find the application and thumbed through the stapled stack of forms. At the bottom of the last page, bolt print read: Application fee: 250 gil. Cloud drew in a breath before letting out a defeated sigh. The financial aspect of this adventure hadn't occurred to him until now. He certainly couldn't ask his mother to shell out that kind of cash, she worked hard enough to put dinner on the table each night. He was of age—he could earn the money for his application fee. And then he'd have to afford transport to get to Midgar, and that would be expensive. This was going to be quite a process and he hoped that he'd be able to earn the money by the time he turned fourteen in August.
"Clear off your papers, honey. You wouldn't want to get food on them would you?"
He obeyed quickly and helped Claudia set the table, a contented little smile on his lips. He was going to do it! By this time next year, he'd be a SOLDIER for sure.
A/N: Phew! That was a long one. Does anyone else find that as they write, the characters seem to take on a mind of their own? I have quite a detailed outline of the plot but sometimes they want to write their own stories (for me, Cloud is particularly defiant in changing my plans for him). I'm loving hearing from you guys, thank you so much for your support.
Writing is so time consuming! Especially when your first writing experience happens to turn into such a long story. So how am I doing? What do you guys think?