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Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine	By : lilwitch Category: +S through Z > Street Fighter Views: 3423 -:- 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
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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.

We arrived in half an hour or so in Monaco.
It was a coastal town, not unlike my home and while it was dark, I could smell the cool ocean air. It was peaceful and still, the city was bustling as we arrived at a grand hotel.
“Good evening,” said the desk clerk as we entered. “You are arriving late tonight!” He said in French and I understood what he said, though I still much preferred Castillian or Catalan.
“Yes. We have just come from Barcelona, my mother and I.” I replied.
“Will you want one room or two?” asked the clerk, now switching to my native tongue.
“It is only the two of us...” I explained. The clerk glanced down at my silent mother, concern etched on his face.
“Uh... your mother, is she okay?”
“She-she is fine,” I stammered, though tried to hide my nervousness. “Only tired.”
“Ah, one room with 2 beds I assume,” replied the clerk knowingly and I nodded.
“Yes, there is room on the next floor that is perfect, I think.” and he turned to get the key from a rack behind him.
“This way. Would you like some help with your bags?” he asked, noting the size of my mother's luggage. I stepped forward towards him, standing straight at my full height, and stood before the bag.
“That won't be necessary. I can take it,” I replied confidently. He only nodded quietly, signaling a young man, and he proceeded into the elevator, with me following, pushing mother in her chair. Her bag was in her lap.
We arrived on the next floor, the bellhop unlocking the door and turning on the light.
“Will that be all for tonight? Please ring the front desk if you need anything.” He said as he turned to me and held out his hand. I gave him a few large coins and with a nod, he closed the door carefully behind him.
I surveyed the two beds, they were the same size and I chose the right side. A large balcony window looked out over the city. I placed her bag on her bed and sat with a sigh.
She sat frozen and still in her wheelchair, staring out into nothingness. I had never seen anything like this before and I crouched before her, looking at her face as if I were gazing into a porcelain statue.
“Are you okay, Mama?” I asked
Suddenly, she fell to the floor from her wheelchair, landing on her knees. I crawled to her quickly and wrapped my arms around her tight. Mother was whispering now, something unintelligible and crossing herself repeatedly.
I tried to look at her but she would not see me. She only gazed at the wall, her blue eyes unblinking.
She thrashed from my grasp, turned away and reached for her bag on the bed, producing her blessed rosary. She was hunched over and rocked back and forth. I kneeled behind her and wrapped my hands around hers, desperately trying to comfort her and I could feel her body tense. This time she did not move and we were silent, but she held a white-knuckle grip as the rosary shook in her hands. Her lips moved now though I could hear no sound.
“You're praying, aren't you?” I asked, already knowing the answer. I pressed my lips to the back of her head and patiently tried to make her understand.
“It was His will it be done.
'Thy Kingdom Come...
Your Will Be Done...'
Do you think He hears you now? He already knows what I've done and He has forgiven me because I am your savior.” I whispered. “There is no God in heaven nor demon in hell who can save you now more than I.” I need not tell her that really the only heaven I believed in now was between a woman's legs and hell was wherever my father was.
She lifted her head but said nothing.
“Mama...he had no right to hurt you. No man has any right to hurt you.” I whispered. She turned and sobbed in my arms, the heaviness of her body suddenly pressing against me, as though all of her sorrow crashed down upon her at once. I could feel her soft trembling body heaving against me as she cried, as alternately she rapt against my chest and clutched at my shirt.
“Oh God, Vega! What have you done?” she cried as she wept against my chest.
“You're safe now, you're safe.” I whispered as I stroked her hair.
It seemed strange but as she cried, the harder she held me, the more it felt as though she was trying to pull away—as if I repulsed her—still, it was unthinkable to me. I felt her touching my face with her trembling, clammy hands and I pushed such an unthinkable notion away in my mind.
“Hold me!” she cried softly. I knew she could never resist as I laid my cheek against her head.
I stroked her hair and rocked her a little as I held her; how strange it seemed to me now that I held her as she once held me, soothing my fear; she cried so hard that she began hyperventilating and I wondered how long she would continue like this.
“He can't hurt you anymore, Mama. I will take care of you now.” I whispered as I pulled the comforter blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her still shivering body. She wrapped the rest of the blanket around me and we huddled close together. I pressed my forehead against hers and whispered,
“Remember when we were like this? How scared we were, holding onto each other so tight, afraid to let go?” I smiled at her and she smiled back, a small hysteric chuckle escaping her mouth, her eyes gleaming with tears. She caressed my lips with her fingers gently. “I felt so safe in your arms then, like his blows couldn't touch us...but after awhile, I realized I could still feel them. I wanted to run away so far from there, take you with me. I begged you to leave him, I begged...” I said and her smile faded, I could see more tears coming to her eyes as the anger rose in my voice. “You told me it was against God to leave, against the Church, but then I realized... there is no God who would ever let someone as pure as you suffer so--”
“Vega--” my mother warned me as her tears fell.
“So much and I knew he had to die. God would want that.” I could feel now my pride welling in my throat, or was it passion, I did not know.
“Are you insane, Vega? You can't speak such things! I won't hear it! It's blasphemy!” she whispered hoarsely, as if she feared God might hear us, putting her hand to my mouth; I pushed it away defiantly.
“Insane? Insane?” I exclaimed with a wry chuckle, “I am not insane, no, Mama. I see it all very clearly. I am your savior, don't you remember? You said it...from your own lips, Mama! Your own lips!” I exclaimed. “You told me...when I was young...when I was young...” I began muttering the phrase like a mantra.
“N-no! I didn't mean it! I was...unstable. I was delirious. I didn't know what I was saying, and you! You were just a child. How was I to know you could understand?”
I stroked her face and smiled.
“Maybe I didn't understand that word, not then, but wouldn't you think that after all these years in Mass, I would know who the Savior was and what it meant?”
“I-I never said to kill him...” she wailed.
“You never had to. It had to be done. He's a monster.”
“Monster...” whispered Mother staring at the floor.

“Monster.” she said again aloud and she looked at me.
“That's right, Mama. He's a monster.”
“You are a monster.” she said but it wasn't in a cold or mean way. It was as if she were stating a fact. “You are a beautiful, beautiful monster that I made...”
“No, Mama. You are confused. That's all.” I said, trying to disregard anything she said. Such a sin was unspeakable from her mouth. I simply wouldn't allow it; but in truth, her words haunted me.
“There is no forgiveness for what I've done. Satan was very beautiful before he fell, and you are, too...” she said as she broke down into tears again. She had been through such a traumatic night, how could she make any sense? Certainly she wasn't now, but how was I to make her understand?
“Don't you see? It's my destiny. I am the warrior of God, and my purpose was to save you from your pain, save you from sin, save you from this life—and I have. I am your savior now. There is no one else. All we have is each other and you know that.” There was no possible way now she could deny it because I was certain even she knew it to be true.
I pulled her to her feet and I sat her on the edge of the bed, going to the bathroom to wet a washcloth. Returning, I knelt in front of her and peered into her battered face. Her nose suddenly began to bleed, a river of blood ran from it down her mouth and I gently wiped it away, as I had done so many times before. She whimpered a little but said nothing as I dabbed the cloth against her face and I realized that in the adrenaline rush of that night, I failed to see just how beaten she really was. I had seen her in far worse states, however. Her eyes blackened, lips swollen and bleeding, her body dark with bruises of all shapes, colors and sizes. I had to wonder if Father had only spared her this fate the other night because of my intervention. Even in such condition, she radiated the same beauty she always had and I knew Father could never beat it out of her. I would always see it, no matter what.
Mother taught me when I was very young how to tend her wounds (as well as my own), something I learnt quickly. By now, I was a skilled expert. Of course, it was not always the case; I had to learn as the situation demanded it. My father was not as violent towards me as he was Mother, which was something to be said about how he felt towards her. He had some malicious hatred of her that I did not understand. If our faith had not forbade it, they would have been divorced years ago, my mother spared his bitter wrath, but because he had to live with her, it only made his hatred stronger. Why he hated her I did not truly know and Mother never wanted to say. I suspected it had something to do with her first marriage to a man who had died just before I was born, though I did not know the circumstances. Father accused her of infidelity and for being a gold-digging pauper, but I knew her better than that. While I had frequent proof of his infidelity, it was my mother who obediently loved him, and never tried to speak against him, though I know she wanted to do so. My father was a cold, imposing man who demanded respect and those he did not feel respected him were subject to his wrath. My mother unfortunately was the one who often incurred it the most. She feared it so much that she began to fear sleep, fearing that she might be attacked at her most vulnerable. He often threatened her that she did not need to be asleep for him to kill her, but nonetheless, she often came to my room at night, seeking some sort of comfort, hoping that he would not be cruel enough to attack us both...

I was awoken one night to sobbing as she stumbled into my room. This alarmed me, being awoke in such a way—fearing that something more awful had happened; that maybe someone had died or something—but I could see my mother's face in the pale darkness, illuminated by the moon as she stumbled towards my bed. The tears glistened on her cheeks, her eyes were dark and I thought that her left eye was obscured in shadow, only to see it begin to swell. A dark trail of blood ran from her nose down to her swollen lips, which bled down the corners of her mouth like some gruesome vampire. A bruise formed on the left side of her jaw like another horrid shadow in the darkness. Mother's body shook from her weeping as she continued to shuffle slowly forward like the half dead creature that she was. I sat up watching her, my heart pounding in my chest. I was unsure of what to do. Her mournful wailing was unbearable and my heart ached to see her like that.
Suddenly, she collapsed face down onto my bed, landing right beside me. I watched her weep, the bed shook now with her heavy sobs. I reached out to stroke her golden hair as she had done many times to soothe me. I paused, hesitant and afraid that she might break if I touched her, but I cautiously stroked her hair and she shattered beneath my touch. My hands trembled and I drew away.
“Mama,” I said softly, “what's wrong? What happened?”
She only continued to cry harder and then she pulled herself up and laid her head on my chest. I brushed back her hair that clung to her tear-soaked face. It was then I beheld the true extent of horrors marring her beautiful face. I wrapped my arms tight around her, willing all my strength and warmth into her. Gently I kissed her forehead, the way she had always comforted me. She shuddered violently, whimpering and thrashing like a fitful child as she clutched at my nightshirt. I laid there, unable to sleep, as she slept with her head against my chest. I felt nearly crushed but at the same time, I wanted her to have some comfort.
This became a nightly occurrence, almost like a bizarre ritual. At first, climbing into my bed without a word and cuddling against me, and then it was I sleeping in her bed as I grew into a young man, sleeping beside her each night. I was sad and overwhelmed by this display, and unsure of what to make of it, only to know that she was desperate and in pain. As time wore on though, it was nearly unbearable. I began to ask why she had to sleep with me. She would only tell me that she feared for her life. I began tell her to sleep in her own bed or to let me sleep alone in mine, but then she would beg me. No boy should have to endure their own mother pleading with them and still, I did. There was something so helpless in the way she looked at me, as if she were a child herself. Laying there, with my back to her, and her arms wrapped around me, I wondered why it had to be this way.
“Don't you see?” she whispered, “You're my savior now.” she said it, smiling gently at me with all the conviction in the world, all the truth that I knew I could not doubt.
How little did I know how true those words were, beyond my comprehension; that I could have the power to save her from her pain. In time, I knew I was her savior.

As I hovered so close to her, I could smell the blood that ran from her nose and mouth. I sucked on my lip and tried to deny the impulse to taste it as I continued to wipe it away. When I was a child, as we huddled together in fear, it was something I could taste, just like her bitter tears. She would crush me against her breast as she wept, her head tucked down onto mine. Helplessly kissing and cuddling me, trying to comfort me though we were both so afraid. I could barely breathe pressed so tightly against her. Her kisses were bitter and salty, mixed with her tears that covered me like a black rain. Such were my comforts back then, and even now staring at what would be so gruesome to some, it was so beautiful to me.
“Vega, why do you look at me like that?” asked my mother and I realized I had been staring at her, the rag still in my hand and poised to touch her face. Quickly I shrugged it off.
“It's nothing...” I replied simply, and she put her hands on my face, her eyes sparkling warmly with her sweet smile. I could sense however, that she was about to lecture me again. How foolish was I to think she would let the issue rest.
“Ay! I love you so much and, I forgive you, but I cannot forgive your sin—no matter the reason.” she said and I smirked to myself. I wanted nothing more than her love and her acceptance—but her forgiveness was not necessary—as I knew I was already absolved by God, though she would never understand that. Still, I knew that her own sense of devout righteousness compelled her to tell me so.
“You've committed a mortal sin, my Narcís.” she said, her voice now had a sombre tone, and the sparkle and color seemed to fade from her eyes, her warm smile replaced with a cold scowl.
“But...how can you weigh one sin against another, Mama?” I asked, and I could feel my own righteous indignation begin to boil, my eyes flashed passionately. “I have only killed to protect you, honor you.”
“I..can't,” she said softly as she looked down and then she said as if it were an afterthought, “but you will never honor me by killing.” and I knew the seriousness in her voice because she always took sin very seriously. I was quiet a moment as I reflected on her words. It was not that they bothered me because I knew I was right and I would always be right, no matter what. If only the Will of God could make her see this then I knew she would be proud of what I had done.
I pulled her to her feet and held her; she held fast to her rosary in the other hand. There it was and it nagged at me. It dangled there, taunting me, and I stared at it. It was not good enough for her that I had saved her. It was not good enough for her that I had nearly died in doing so. Was I not Christlike enough for her? I was the “anointed one”, anointed with the blood of a fallen sinner...but no. It would never be enough for her. Gently, I tried to take it from her grasp.
“No!” she cried as she clutched it against her breast possessively. I took her face in my hands to make her understand.
“Don't you trust me?” I asked.“You do not need it now. I am your savior. Me.”
“Yes-I mean, no! It isn't right, it isn't...” she moaned like a wrathful child, and then she looked at me again, her eyes shining innocently, fraught with confusion. “But...but, you've killed your own father...you've sinned....” and she dropped her arms limply to her side in resignation.
“And aren't you glad?” I asked, studying her fearful eyes. “I have slain your monster for you. Aren't you grateful?” she looked at me as I emphasized the last word.
A large tear fell down her cheek and I could see her begin to crumble. “Yes.” she replied and I smiled.
“Then you've sinned, Mother.” I said with a chuckle and she looked at me again bewildered, not entirely seeing the perverse sort of irony of the situation.
“It's alright, Mama. Don't be afraid. God knows that you and I have suffered our share of sins.” I said, the light of confidence shining in my eyes. I could still see how afraid she was, the uncertainty shown in her eyes of whether she should accept what I had done. Her body still trembled, and I rubbed her arms, trying to soothe her tremors. She pressed her head against my chest, her body almost too weak with fear, unable to stand any longer, wrapping her arms around my waist and replied with a wistful sigh,
“Ay déu meu, listen to how grown up you sound. Perhaps it's all this talk of God and sin...Yes, yes I'm glad you killed him. He-he deserved to die for all the things he's done, and I'm glad it was you who did it. May He forgive us, my darling.” she made the sign of the cross as I wrapped one hand around her waist and quickly took the rosary from her other hand, throwing it out of sight.
That night as we slept side by side, I held her close. I knew she must still be afraid, but now it seemed if she was more afraid to let go of me. There was a sort of peaceful look on her face, instead of her usual fitful look she seemed to have each night. I smiled and stroked her hair, secure in the knowledge that I could give her this peace, for it was the first time in many years that she had had any. I was not sure what the morning would bring for us, alone in Monaco without a passport and only the money we had on us. Nor did I know how long we would be here, hiding from fate.
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Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine