16 Zeeta’s past

Old Docks, year 2015 ABB (After the Big Blend)…

It was past midnight when Zeeta woke up to footsteps on the corridor.

He couldn’t possibly mistake his father’s footsteps. Not when he was coming back dead drunk.

His dad messed around with the keys, then cursed loudly, and banged at the door.

“Zeeta! ZEETA! Open the door!”

An inner voice was telling him: no, don’t open, Zeeta, don’t…

“ZEEEETA!”

Zeeta jumped up nervously to his feet, ran to the door, and opened it. His dad pushed him aside, grumbling with a gravelly, unsure voice:

“Worthless son. What took you so long?”

Zeeta silently glared at him through his lowered eyes. A strong smell of alcohol filled the room as his father stepped in. Zeeta turned to go back to sleep, but then his dad lost his balance and leaned on him. The boy couldn’t hold his weight, and both fell down.

“Zeeta… Damn you… Hic. Wait here. I got a call from your teacher. Said you’re skipping school because you were bullied by a girl.” Zeeta made an annoyed face. That girl he had seen as a friend had spread the rumor he was the son of a drunkard. His dad got wobblingly to his feet grunting: “Pathetic. My ten-year-old son, bullied by a schoolgirl? You’re more worthless than I am… Your grades were under average, hic, d’ya wanna stay a parasite all your life? Tomorrow you will go to school… And the homework… Do it now.”

“What?” Zeeta was amazed. Since when did his father care about his son’s school performance? Also, he was eleven years old, not ten.

His dad’s nervous hand pushed him.

“Do your homework now, you hear?! Do it or you’ll get a beating!”

It was way too late to be doing homework, but Zeeta still obeyed. He settled down at the low table and opened his maths textbook. While uncorking a bottle of liquor, his dad groaned:

“Whatcha doing, during the day, huh? Wandering the streets?”

“…”

“Hic. Gulp, gulp… Ah! Worthless brat! Such a worthless brat you lumbered me with, Adele you witch! If only he wasn’t mine! … What? What’s with that look? Focus on your homework! Or is it that ya too dumb to do it?”

His dad staggered closer. Zeeta flinched, his eyes fastened on his textbook.

“Do your homework!”

A jet of liquor spurted from the bottle his dad was holding while pointing at the table. It splashed all over his textbook and his clothes.

His dad didn’t even realize what he had just done… Zeeta couldn’t stand it anymore. He jumped to his feet, screaming to the top of his lungs:

“Stop drinking already, you damned drunkard!”

There was a brief silence, then his dad grabbed him by his shirt, his eyes shining with alcohol and anger.

“Ungrateful brat! I gave you a name, food, a roof, and you yell at your father like that!”

In the following minutes, neighbors only heard screams, insults, and blows as the father was beating his son the best he could despite being drunk.

The next morning, while his dad was snoring loudly, Zeeta left home with his school bag, but he didn’t go to school. Why should he? He just wandered in the streets, his mind stressed like hell. His body was hurting all over, but that was the least of his concerns. He could only think about one thing right now: he was scared. Scared to go back home. Scared to run away.

Fear, anger, and sadness were killing him.

Loneliness was killing him from within.

He stopped on the docks, in front of the deep water of the harbor.

Should he just dive in?

He had already tried once, some months ago, but a fisherman had stopped him back then.

He took a step forward.

Then, the sound of a guitar reached his ears.

His foot lingered over the space, some meters above the waters. What was he waiting for? Why did a simple melody make him stop? Such a pain… He turned away.

The music was coming from behind a pile of nets and casks. Zeeta stopped and stared at the musician. He wore an odd hat on his head. For a short moment, they looked at each other. The man said nothing and just kept playing. After a moment, Zeeta sat down and let the melody envelop him. The sun was high in the sky when the musician said:

“It’s calling you, isn’t it?”

Zeeta winced. Calling? Was he talking about school? About his father…?

“Music.”

Zeeta raised his eyes at him. The man with the hat was smiling in a deformed grimace. After a silence, he stood up and just walked away with his instrument.

The next day, he went to the docks, but the guitarist wasn’t there. He spent three whole days looking for him.

Then he found him.

He was playing the guitar in an alley, surrounded by cats. He didn’t seem to be bothered by his presence, as if Zeeta was nothing but another cat among his public. They spent the afternoon together, listening to his music. Then the man asked:

“Are you a stray cat too?”

Zeeta was stroking one of the cats. He froze. Then replied:

“I’m human.”

The guitarist gave him one of his deformed smiles.

“Then a stray human. Do you want to learn?”

After some seconds, Zeeta understood he was talking about the guitar. That guy… Wasn’t he going to tell him: ‘it’s dusk, go home, and don’t come tomorrow, go to school instead’?

“Can I?” he asked.

“I can teach you the basics.”

Zeeta stared at him with mistrust.

“I want to learn.”

The musician stroked his guitar and said:

“You can call me Ghost.”

“That’s a weird name. I’m Zeeta.”

For the first time in a while, Zeeta smiled without feeling that he had to force himself.

The melody died in the night pub, and some customers clapped lazily. Zeeta gathered the few Corns he had made, said goodbye to the barman, then broke into a run, holding the guitar. He found his friend in a nearby alley.

“Ghost! I made five Corns this time!”

“You’ve improved.”

Zeeta gave him a cheeky smile. Yeah, in six months, he had changed a lot.

The poor musician took the instrument back with the money, handed back two Corns, kept two Corns for himself, then stood up.

“What about the fifth Corn?” Zeeta asked.

“Money must be shared equally between partners. Thus, this fifth Corn will go somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?”

They kept walking until they reached a narrow street. Zeeta frowned.

“That’s the Work-Lair, Ghost.”

“It is.” As usual, Ghost was a man of few words.

They entered a small bar, and the barman greeted the musician as this one put down the Corn on the counter.

“Yo. One white beer in two glasses.”

Zeeta frowned at the glass the barman put in front of him. Ghost raised his eyebrows.

“What is it, son?”

Zeeta stepped back.

“You’re a drunkard too.”

“Too? What do you mean?”

“Drunkard!” Zeeta shouted. He was trembling, his world shattering again around him…

“I do enjoy a beer once in a while, but that’s not being a drunkard, son. I’m an ascetic.”

The barman and the other customers were laughing loudly.

“To think one day I would hear someone calling you a drunkard! Buabuabuabuah!”

Zeeta blushed, but he was still reluctant to let it go. He glared at Ghost. This one sighed.

“So that’s the problem.” He stood up saying to the customers: “The beer is for the fastest one to catch it. Let’s go, son.”

Both of them got out of there. Zeeta was astounded. Did Ghost just give up on the beer for his sake? His lips twisted stubbornly.

“You… wasted one Corn like an idiot.”

Ghost said nothing. He didn’t look like he cared. When they reached a small park, he sat on a bench, tuned his guitar up, then played a quick melody. He was skilled. Now that Zeeta knew a bit more about music, he could tell.

The sounds finally died.

“Why do you always wear a wristband on your left arm?”

The question came out of the blue. Zeeta’s relaxed heart suddenly squeezed. He looked angrily at Ghost.

“None of your business.”

“…” Ghost kept playing. Zeeta felt ashamed. He was losing his temper just like his father. “I’ve been born a Wanderer,” Ghost then said. “Wanderers are said to have purple crystal particles in their bodies. Generally, once they reach their teens, they teleport at least once a year. Most of us can’t control it. So, someday, I’ll disappear from this city and go somewhere else.”

Zeeta’s heart sank at the news. He tsked:

“Like I’d believe that.”

“It’s true.”

Zeeta clenched his teeth.

“So what?”

“Mm. As a traveler, I learned one thing. You can run away from thieves, from monsters, from a war, but you can’t run away from yourself. I mean,” he said, his hands dancing on the strings, “if your heart is aching, hurting yourself is not a way to solve it. Crying is better. And laughing is even better.”

Zeeta’s hands were shaking.

“You… don’t know anything.”

“Well, you’re right. I hate giving lectures anyway.”

The guitar’s melody speeded up. His fingers were running on the strings. Zeeta was always fascinated whenever Ghost started to play in earnest. It seemed as if the music notes were flowing out on their own, without effort. He said playing the guitar was like making love. ‘Love is the king of music’, he once said, ‘and music is love.’ What did he exactly mean by that? Zeeta had no idea.

One month later, he ran away from home. It wasn’t his first time, not even his longest. He slept through the first night on the nets of the docks and spent his second night roaming the streets. Near the Work-Lair, he met a group of drunkards picking on a girl. He normally wouldn’t have done anything, just passed by as he had been taught all his life… But if he was going to kill himself tonight, he would as well save someone before.

He did. The girl managed to escape, but in her stead, Zeeta ended up at the hospital.

He received a visit a few days later. It wasn’t his dad. It was Ghost.

“How are you doing?”

“My ribs still hurt. But I’m used to it.”

“I heard your lungs almost got pierced.” He sat down beside the bed, putting down his guitar. “Life is easily gone. Our bodies are so fragile, and violence is so blind. It would be a pity if you died so young, without even having experienced love.” He patted his guitar.

The sunrays bathed the hospital room. Zeeta swallowed hard.

“Is it worth it? Love.”

Ghost stayed silent for a long moment.

“If you want to know, then that means you still have hope.”

What kind of answer was that? Zeeta’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. He had a spasm and gasped for breath. His whole body hurt.

“Thanks.” He wanted to say it. “Ghost. Thanks for coming. My drunkard of a father didn’t come. But you did.” His lips stretched into a quivering smile. “Can you become my dad instead?”

Ghost smiled sadly.

“It would be nice, huh? You’re not a bad kid, Zeeta,” he said, standing up. “I didn’t do much for you, actually. I’m an ascetic who doesn’t know how to talk with people. But I’m glad I met you.”

“I’m glad too!” Zeeta sobbed. He cracked. “Ghost! I don’t know what to do! They will call my dad, and he will come to get me. I don’t want to go back with him. He beats me, he yells at me, I don’t like being with him.”

Ghost’s face darkened.

“Zeeta. I know I will soon teleport, so I can’t do much. But I’ll talk to your father. You’ll have to promise me one thing in exchange.”

Zeeta looked at the guitarist through his tears.

“Improve your life. Go back to school. Try to learn things. Try to make friends. Try hard to be happy. Some people have it easier. You don’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t do better. Your life is as valuable as any other life. That’s a law of nature. You listen?”

“I do.”

“Then, smile and laugh. Like this.”

Without warning, the musician began to laugh like a madman. Zeeta gaped at him for a moment, then smiled, sniffed, wiped away his tears, and finally started laughing. It hurt. It damned hurt.

“Hahahahaha, it freaking hurts!” he laughed to tears. “It freaking damn hurts, Ghost! HAHAHAHA!”

Suddenly, the door opened, and the last person he wanted to see appeared. His dad. He was wearing a suit. Those looks just didn’t go with him. His reddened face was showing surprise. Right. He probably didn’t remember the last time he had seen his son smile, let alone laugh.

Ghost and he looked at each other. Then the musician turned to Zeeta and said:

“Ah. Guess it’s time for me to go. Zeeta. Don’t ever let your dad drag you down. A father is no dad if he doesn’t act like one. Also, if he tries to beat you again, just call me, and I’ll show up in no time with my gang. No one can mess with my dear apprentice, hear that?”

“No…” Zeeta was horror-struck. He knew Ghost was bluffing. He had no gang. He was a Wanderer. “No, Ghost, don’t go…”

The guitarist grinned.

“Take care of my guitar for me. Next time I see you, I want you to be a grown-up musician.”

Zeeta was trying to get up despite his injuries when he felt a swirl of energy in the air, and suddenly, Ghost disappeared. Just like magic. He teleported away, the Holy Gods knew where…

After a long silence, Zeeta took the guitar and sat down.

“Son. Wh-Who was that wizard?” his dad asked worriedly.

Ignoring him, Zeeta started to play. He wouldn’t let his dad do as he pleased ever again.

“Zeeta?”

He mustered all his courage, anger, strength… then his hands stopped stroking the strings. He looked up, his eyes cold as ice.

“You heard my friend. Don’t ever touch me again. Don’t drink in front of me ever again. Or you’re dead.”

For the first time, his dad didn’t get angry at his son. He got scared.

Zeeta sighed. Well, life wasn’t going to be much better just like that but… he promised himself to do as Ghost had said. He would improve his life. It shouldn’t be so hard, should it?

It took long for him, though, very long, to finally think: I don’t want to leave this world.