A/N: Welcome to the first chapter of this new story. Yes, this is not The Guardian, even though I thought I wouldn't touch any other ideas until I had finished the first part of the first story, but having worked on it for eight years, I decided to start something new. I opted for a concept that I hadn't seen much of, if any - the reversal of the trope of a human ending up in the Pride Lands. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Content warning: Contemplation of suicide
Like most mornings, I woke up feeling like I had woken up far too soon. It was as if I was put on the edge of a wireless charger and then taken off it before I even reached half the capacity of my energy reserves. The weight on my eyes was heavier than it was when I fell asleep, but they were torturously forced open as my mother breached the dam against the fiery light that was my blackout curtains. I rolled my body away from the light flooding my room and burning my eyes, and cleared the sleep dust with my fingers.
"I told you to tidy your room," she complained. In my defence, my room is tidier now than it once was. And if it weren't for my little sister, it wouldn't be messy in the first place. Still, I suppose I am responsible for maintaining the appearance, accessibility, and safety of my room. It was as a castle to me as this house was a castle for the family. A shelter from earthly forces that you would rather not confront, a place to retreat when you are overwhelmed with life, where you can be yourself and surrender to imagination.
Not that I had much time to even imagine these days. I was in my final year of secondary school. I was being bombarded with noise and expectation and warned of the consequences of failure. I am expected to absorb information like a sponge and to wring myself like a cloth at the end of it and spill it onto a piece of paper. What they wanted from me was to be a mere cog in a greater machine.
"Now get up, or else you'll run late," my mum warned. I rolled back to my previous position and glared at the back of my mum's head as she walked out of my room for the unceremonious way I was woken up. I pivoted my body and let my legs hang over my bed, and then I conjured the energy to erect my back.
The light of the winter sun felt good on my freshly frozen feet after they had been liberated from my bedding, but it was scorching my eyes, and I waved my arms blindly as walked from my bed to my window intending to close the curtains, not to capitulate to weariness, but to be able to navigate my room without torturing my eyes.
I was now fully awake. I sighed as I walked over to my red and black gaming chair, on which my school clothes, a white shirt, dark grey blazer, black trousers, and red tie were casually placed.
I sat down heavily on the wooden chair in the dining room. The pleasant and comforting smell of buttered toast entered my nostrils. Even when frustrated with weariness, I couldn't help but allow connotations associated with the scent of buttered toast, such as unconditional love. The love that does the job of two parents. The love that says no matter how many arguments there are, how much nagging, they will always put food on your table.
Oh, yeah. My father passed away when I was 13. Even as the cancer kept coming back, weakening him further every time, stealing even more years from his life, he was still the best dad I could ask for. He was there for my greatest glories, he was there for my darkest days. He taught me right from wrong, he toiled so that we could thrive, and he sacrificed so that we could be surrounded by love. The pain of him being stolen from us far too soon had dulled, but the pain of his absence still lingered and was as debilitating as the first whole day without him.
Maybe I caused too much grief for my mum. She had the same pain I have, and I probably took my grief out on her at times. She didn't deserve that, especially after all she's done for us. She has had to assume the role of two parents. She had to be strict and fair. She had to help guide teenagers through the turmoil of growing up from the male and female perspectives.
"Thanks, Mum," I said quietly.
Mum paused as she cleared the empty plates left by my brothers, James and Jackson, clearly taken aback by my gratitude.
"You're welcome," she smiled before resuming.
The table was now quiet. It wasn't always this way. At the end of the table nearest to the wall was an empty chair. It was now always empty because that's where Dad used to sit. When we sat down for breakfast, he would greet us with an awful dad joke. Everyone would groan and grin at them, but I would laugh like there was no tomorrow.
The place opposite mine, which was closest to the door, was Jackson's. Next to him was James, who idolised my father, who was also a solicitor. He now works at a major regional firm in Birmingham.
Next to me would sit my sister, Jenna, who was the youngest. She caught a bug from school and so was spared from the wrath of my mother's unrelenting siren. I sat on the corner closest to Mum.
"Did you at least do your homework, or can I expect to return home before you again?" she asked pointedly. It was a reference to my detention last week for failing to hand in my English homework on time.
"Ha, ha," I replied. "Yes, I did do my homework, and that's why I didn't tidy my room," I said.
"Hmm, I wouldn't be able to work in that mess," she remarked. "As long as your room is tidy by this evening."
I took a second bite of the toast, savouring the warmth of the bread in my mouth, the feel of the cooked bread against my tongue, and the taste of butter, which sparked my taste buds. My attention was drawn to an item on the morning news programme concerning the conservation of lions. The narrator explained how British conservationists were working with local tribes in Kenya and Tanzania to prevent poachers from threatening not just lions but rhinos and elephants as well.
I wondered what it would be like to be a lion. It sounds both boring and brutal at the same time. Male lions spend most of their day sleeping, and yet many cubs born do not reach maturity. I always likened my father to a lion. He was a true leader. He was strong, noble, and fierce when he had to be. Nobody messed with him. Everyone respected him, and some even feared him. If Kiddy were a jungle, he would be the King.
But my mother was a Queen. A true Queen. She was fair yet tough. She knew when to be calm and collected, but she also knew when to be ferocious. Too often, I would be on the receiving end of her roar. I did not enjoy incurring her wrath, but I found that the way my grief dictated my actions caused her avoidable stress. Maybe I wanted attention, or maybe I thought that being disruptive and rebellious was the best way to fill the emptiness of grief, but that only led to me being isolated in my own family, and that caused me to be a hermit, spending full days in my room on some occasions, and I vowed to change my ways.
When I finished my breakfast, the regional news started playing, which was my cue to leave for school. On the way to the door, I checked my bag to make sure that my homework was in there, and it was.
"Oh, don't forget, I'm taking Jenna to the doctors' so I will be back after you," Mum called as I opened the door to leave.
"Okay. I've got my keys," I said as I patted the pocket in my trousers and felt the outline of my set of keys and key fobs. "See you later, love you," I said.
"Love you," I heard before I shut the door.
My journey took me from my average suburban residential estate new build, under the old railway line, through the park, up the main road into town, past the football stadium, across the river, and then the railway station, and then the school was in view. Outside the main gate was my best friend, Finn. He was shorter than me, and had curly hair - it was the type of style that you saw outside McDonald's - but he was my best friend because, on my first day at high school, he was the only person who approached me, a shy kid who avoided everyone because I was terrified of being bullied. I thought it was possible to go through all five years of high school without being noticed. Of course, that was an absurd idea, and I'm glad I was wrong. Finn was there to support me when my Dad was dying, and after he died, it was his idea to bring everyone in my year to console me for my loss. He was a better friend than I deserved.
"Morning, Jensen," Finn said with his usual smile."Hi, Finn," I replied. His mere presence lifted my mood and made me more willing to face the trials of the day.
"Did you bring your homework this time?" he asked with a playful smirk.
"Yes, yes, I made sure it was definitely in my bag before I left my house," I said, punctuated with a chuckle of self-deprecation.
"Oh, that reminds me, are you still up for going to see Captain America: Brave New World tomorrow?" Finn asked. He was a bit of an MCU completionist and had invited me to a screening of every film in the franchise since Captain America: Civil War. We then took turns hosting each other to a movie night at the end of every week, where we watched every instalment of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. This was up to date by the time the pandemic occurred. It was to him that I owed my love of the MCU, and it was one of the forms of escape from my grief.
"I'll have to see what my mum says because Jenna is unwell, so she might want me to look after her," I answered.
"Oh, that's a shame. I hope she gets better soon," Finn said kindly.
The first half of the day went as well as usual. It was Wednesday, and so it was Science. I just about got my head around the concepts conveyed by my teacher, but then we were handed a load of past exam papers that we were to answer over the Christmas break. I thought my day was doomed, but that was nothing compared to what happened at lunch.
As I entered the canteen hall beside Finn, I could smell the jacket potatoes that were being served to the free school meal children. I was probably eligible for that programme, having endured a bereavement, but I felt like I would have taken the place of someone who needed it more than I did. As I walked between the tables with plastic tops with peppered patterns and foldable metal legs that bore the weight of plates, lunchboxes, backpacks, and the occasional aggressive fist, I caught sight of one of my favourite things to see in the school. It also elicited feelings of nervousness, doubt, and inferiority when I saw it.
And on the rare occasion that I interact with it, I always say the wrong thing. Even as I think, I am making them sound like an object. They are a person. A girl. Her name is Phoebe, and she was my crush. Her blue eyes shone with kindness. Her blond hair glistened under the natural light that flooded through the skylight above where she sat. Her pure face was unmatched by any of her peers. I was almost afraid to look at her graceful cheeks, her gentle eyebrows, her immaculate lips, and her faultless and fair skin. I thought of myself as unworthy to look upon her. I almost felt guilty for crushing on her. She deserved someone who told her she was beautiful every day, and that the one who would be lucky enough to hold her hand to support her and to have her to support them was the luckiest person in the world. Her beauty was effortless; she did not need to apply any makeup or filter to be attractive.
I almost tripped on one of the legs of the table and then decided to sit down and not be noticed. I don't think she's ever noticed me. That's probably because I have not let myself be noticed. She came to this school after my father died, and so she came after the moment when everyone in the class hugged me. Alas, I will probably not earn her attention, let alone her love, but that's okay. What would make me truly happy would be to spend one evening with her so I could make her feel as beautiful as she is.
And such an opportunity is coming up. At the end of the last year of high school, the leavers will come together to say farewell as a class before most go their separate ways, and they will arrive with a 'date'. Usually, that is a romantic partner or a platonic one. And sometimes it is first come, first served. I had this crazy notion that I would ask Phoebe to be my date to the prom.
"Why are we sitting here?" Finn asked in a hushed voice as he swung his leg around the bench and then hunched over the table to whisper into my ear.
"I have this idea in my head, and I want you to tell me that it's a stupid idea and that I shouldn't go through with it," I said to him.
"Well, what is this idea?" Finn asked, his head shaking impatiently.
"I'm going to ask Phoebe to be my date to the prom," I said.
Finn raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, and then he punctuated his silence with a chuckle.
"Well, if that's what you truly want, then go for it, I'm not going to stop you," Finn said.
I returned his advice with an almost disappointed expression.
"Oh, I mean... it's a stupid idea and you shouldn't go through with it," he then said mockingly, causing me to sigh and shake my head.
"I mean, what's the worst thing that can happen?" he asked.
"What could go wrong if I ask a question of vulnerability in the middle of a room full of immature, hormonal, spiteful teenagers? Are you really asking that?"
"Well, it's not as if everyone's going to laugh at you, Jensen. You're acting as if she would be insulted by your offer," Finn said.
"Well, I am insulting her by even crushing on her. She deserves the love of someone far more worthy than I," I uttered, and then my face heated up when I realised what I said and then looked down at the obscene graffiti on the table.
"Bro, you're really down bad for her, aren't you?" Finn chuckled. To this, I glared at him. A mischievous smirk then spread across his face, and he stood to his full height, then placed his hands under my arms and lifted me to my feet. In an attempt to stop him, I twisted my body and tried to shake off his arms, but this ended up causing the bench to scrape against the floor, which caused a horrific din that made everyone look in our direction for a second. I could see every face looking at me. It felt as if I was being silently condemned for disrupting their conversations, their train of thought, their peace. I froze as if it would render me invisible, and everyone returned to their conversations. Everyone, apart from the girls on the table to our left, including Phoebe. I dared to look at her flawless face, and she looked at me expectantly. And by the time I concocted a delusion that there was longing in her eyes, I realised that I had stolen too long a moment of the privilege of looking at her. Her beauty terrified me. It was a reminder of my inadequacies and unworthiness. It was as if my heart was teasing me for feeling the way I did about her, because I was hardly going to spend the rest of my life being the one to support her, uplift her, cherish her, love her. That would be someone else, and I felt guilty for feeling that way for someone out of my league. To explain it in football terms, it was like I was in the middle of the National League, and she was at the very top of the Premier League.
I tore my gaze away from her and fixed it on Finn. I looked at him with sorrow and pity for myself. It was as if I was telling him that, while I was grateful for his support, I could not find it in me to do it. I would not ask her. I would let someone else have her. I would probably end up as some sort of loser incel who believes that women owed them their love, affection, loyalty, and respect and could not comprehend the idea of going through the effort of earning those virtues.
And to this, Finn directed a supportive nod. Somehow, it ignited a spark of hope and confidence in me. It was as if he were telling me that anything is possible as long as you pursue it. It was as if he was hoping for me, that he was giving me a confidence transplant.
He was right. He was always right. He was a better friend than I deserved.
I turned to look at Phoebe once more, who was now silently spectating the conversation between her friends. I walked the three paces between the table we were sitting on and Phoebe's table. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete. At long last, I found myself standing at the head of the table that Phoebe sat at. I swear I could feel her beauty radiate on my skin. Well, it was either that or the utter fear of making a fool of myself. I swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in my mouth. I could see myself either choking on my spit just as I was about to speak to her or drooling all over her as I talked. I couldn't decide which would be more embarrassing.
Thankfully, by some miracle, neither of those things happened, and a break formed in their conversation.
"Hi, Phoebe," I piped up. I was then on the receiving end of the glares of five deeply unimpressed girls who were offended by my presence and my interruption. I looked from right to left, and then I saw Phoebe. I'm not sure if being on the receiving end of their dagger-like eyes caused my face to heat up more, or being in the presence of my crush.
"Um, h-how are you?" I forced the words through my teeth. I wasn't going to just straight-up ask her. She barely knows me.
"Uh, I'm well, thank you," she smiled. Oh, her smile is perfect. It was a genuine and kind smile accentuated by her lips. "How are you?"
'Shitting myself', would be an honest answer, but it would be inappropriate. I dared not test my humour on her at this point.
"Oh, I'm... good, thanks," I nodded awkwardly. "Listen, I was wondering if you, uh..." I stuttered. I tried my best to ignore the belittling giggles of the other girls. "I was wondering if you would do me the great honour of..."
This is the key part, Jensen. Don't mess it up now.
"Of being m-my, uh, date to the Prom," I asked. My voice was hastened and lacked its usual definition. But I did it. I overcame a great hurdle. I did something even though I was petrified to do it. That's courageous, right?
It was as if time slowed down. I couldn't help but hold my breath as I read her eyes. First of all, I detected surprise. I didn't know if it was a surprise of gladness or a surprise of revulsion. Then her eyes looked to the other girls, who were now howling in laughter like a pack of hyenas. Phoebe then let out a short and sharp exhalation, almost of amusement. It was like a knife to my heart. But she had yet to twist it.
"I'm... sorry, Jensen, but... I already have a date to the Prom," she said. My heart sank and hit the floor with the sound of a clattering of dozens of forks. I wasn't at all surprised, but why did it hurt?
"Ah, okay then. I'm happy for you, and... I hope that your date realises how lucky you are and treats you with the respect you deserve," I said, trying to disguise my tightening throat. "Good day," I said before I turned and walked past Finn without a word. No word left my mouth for the rest of the day. The tears in my eyes did the talking for me. And I heard the laughter ringing in my ears for hours.
I finally reached the doorstep of my home, and as my movements were accentuated with the frustration borne from shame and anger, I fumbled the simple task of extracting the keys from my pocket. I sighed heavily as I picked them up from the concrete slab and attempted to insert them into the lock, but I growled as I found myself taking several attempts to do even that.
I finally opened the door. I pushed it open with such force that it hit the coats hanging on their pegs to the left of the hallway, yanked the keys from the lock and then I slammed the door shut behind me, causing a thump to reverberate around the ground floor. I then threw my bag at the foot of the shoe rack to the right, and I stomped up the stairs and opened the door to my room with no less force than I opened the front door, and slammed it behind me. I walked up to my bed and slowly sat down on it and then allowed myself to fall onto my side. And then I wept.
How could I be so stupid as to believe that I had a chance with someone like Pheobe? And now that will be what my time in school will be defined by. Not everyone coming together for an act of utter kindness, but everyone coming together to see me humiliate myself. To see me at my most pathetic and vulnerable. That will be the memory everyone has of me. And such was the tradition of our school, the first proposal would kick off a frenzy of rumours, competition, and even romance. However, almost in defiance of tradition, my proposal was unsuccessful. I was probably cursed. Cursed to lose everyone. Cursed to be alone. That will be my fate. In ten years, I will have nothing to show for my life because I chose to put my needs first rather than being considerate. I chose to push people away, and now people are pushing me away. I am being punished for my choices, and I deserve these punishments. Those choices defined the person I am, and I am a selfish person. I am a burden. I deserve to be consumed by grief. I barely deserve to exist.
Maybe I should just kill myself.
Woah. I sat up.
Where the hell did that come from?
In all my years of navigating grief, I had never considered suicide. I would never put that grief on my mother. Even though it seemed as if she was unbreakable, that probably would break her, and merely rotate the cycle of grief. How selfish was I to even think of that?
No, I can't think like that again. That's where it started. The self-loathing. I hate feeling like that. It feels like a thin yet oppressive film that is wrapped tightly around my body, making me barely able to breathe.
The sound of my heartbeat reverberating around my head was substituted with the sound of closed phalanges hitting the wooden front door.
'Must be a delivery driver', I thought. Mum was always buying stuff on behalf of everyone. It wasn't uncommon for me to arrive at the front door after a long day at school with another cardboard box or package wrapped in grey plastic.
I almost glided down the stairs to catch the elusive, almost mythical delivery driver. I skidded on the laminated floor before I grasped the handle and pulled it down, and leaned backwards to open the door.
I looked straight ahead and saw nothing. No driver. No van. Just the bland garden that separated our house from the pavement. I looked in either direction on the road. To my left was the end of the cul-de-sac and the railway beyond it. To my right, the road curved sharply to the right after our neighbour's house. There was no sight or sound of a vehicle quickly accelerating to its next destination.
I then looked down to where the brown welcome mat would be seen, often at an untidy angle, and with the black font reading 'Welcome' now faded, on the grey concrete slab of a doorstep. In its place was a cardboard box. It was as tall as the bottom of my thigh and broader than my chest. I knelt to lift it, but when I first went to lift it by pushing my legs against the floor, the box's centre of gravity caught me by surprise. I thought whatever was in it was going to remain on the floor as I lifted the box.
"What the hell are you?" I asked rhetorically. I searched for a label and located it on the last side I looked at, which had me facing my house. After my eye was drawn to the QR code, I read the measurements, customs details, and the person to whom it was addressed: me. The return address was in Tanzania. Odd.
I noticed the door was closing, so I repositioned myself to keep the door open with my backside. I then dragged the box through the doorway, lifting it as much as I could above the bottom of the doorframe. How am I supposed to get this upstairs?
Or maybe I'm not. What if this is my birthday present from my great-aunt? She always bought me weird stuff that I'd never use - don't tell her I said that - and addressed it to me for added personalisation. Having settled on that explanation, I pushed it between the shoe rack, which was on the right as you walked in, and the staircase. I then stood at my full height again and went to climb the stairs to unpack my bag, but I had only gotten as far as placing my hand on the bannister and my left foot on the first of the bare wooden steps before I stayed my body after I detected movement in the corner of my eye. The box moved. A bulge formed in the corners before it quickly returned to its default shape. Weird.
I looked up the stairs, almost refusing to acknowledge what I thought I saw. It just didn't make sense to a rational mind, but because there was only an irrational explanation, I couldn't evict the curiosity from my mind and walked purposely into the kitchen, opened the cutlery draw and withdrew the scissors with black handles from it, failing to not cause a clatter to echo through the house. I promptly returned to the box, knelt on one knee, opened the scissors to their fullest extent, and pierced all the brown tape on the top, and then I opened the box. When I peered into the box, I gasped when I saw what lay at the bottom and immediately closed it again.
I shook my head in disbelief. It couldn't be that. It mustn't be that. Anything but that.
I opened it again, and even in the shadow cast by the tall brown walls, I could see the contents of the box: Golden fur, four legs, two ears with black rims, whiskers, and a pink nose.
It was a lion cub.
There was a lion in my house.
And it was sleeping. It was so cute. Apart from having a stocky and compact build with round ears, it was not that distinguishable from a ginger cat.
Oh, God.
We have a ginger cat called Luke, which is short for Lucozade. He's going to go crazy if he comes across this creature. This made no sense. It must be a mistake. Did it truly come from Tanzania? How does a lion cub end up in the postal system and end up on the other side of the equator? How did nobody notice the unusual weight distribution of the box? Should I call the zoo or the police? I chanced another look into the box and my heart melted upon my eyes falling on his closed ones. As peaceful as he looked, there seemed to be a fresh pain and sorrow painted on his face. And then I realised that there was personality, character in his face. I thought of lions as creatures of instinct.
I reached slowly into the box. I knew that if he scratched me, it would be worse than what Luke would do to me when his patience ran out. I gasped when I touched the cub. Underneath the soft fur was a robust and powerful body. As I marvelled at the contrast, my left hand moved from his front left paw and up his shoulder. My right hand moved from the top of his head and halfway down his spine, and I found that my hands were in the most opportune position to pick up the cub. I gently moved my right hand around the cub's right shoulder and under his arm, carefully not to pinch him.
He was heavier than Luke but just as flexible. I slowly stood back up as I lifted the lion cub to my eye level, my arms extended so the cub wouldn't scratch my face off.
I exhaled in satisfaction. Nobody would believe this. I barely believed it myself. But I was holding an actual lion cub, at the bottom of the stairs in my own house.
The cub stirred, and he vibrated as he stretched his forepaws towards me. His eyelids clenched before they softened and slowly opened and blinked at different times before their synchronicity was restored. I finally saw his eyes. Red irises and yellow sclera. I saw in them kindness and curiosity, but then also confusion and fear.
There was an extensive silence as we looked at each other. The cub's eyes widened, and his mouth opened.
"AAAAAAH!"
Instead of a guttural growl, the noise that came from his mouth was much smoother, yet no less volumous. A protracted yelp came from his mouth, but the teeth were still just as fierce. My disbelief and shock were such that I joined him in bandying my heightened voice for an extended amount of time until I realised that I was holding a panicking lion, and I opened up my hands and brought them to my chest.
"Woah!" the cub yelped as he fell to the floor, but luckily, I did not regret my reflexive decision for more than half a second, for he landed on all four paws. I then saw his eyes dart around like a sped-up DVD screensaver.
"Wh-who are you? Where am I?" the cub asked frantically.
The cub spoke. It could distort sounds from its throat into words with its tongue. And it was speaking in English. My legs gave way, and I slumped onto the stairs.
"H-how are you... speaking?" I asked with a hollow voice and pointing a trembling finger at him.
The fear in his eyes turned into confusion.
"What do you mean? Of course, I can speak! Why wouldn't I be able to speak? I'm not a baby," the cub said in an affronted tone. I shook my head in disbelief.
"I'm sorry... I don't mean to be rude, but it's common knowledge that humans are the only species that is capable of speaking," I insisted. At this point, I was trying to convince myself that I had been so tired that I had fallen asleep on my bed and entered the REM stage rather quickly. That was more likely than centuries of scientific consensus being disproven by some random boy and a mysterious cub.
"Well, clearly, your knowledge is not correct," the cub replied sassily. "And I was finally having a peaceful sleep until you disturbed it," the cub lamented. "Why did you drop me?" he asked.
"I dropped you because you screamed," I defended.
"Well, I only screamed because you screamed," the cub claimed.
"No, you screamed first, and then I screamed, and then I dropped you," I corrected his recollection.
"Well, none of that would have happened if you hadn't woken me up," the cub argued.
"You're right, I'm sorry," I sighed. "Maybe I would have woken you up later anyway, or you would have woken up on your own, but at least you woke up when I was here. I don't know what would have happened if my mother or one of my siblings discovered you, or my cat," I said.
"A cat? What type of cat? Is it another lion?" the cub asked with a hint of hope in his voice.
"No, it's just a cat. A ginger one. They're like a little lion, but they're way less ferocious," I explained.
"Oh," the cub's face fell. His eyes scanned the laminated floor of the hallway before they rose to look at the bannister and staircase, and then the door leading to the downstairs toilet, and then he looked at the ceiling.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"It's a human habitat, called a house. It's my mother's house. It's like our version of a cave, or wherever lions call home," I explained.
"I've got nowhere to call home," the cub sighed heavily. His eyes fell to the floor. My throat tightened at his depression. I wondered what caused the subjugating emotion.
"Where do you come from?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter. I'm pretty much dead to my family anyway," he said with a sour voice.
"Oh, I'm... sorry to hear that," I said quietly. The cub forced his eyes to meet mine and allowed a weak smile of appreciation to form on his face. Then a thought struck me.
"If you can talk and have a family, do you have a name?"
"Of course, I have a name! It's Simba," the cub who I now knew to be Simba replied. A very appropriate, if unimaginative name, for it was the Swahili word for 'lion'.
"That's a nice name," I complimented.
"What's your name?" Simba asked.
"My name is Jensen," I replied.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Jensen," Simba said as happily as he could.
"Likewise," I replied. I smiled at his good manners, but that smile faded when I wondered what I was supposed to do. I thought that maybe the best place for him was a zoo or safari park if not his true home, but then I realised that humans always assumed what was best for lions and other animals, usually by observing their behaviour from afar or their body up close when they are sedated, but now, whether by some sort of lion superpower, or an extraordinary ability on my part, I could hear from the lion's mouth of what he wanted to happen next.
"Simba, I'm not trying to be rude, but... you're not supposed to be here, like, in a human home. I don't know how many lion cubs turn up on the doorstep of a human home in any given year, but I'm willing to bet it's zero. What would usually happen is that, because... well, most humans assume that lions can't speak, and so they would just call the zoo or safari park, which is a place where humans keep wild animals in captivity so they don't have to go all the way to Africa or Asia to see them, and they would come and collect the lion cub," I explained.
"Is that what's going to happen to me?" Simba asked anxiously.
"No, no, no," I responded quickly, waving my hands. "That's just a hypothetical. What I'm trying to say is... what happens to you next is up to you. Do you want to stay here for now, or do you want to go to the zoo or safari park, where there will be other lions and you'll be properly looked after?" I asked.
Simba looked at his paws and sighed.
"Why don't you just let me go on my own? That's all I deserve," he said.
"Hey, hey," I soothed as I slowly got down into a sitting position and cupped his cheek. Weirdly, the idea that he might try to nip me with his teeth as I placed my hand near that area only occurred to me afterwards. He looked up at me with his eyes glistening. My eyebrows turned up at that.
"The world out there is dangerous. There are people who would try to catch you, sell you, hurt you, there are great rumbling beasts that would squish you without a second thought. I won't let you do anything that might bring you harm," I said.
"Well, in that case, I would like to stay here for now," Simba answered in a shaky voice.
I smiled and then reached for the bannister to use as leverage as I got back onto my feet.
"Follow me, Simba, I'll show you my... uh, my den, so to speak," I said as I climbed the first steps of the staircase. I picked up the empty box and held it behind me. I had voiced my frustration at the hallway being cluttered with parcels and packages so I would only be a hypocrite if I left mine here, even though I didn't even order what I had been delivered.
"Oh, you have your own den?" Simba asked, with some semblance of curiosity present in his voice again. He began to follow me up the stairs, but his ascent was staggered, and he had to climb each step one at a time.
"Weird rocks," Simba remarked.
"Oh, it's not rock, it's wood," I corrected.
"Wood? As in... tree wood?"
"Yeah, some parts of houses and furniture are made of wood, and we have to cut down trees to make them, but we plant new ones soon after," I explained.
"Oh, I see. It's a bit like the Circle of Life," Simba said.
"The what of life?" I asked as I now stood at the top of the stairs.
"Oh, well, the way my Dad explained it to me is that, when we die, our bodies become the grass, the antelope eat the grass, and then we eat the antelope, and the cycle goes on and on," Simba explained as he climbed the last step.
"Huh, that does make sense, I suppose," I admitted as I pushed the door to my room open, having left it ajar as I rushed down to answer the door earlier.
"Welcome to my room, Simba," I said with a proud smile. It was the culmination of a project that had taken several weeks, a helpful distraction from the pressures of school and the storm of grief. On the right wall, which was painted a rich red, was a collection of posters of my favourite film franchises, such as Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, and The Avengers. It surrounded a generously sized flatscreen TV.
On the far wall was a map of the world that was painted onto the wall above my bed with admirable precision and detail. It even included Taiwan and New Zealand!
The nearest wall was painted jet black, silver, and light blue - the colours of my favourite F1 team, Mercedes-AMG. On the left wall was blue and yellow - the top half was yellow with the top half of the Ukrainian trident, and the bottom half was blue with the bottom half of the European Union flag. I have Ukrainian ancestry, and the invasion of Ukraine in 2022 made me more passionate about my identity and my internationalist politics. Simba padded into my room and absorbed each wall with a smile of fascination, but when his eyes fell on the map of the world, the smile faded, and he stepped closer to it. I thought about picking him up and placing him on my bed so he could see it better, but I decided to let him explore at his own pace.
"What is that?" he asked, motioning to the multicoloured Mercator map.
"Oh, it's a map of this planet. A map is something that shows you where you are in the world and how to get to another place," I explained.
"Where exactly is... here?" Simba asked tentatively as if he was afraid of the answer I would give.
I crawled onto my bed and stood on my knees. My index finger drifted over the patchwork of lines in the area between Lake Victoria and the Horn of Africa. My finger landed on the country marked Tanzania.
"You came from here," I said. My finger then flew from the heart of Africa, over the sandy expanse of the Sahara Desert, over the Mediterranean Sea, over the peaks of the Alps, across the English Channel, and came into contact with the wall just below the mark denoting Birmingham.
"And now you're here, around 3,000 miles away," I said. I looked down at Simba, whose ears fell backwards and his eyebrows pointed upwards. His eyes glistened, and his mouth wobbled. He finally understood the enormity of his journey.
"Nala," Simba breathed. "Mom," he gasped. He then broke down in tears.
I returned to a quadruped position and quickly crawled off the bed to comfort him. I gently placed a hand on his head as I knelt on my knees. He then planted himself against my stomach.
"I'm never going to see them again, am I?" he lamented. His voice, albeit muffled, was raw with grief.
"If your most desperate wish is to be reunited with them, then I will do what I can to make that happen," I vowed. I genuinely wanted to bring him back to his home, but I didn't have a clue as to how to begin to do that.
"It is my punishment to never see them again," he declared.
"I'm sure that's not true. Whatever you did-" I tried to reassure him, but he interrupted me.
"No, you don't understand," he said. "My... my Dad is," he sniffed. "My Dad is... d-dead, and... and it's my fault," he sobbed. My face dropped and heated up as my pain flared up.
Maybe we were bound by not just fate but grief also.
"If it weren't for me, he'd still be alive," he claimed.
My heart broke at that. He must have such a terrible guilt strangling his heart. This caused me to return the embrace. A tear fell from my eye and landed on Simba's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry for your loss, Simba. You probably feel like you're the only person in the world who feels the way you do right now, but I have been where you are. I have felt that feeling of a piece of your heart being ripped from you. I have felt the feeling of love going unanswered. I have endured the sting and sorrow of losing a parent. It feels like your path is obscured, it feels like you can not find your way without their guidance, and the burden of grief is such that you can not see beyond tomorrow, and even then, the first morning when you wake up and they're not there, and you realise every morning is going to be like that, that's even worse than when they were taken from you," I said.
I dared not look at the pain in Simba's eyes. It was hard enough to convey my feelings after my Dad died, but if I were to look in his eyes, I would see myself in them. My pain. My mistakes that were borne from grief. The new emptiness that gnawed at my heart. The cub needed to hear that he was not alone, and when I summoned the courage to look him in the eyes, I saw that while there was the pain and sorrow of having to roam this world without his father by his side, there was also hope. Hope that he would not feel as he feels now and that he wouldn't have to navigate his grief alone.
"I know what you feel, and I'm sorry you had to feel it, for I can think of no worse feeling," Simba said. "I wonder now if I'm meant to be here, though my father always wanted me to follow in his pawprints as King," the cub said.
"Wait, wait," I waved my hands. "Your father was a King? As in the King of the Jungle?" I asked, exhaling in disbelief.
"Well, my home was more of a savannah than a jungle, but yeah, my Dad is... was a King, but now he's not, and it's because of me," Simba's head hung low again.
"Hang on, if your Dad was a King, then that means you are the King," I surmised.
Simba's eyes rose to look at me. I could see his thoughts through them. The realisation that he was technically a King and that even though he wanted nothing more than to be a King, he also wanted to make his father proud, and he felt that he forfeited the right to be the son of a lion like his father and the right to be the heir to a King like his father.
"I am no King. Not only am I too young, I am the reason that the last King died," Simba sighed, his voice low again. "I was in a canyon, waiting for my father to show me a surprise. I was practising my roar, which caused a wildebeest stampede. I ran as fast as I could, but I was overwhelmed, and I climbed a dead tree and clung onto it with a strength I didn't know I had until I was thrown from the tree, and my father caught me. But after I was knocked out of his grasp, he picked me up and placed me on a ledge, but he was knocked down, and I saw him climb a sheer cliff, but when I climbed up to the top, I... I saw him fall, and none of that would have happened if I... I failed him, and I betrayed his love," Simba's lips wobbled as he almost wept again.
"Simba, I'm sure that your father's love goes beyond this mortal plane. He went into that stampede because he would put everything on the line to save you. He made the ultimate sacrifice so that you could live, and he would only have done that if his love for you was as such that it endured even when his heart stopped beating," I said, fighting to force words through my tightening throat, realising that what I said was true for my father. Even as my father's health declined, he continued making sacrifices so that my mother and my siblings could continue living in comfort. Every day living in this house, every memory we made was a result of his love, and it will last forever. Simba stared at me as he absorbed my words, and then beyond me. He looked out of the window. The winter sky was darkening.
"My Dad once told me that the Great Kings of the Past watch over us from the stars, and now... now my Dad is one of them," Simba's voice broke. My lip wobbled as I stroked his head. This went on for a few minutes.
"Simba, if you don't mind me asking, how did you get here?" I asked.
"Well, I'm not sure, to be honest," Simba said, slightly disappointed that he couldn't give a better answer. "All I remember is collapsing in a desert, I think, and I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was... here," Simba said anxiously. I guess he didn't like not knowing what happened to him while he was unconscious. I know that I would be frightened if I found myself on the other side of the world from the one where I fell asleep.
"You must have been picked up by a conservationist or something," I surmised, thinking back to the item on the morning news programme.
"What's that?" Simba asked with a cocked brow. His surprisingly expressive face was cute and endearing.
"It's someone who looks after animals and their habitats from the excesses of human activity," I explained.
"What do you mean by that?" Simba asked.
"Oh, well, unfortunately, humans tend to take more than they give. Their behaviours and habits tend to demand more than the planet can give, and it has caused harm to this world we share, but some try to change society for the better," I explained. "Anyway, that doesn't explain how you ended up here," I added. "And a conservationist wouldn't put you in a cardboard box," I said.
"I don't think it matters too much how I got here. Maybe I was meant to be here," Simba shrugged.
"Perhaps, though, what possible destiny could lie for a boy and a lion cub in a small Midlands town?" I chuckled.
"Mid Lands?" Simba repeated. "Is that like your version of the Pride Lands?" he asked.
"No, it's pronounced 'Mid-Lunds'," I corrected. "So, is that where you call home?" I asked.
"Yeah, it was beautiful," Simba smiled wistfully.
"I can only imagine. I always wanted to go to Africa, but it looks like a piece of Africa has come to me," I smiled.
Once again, I marvelled at the fact that there was a lion cub in my room, and it could talk. But that session was over as quickly as it started, for a sound that caused my heart to skip travelled up the stairs.
"Jensen, you left the door open!" my mother's voice reached my ears to my horror.
What would be the worst explanation for compromising the security of our house? An unbelievable answer or an unforgivable answer?
"Quick, get in the wardrobe," I whispered hurriedly as I practically leapt to the wooden wardrobe, opened it and gesticulated at it to direct Simba into it, and he quickly followed my instructions.
"Do you want our house to be burgled, or what?" she asked with a heightened voice as she pushed open the door to my open, which had remained ajar since I opened it for a lion cub to enter it about ten minutes ago.
"I'm sorry, Mum, I- there was a package with my name on it and I must have forgotten to close the door as I was trying to guess what it was," I said as I stood in front of the wardrobe.
"Well, where is it?" she asked.
"It's in here," I answered promptly, pointing to the wardrobe.
"Why is it in there?" she asked.
"I want it to be a surprise for you as well," I replied. My answer was punctuated by the high-pitched squeak of the door of the wardrobe opening on its own. I tried to disguise my panic by leaning against it with my shoulder, forcing it to close.
"What's wrong with the wardrobe?" she asked.
"Ah, you know the magnet isn't as effective as it used to be," I barely stifled a chuckle.
"Mum?" a weak voice called. It belonged to Jenna, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs.
"Whatever," Mum sighed as she shook her head. "I need to see to Jenna," she said as she turned and left my room and closed my door.
I puffed my cheeks in relief and straightened myself up.
"You nearly caught my paw," Simba complained as I opened the door to the wardrobe and he promptly stepped out. His ear twitched as a clump of dust landed on it, and this caused him to shake his head.
"I'm sorry, but my Mum would freak out if she saw you, and she's gone through enough stress as it is," I said in a hushed tone.
"Well, surely you can't keep me a secret forever," Simba argued, but also mimicking my tone. "And I'm not going in there every time someone comes in," Simba's voice became less defined, and his mouth opened.
ATCHOOO!
"Oh, excuse me, it's very dusty in there," Simba said.
"Bless you," my Mum's voice penetrated the door.
"Uh, thank you," I caught on quick enough not to arouse suspicion.
"You better not have caught Jenna's bug," my Mum said. She was still a bit of a hypochondriac after Dad had cancer during the Covid pandemic.
"It's just the dust in my wardrobe," I improvised. Technically, I wasn't wrong. I then glared at Simba, who shrank under the weight of my stare.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"Look, my mum has enough to deal with at the moment, so you're going to have to stay here when the others are here," I said.
Simba huffed. "When do the others usually go elsewhere?" he asked.
"Well, on most days, my sister, Jenna, goes to school in the morning and comes back in the middle of the afternoon, and Mum works in a hospital and helps sick people get better," I explained.
"Your mom sounds like a good person," Simba remarked.
"She is," I agreed. "I couldn't ask for a better mother," I declared.
"My mother was the Queen and the head of the hunting party, and now that I look back, only now do I appreciate all that she did for me, how she fed me, cleaned me, taught me... loved me," Simba's voice started to grow heavy once again. "I don't know how she will carry on without me and Dad," the cub's voice broke. I then sat down beside Simba again and placed a gentle hand on the back of his head. He allowed his head to rest on my side under my arm. I rubbed my thumb in a circle on Simba's tuft of fur at the top of his head, and the cub allowed a purr to form.
"Jensen, can I come in, please?" a muffled voice asked after a gentle knock on my bedroom door.
"Yeah, come in," I said as I paused the Formula 1 game I was playing on my Xbox.
The door opened, and a tall figure entered my room. He had light brown hair. He was blond until his teenage years. I had inherited the same trait. My hair used to be a bright flaxen shade, but it started to grow darker.
"Are you winning?" Dad asked with a chuckle.
"At the moment," I replied. Dad then slowly approached my bed and gently sat down.
"Would you mind sitting beside me?" he asked. I answered not with words but with movement. I placed myself next to him. This was where I felt the safest. I felt like no force of malice could touch me as long as my father was in my presence. He taught me right from wrong. He uplifted me when I doubted myself. He cared for me when I was sick or hurt. He helped me figure out how to navigate problems of maths, logic, exploration, creativity, and finance. I couldn't have asked for a better father. I felt honoured to be the son of such a man.
"Do you remember when I was ill and the doctors struggled to make me better?" he asked as he placed a gentle and reassuring hand on my right knee.
I nodded. I was anxious as to why he brought this up again. I was very young when he was very sick. Jenna had just been born. There were days when he couldn't get out of bed, and that was the price of every day that was dedicated to making memories of joy.
"Well, I'm afraid that the illness has come back, and this time, it's too strong for the doctors to fix," Dad said quietly and at length. He began to rub my knee with my hand.
"What are you saying, Dad?" I asked. I feared the answer he would give me. I begged that which decides our fate that it wouldn't be that answer.
"It means... it means that, very soon, this illness will take my life," he said. "I have but a few months left to live."
"No," I gasped. I shook my head in denial. He was the picture of health. Just yesterday, his eyes shone with love, kindness, valour, and joy. His mind was keen, his arms were defined. And yet his life was deteriorating!?
"No!" I wailed before I planted my face into his shoulder.
"I know this hurts now, but as long as you stay true to each other, you will endure," Dad declared. "When you feel as if you are surrounded by darkness and doubt, that is when you will realise how strong you are."
I woke up with tears in my eyes. I had been plagued with dreams of memories of my father in the last few weeks because it was coming up to the anniversary of his death. I couldn't believe it had been five years. The happening itself felt like it was yesterday, but the time of his absence felt like it stretched into decades. One day, I will have lived longer without my father in my life than he had been in it, and one day, that will be true of Simba, as well.
I turned my body to face the rest of my room, and saw Simba sleeping in the middle of the laminated wood floor. I still couldn't comprehend that he was here, in my house, and how a lion cub goes from Tanzania to Kidderminster with nobody noticing.
My attention was then diverted to my door. Someone knocked it.
"Jensen, can I come in, please?" Mum asked.
"Yeah, one moment," I responded. I then placed a blanket over Simba's torso to somewhat hide him, but not undermine his ability to breathe.
I then walked up to the door and opened it as quietly as I could. I opened it so that I could stick my head out into the hallway and no further.
"You've been holed up in your room all evening," Mum remarked. "Is something the matter?" she asked. She was right to be concerned. In the past few weeks, I have made an effort to spend more time downstairs. Having dinner in the dining room rather than in my room. Watching TV in the living room rather than in my room. It was me coming out of the shell of my grief. But today, for all my mother knew, I had reverted to my old ways.
"Look, I... I found a... a stray cat that was injured, and I didn't want Luke to see it," I said. Luke was very aggressive towards even the neighbouring cats. Every time he would come across them, he would regard them with a suspicious glare at best and a quick round of strikes at worst.
"Aw, the poor thing," Mum tutted. "Can I see it?" she asked with a hint of childlike excitement in her voice.
"Uh, it's only just settled in and it's sleeping now," I said.
"Oh," Mum muttered in disappointment. She loved cats. "Well, what does it look like?" she asked.
"It looks a bit like Luke, funnily enough," I said. I wasn't straying too far enough from the truth, but I was still uncomfortable with keeping the whole truth from my mother. "Could even be related," I added.
"Oh, well, I'd better get a look at them tomorrow, and then we'll take them to Steph," she asserted. Steph was Mum's sister and was a vet. I wonder how much of an overlap there was between a cat and a lion cub.
"Sounds like a plan," I smiled.
"Alright, good night," Mum said as she leaned in to kiss my cheek. "I love you," she said.
"I love you, too," I responded. She then placed a hand on my cheek. Usually, that gesture made me feel warmth, protection, and love. It instead made me feel guilty. I wanted to tell her the truth, but that would cause her avoidable stress. But with something like this, is it inevitable that she would find out? Would the deception hurt more than the shock and fear? Maybe it is not avoidable after all. I then decided that I would tell her tomorrow.
A/N: How was that? I really enjoyed writing it, I've had this idea in my head for months, if not years and my desire to write it has gone up for some reason, probably because of Mufasa: The Lion King. I hope you enjoyed reading it, and I've got some very interesting ideas for plot beats that I can't wait to write. Please leave a constructive review, don't forget to add this story to your favourite and following lists so you don't miss a thing.