Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine	By : lilwitch Category: +S through Z > Street Fighter Views: 3420 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: WARNING: Graphic violence and abuse depicted in this story. Read at your own discretion! I do not own Street Fighter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Author's Disclaimer: This story contains content of a highly disturbing psychological nature that may be offensive to some readers: including but not limited to abuse, rape, and torture/violence. Please DO NOT read if you are likely to be offended! STREET FIGHTER and characters such as Vega are owned by CAPCOM. I make no profit in this work of fiction. For entertainment only.

My mother was in bed for 2 weeks after the attack and she could barely walk.
Although she was afraid, I called the doctor to the house the moment my father left that night...
She lay in her bed as the doctor entered.
“What is this, Vega?” she asked and I could see the fear in her eyes. I was silent.
The doctor was an older gentleman but he had a kindly look and I was glad to see he was there. He took my mother's hand.
“Victoria, how are you?” he asked. I saw the tears coming back to her eyes.
“I'm fine, Doctor.”
“Vega tells me your husband attacked you. I'm going to need to see your wounds.”
She swallowed hard and he squeezed her hand and looked back at me.
“Vega, I need to examine your mother now.” he said and I quietly left the room.
I sat outside, and crouched against the door, listening to as much as I could.
The doctor pulled back the sheets and carefully lifted her nightgown, and gently removed her underwear. He spread her legs and after a few moments, he looked up at her gravely.
“We have to get you to the hospital. You've lost a lot of blood and I fear there's severe internal damage.” My mother bolted forward and grabbed his arms desperately.
“No! No! I can't go...my husband, he'll--”
“I'm sorry, Victoria. I have no choice; I have to help you.” then I heard my mother begin to sob and wail. The door suddenly opened and I fell back.
The doctor smiled wryly at me.
“You can go in now.” he said.
I ran to my mother's side.
“Are you okay, Mother?” she gave a fatigued smile and stroked my cheek.
“I'll be fine, don't worry, my preciousness.” I felt the doctor put his hand on my shoulder.
“Vega, I'm afraid she has to go to the hospital.” I looked at my mother and then back at the doctor questioningly.
“Your father has caused a lot of damage to her and she has to go or she’ll die.” He explained. I was still afraid but I knew she had to go.
“Mother, you have to go. Don’t be afraid, I’ll come with you.” She smiled at me through her tears.
It wasn’t long before I heard the sound of sirens and there were flashing lights outside.
I sat in the waiting room, nervously. My knees were drawn to my chest and I was praying. There was a table with magazines between the chairs and then I saw a small dark red leather book—the Holy Bible—and I took it, holding to my chest, as if every word, every prayer would seep inside and heal my fear. Mother came out of surgery a few hours later.
Cautiously, I entered the dimly lit room where she lay. I could hear all the blood rushing in my ears and my heart pounded mercilessly in my chest.
“Come, Vega,” she said, gesturing weakly. I approached not knowing if I should even touch her, for it occurred to me now more than ever that she might break. She smiled her ever-lasting smile and I knew she must have been in a lot of pain. Mother always smiled at me, no matter how hurt she was, and I was the only person to see her smile. I became aware that her smile was a mask—a mask of agony—hiding her true feelings.
Gently, I leaned forward to kiss her forehead.
“You seem so scared,” she said softly, touching my cheek and drawing me forward. “Come now, give your mama a kiss.” I hesitated and then gave her a quick kiss on her lips.
She smiled, “There now. It wasn't so bad, was it?”
I looked down at her and then threw myself against her, unable to stop the tears that came. Mother cooed and rubbed my back as I wept.
“Està bé...està bé...” she whispered. “El meu amor, està bé.”
I could hear her breathing and her heart beating beneath me as my head lay on her chest. She was still stroking my hair from my face and rubbing my back, trying to soothe me. For a moment, I felt like a child, trying to feel safe, but then I felt the cruel reality stabbing at me and I opened my eyes.
“Mama,” I said, lifting my head to look at her.
“What, my handsome son?” she cooed, wiping my face.
“Leave him.” and the tone in my voice told her I was serious.
“What? No, I can't!” she cried. I rose to my knees and laid my hands on her arms.
“Yes, you can, Mama! We can! It's easy...we'll run away from here. Go where he can't find us...”
She laughed softly and I tried to understand.
“He will always find us. He always has...” I shook my head.
“I'm scared...” I said quietly. “I know you are scared, too. What do you think will happen if he finds you here?”
“Vega, I am in a hospital. What more can he do?” I thought for a moment. Surely, she was right. Papa would never risk a public confrontation, and yet, I could not be as sure. There was an awkward silence in the air as I climbed off the bed to sit in a chair next to it.
“Bring me my makeup bag, si us plau.” said Mother, gesturing to small leather case on the bed-side table.
“Here? But Mama, you're in the hospital...” I protested. She smiled and looked down at her hospital gown.
“That is no excuse! I really should look my best. I will be leaving soon, you know.” and for the first time, I saw her smile—really smile and she did not seem so afraid. She took her mirror from her bag and fluffed her hair.
“Oh look at me! I'm a mess!” she scoffed. I did not think she looked so bad but to me, she was always an angel. I watched her put on a pearl necklace and I snickered.
“Don't you know? Pearls go with anything!” she exclaimed with a laugh. Carefully, she lined her lids with black liner, drawing the ends to cat’s-eyes and coated them with a shimmery blue eye shadow and then began to brush on some of her mascara. She blinked and then looked at me.
“There now! I think I shall be ready when the doctors come in, don't you?”
“Perfect, Mama, perfect!” I said with a smile.
The door opened suddenly and I turned to see my father. He held a bouquet of red roses in his hands. I rose and stood close to Mother.
“Victoria! Why are you here? I did not hurt you that badly!” She rolled her eyes at him with a sigh and then smirked at him.
“Oh no? Tell that to my surgeons! I nearly bled to death and you would have let me die!” she hissed.
“You had no right to come without telling me. Better that you die than to let you tell them such lies!” Mother gasped as he continued, looking at me, “and look how she whores herself up, boy! Even in the hospital...did you think you were going to sleep with the surgeons, dear?” he snickered at her.
“Better than you, dear.” replied mother bitterly. Suddenly, my father lunged forward and grabbed her throat. I ran to pull him off to no avail.
“What did you tell them, woman? Do they know?” Mother began to struggle and gasp for air.
“They...already know...they know I was raped...they had to examine...me...” she choked out.
“Whore! Look what you have done!” he yelled.
I fought wildly to get him away from her.
“Let her go! Let her go! You're hurting her!” I cried helplessly.
Her eyes widened and tears streamed down her face as his horrid face was fixed in a sneer.
“Help! Help!” I screamed, running out the door and down the hall. “He's trying to kill my mother!” Soon, two burly guards came in and pulled him off. Father yelled and thrashed, trying to get loose. I watched as the bouquet of roses was thrown to the ground, the red petals scattering like drops of blood...
“You can't touch me, you can't touch me! I am a nobleman! I hold position in His Majesty King Juan Carlos' court! You can't do this!” They grabbed him by either arm and carried him out the door. A nurse rushed in to tend to her wounds. I could see large welts already forming on her throat. Her cheeks were washed a familiar black from the makeup running down her face as she cried.
“Mama!” I cried, reaching out to touch her but I was pushed back gently by the nurse.
“You have to go now, son.” said the nurse gently as I wept.
“It's okay, Vega. Call your grandma! She will stay with you at the estate for a while.” called Mother as I went out. When Mother spoke of my grandma, she meant my father's mother, as my mother's parents were killed during the Spanish Civil War by Franco. She was raised in a meager household by my great-grandparents.

Mother came home a few days later in a wheel chair. Her injuries made her mostly bedridden and so I spent a lot of time in her bedroom keeping her company. I did not like seeing her that way but, it kept my father away. Since she was not around to annoy him, then they did not get into many fights.
She lay in her queen-size bed under layers of white sheets and blankets, her head propped under 2 or 3 large, fluffy, white pillows. I brought her magazines and snacks and had her TV moved into her room so she could watch her daily dramas. Mama lay there, as always, in her pearls and makeup, looking like a queen with so many pillows around her. Father leered at her when she came out every once in awhile—but he said nothing.
“Oh Vega, what on earth will we do with your hair? It’s grown so long!” exclaimed my mother one day, as we sat on her bed. I sat between her legs as she brushed my hair. I told her I could do it and I did not want her exerting herself, but of course, Mother insisted.
“We’re not cutting it, Mama.” I said with complete resolution.
“Such beautiful golden hair…just like mine! Oh…I wouldn’t dream of it!” I smiled. My hair grew down my back now. Mother had been letting it grow that way since I was little, despite protests from my father that he did not want a “daughter”. All the socialites scoffed also at the idea of a son with long hair but she did not listen.
“Do you know, when you were born, your hair—it was quite dark. I was certain it was going to be like your father’s.” said Mother reminiscently. I looked horrified and shuttered at the thought of my ugly father. “But, Déu meu!” and she crossed herself emphatically, “By the blessed Virgin, you know, it lightened as you grew!” I sighed contentedly as she continued to brush and stroke my hair. The feeling of the brush in my hair was pure bliss, and my heart lept at the very idea of being as beautiful as her.
“I want to be beautiful, Mama—beautiful like you.” I said, prodding at my flawless skin on my face. She laughed softly.
“Men are not beautiful. They are handsome.”
“That’s not good enough, Mama! I don’t want to be handsome, I want to be beautiful!” I exclaimed and I turned to her, my blue eyes blazed with the passion.
“But you are, you are, my son!” she cried, touching my face.
“Mama, swear to me I am beautiful! Swear that I will always be the most beautiful man in the world. Swear to me—swear to me that I will never be like him…” My jaw set and I grabbed her hands, squeezing them hard.
“Vega!” she cried out in pain.
“Swear, Mama! Swear!” I hissed. I stared at her so hard I felt as though I was looking through her.
She began to whimper and mutter.
“Vega, please. Let go…you’re hurting me.”
My father, he was truly ugly—inside and out. He had pale skin with dark brown hair, with ice blue soul-piercing eyes. His nose was jagged and sloped into a hook and his cheeks bore the scars of pox marks. I loved my mother with all of my heart but for the life of me, I will never understand what she saw in him.
“Mama, I swear to God, if I ever become ugly, I will die!” I cried. I could feel my chest heaving and my eyes filling with tears. I let go and she wrapped her arms around me as she wept. After a moment, she composed herself and looked at me.
“No, Vega, you will never, never be ugly. Never, never, never!” she whispered hoarsely, sniffing and wiping her face. “I swear by all that is holy and I swear on my life you are beautiful and you always will be!”
“But what happens when I get old? I will be ugly then! How can I stop it?” I asked, suddenly feeling the mortality of my future.
“Even when you are old, you will be beautiful. It is so.” said Momma in a soothing voice. I looked into vanity mirror and stared at my face, admiring my features. I nodded in approval.
“Now, Vega, one thing I must tell you if you insist on keeping your hair this way,” she said, resuming brushing my hair and beginning to braid it. “You must keep it braided as often as you can. You must always brush it and keep it clean.” I smirked.
“Girls have braids, don’t they Mama?”
“They do, but so do men in many cultures. It is only practical.”
“Practical. Okay, Mama.” I said.
Suddenly, my father came in. He frowned in disgust and Mother stared at him through the mirror, equally annoyed. Still, he walked up to her and placed a rough kiss on her temple. She recoiled at his touch.
“¿Cómo estás hoy, Querida?” asked Father, speaking in Castillian in his usual condescending tone of voice, running his hand through her hair. Mother looked placidly at him and then looked down.
“You know very well how I am, Miguel. Why do you even ask?” He smirked and folded his arms.
“Ay, Dios mío…what have we here? We need to get you away from your Mama, boy. At your age it isn't right that you should spend so much time with her,” he said to me, smoothly gliding over my mother's comment.
“What do you mean, Papa?” I asked, my voice rising in defense.
“Miguel...” Mother started.
“I think you know, Vega.” and he took the brush from her hand. “Don't you think that your mother is capable of taking care of herself?” His cold blue eyes flashed and his smug look made me uneasy. I clenched my fists and stepped back.
“Yes, but—”
“Your mother just wants the attention. She has always wanted attention and takes to anyone who gives it to her.” Mother sighed and covered her face with her hand.
“Come on, Vega. I want to show you something.” said my father, putting his hand on my shoulder and leading me out the door. Mother watched warily as I left. I wondered what my father wanted; it was not like him to want anything to do with me. If he was not beating my mother, then he was not around.
I watched him carefully as we got into the car. He gave some instructions to the driver and then sat quietly next to me. I couldn't help but to stare at him speechlessly and wonder where we were going...
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine