The Mistletoe

Years went by, and I began to feel less sleepy. I reckon that at 14, I slept only about 4 hours and used the remaining time to play World of Warcraft or Call of Duty online. If I wasn’t on my phone, I was chatting with people online.

I noticed many of my classmates were starting to develop, and I was falling behind. However, I could feel myself growing, and my legs hurt. I felt more energetic, but I had constant earaches, and my nose started to pick up strange smells that I hadn’t noticed before. In my classes, I remember using a magnifying glass for biology lessons and realizing I didn’t need it. These were subtle changes, but I could notice them.

Another thing that made me nervous was how slow time and people became; it felt like everything was moving in slow motion. During this time, I asked my dad to enroll me in karate classes offered at school, and he happily agreed, especially because he was concerned about my addiction to computer games and the smartphone.

I noticed that while practicing, I felt a fire within me, similar to when I played war games, and the sensei looked at me with a certain fascination.

“It’s as if you’ve practiced it before; you have a really natural talent!” he said proudly.

The sensei invited my father to observe the classes and watch my progress. My father was really happy, but I could tell there was a worried look on his face; there was something he wasn’t telling me.

At night, when I went to bed, occasionally, I noticed something by my window, shrouded in the darkness of the night. I thought it might be an owl, but it had something supernatural, an odd aura.

My karate classes were progressing, and we had to do exercises to break boards. The sensei noticed how easily I could break them. I hadn’t realized it until then. When I mentioned it to my father, we started to prepare a sort of gym/laboratory in the basement.

First, we collected cement bags, blocks, and boards, and later, with more money, we bought weights, while he took notes from the letter my mother had sent.

“You mentioned that your sensei noticed you could break the boards more easily?” My father asked.

“Yes,” I said, adding, “I don’t know if it was technique or strength.”

My father pondered for a bit, then brought a cement block and said, “Let’s see, break it with your fists.”

I prepared my hand and struck it with all my might; the block broke. Immediately, my father examined my knuckles.

“Nothing,” he said; my knuckles were intact. He brought a second block and said, “Break it, but use less force this time.”

I hit it with less force, and the block didn’t break.

“What if...” my father thought. He seemed uncomfortable but went upstairs, fetched a knife, and handed it to me.

I understood immediately and tried to cut myself, hoping to activate my rapid regeneration. Nothing, no cut, my hand was intact.

I quickly brought a hammer and a nail. My father, a little disturbed, said, “No, Miguel, not now, it’s dangerous.”

I promptly took the hammer and tried to nail it; the nail broke... nothing.

“I’m invulnerable!” I exclaimed, filled with jubilation.

My father, staring fixedly at my hand, contemplated the consequences of what this meant. Then he added, scratching his beard:

“If you fall ill, they won’t be able to give you injections or perform more blood tests. If you suffer an internal injury, they won’t be able to operate... We still don’t know if your bones or internal organs are also like this, son, this is serious.”

My father looked away, likely considering the possibilities of involving someone with scientific knowledge who could give us advice or help in case of an emergency. I was too thrilled with the idea of invulnerability, but he was right; we didn’t know if my internal organs or bones were also like this, or if it was only my skin.

“Dad, I’ve never had a cold, and I don’t remember ever getting sick, neither did my mom.”

“I know, son,” he replied. “But if something happens to you, there won’t be a doctor who can help. There’s no kryptonite or magic to operate on you in case of an accident,” he said, regretting it.

My father didn’t like the idea of involving a stranger at all. My safety was paramount to him, but he was facing a major dilemma; whatever decision he made, the path would be full of uncertainties.

“Maybe I’m also bulletproof,” I joked.

My father covered his face with his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He had no medical knowledge, let alone scientific knowledge; he saw not saying anything as a risk to my health, but involving someone else as a risk to my integrity or, worse yet, my freedom.

Finally, he broke the silence and said, “I’ll think about it for a few days and see what information I can find and what to do about it, or who could help us. In the meantime, you’ll have to be careful with risky activities, no extreme sports or...”

“And what about my karate?” I interrupted.

Regretfully, he concluded, “No, you’ll have to leave karate, for now.”

I felt like I was being put into a bubble. It was enough dealing with schoolmates, and now I couldn’t do the only sport I enjoyed.

My father noticed my sadness and added, “Look, if something happens to you, the responsibility will fall on me. How about we leave it until I find some information or until you’re older? When you’re 18, you can do whatever you want.”

“Four years, Dad! Four years!” I said, frustrated. “Do you plan on putting me in a bubble? I’m not made of glass; on the contrary... Look, if I can heal my wounds, why couldn’t I heal internal injuries?”

“I know, son,” he took a pause, worried. “But we’re not sure to what extent you can regenerate. What if your bones break and are in a bad position? What could a doctor do if they had to operate? Do we know if your bones can regenerate? Do you realize how dangerous it would be to have a poorly regenerated bone or organ that can’t be operated on?”

He was right, I didn’t want to understand it, but deep down, I knew. “I curse my mother for leaving us; I curse myself for being born,” I muttered under my breath.

“If only my mom were here...” I lamented.

Dad gave me a hug and a kiss; we went upstairs to finish eating, and as I got ready for bed, I saw him sitting at his desk with his computer, searching for answers on the internet.

Once in my pajamas, I could see through the window again those yellow eyes, hidden under the leafy tree, staring at me, like a hunter at his prey.

“Dad!” I called out when I couldn’t resist anymore. By the time my dad climbed the stairs, the bird’s eyes had disappeared.

“Yes, son?” he asked, concerned, seeing how I stared fixedly at the window. After a pause, he added, “Did you see something out the window?”

“I don’t know... I saw it once before; it looked like some kind of bird. It’s the third time it peeks in.”

For him to stay with me before sleeping was unusual, but ever since my mom’s departure, I was more fearful than usual.

“Do you want me to stay? I can sleep in the chair,” he offered.

I felt embarrassed that at fourteen, my dad had to stay with me before sleeping, but it was late, and I had school the next day. So, I lay down, and he stayed in the chair. The rocking chair’s creaking and his presence somehow calmed me, and I could sleep more peacefully.

I didn’t usually remember my dreams, but there was one that came to mind. In my dreams, I could hear drums making a constant sound reminiscent of the Skyrim game. It was strange because I didn’t see anything; I only heard the drums, slowly accelerating as they beat, like a march. When it became intense, I would usually wake up suddenly in the early morning, unable to sleep anymore.

As time passed, now at the age of sixteen, I noticed that my classmates had stopped bothering me, and I began to receive more intense looks from my peers. Papers from supposed female classmates, in quotes, declaring their feelings or complimenting me, started reaching me. But no one ever said anything to my face. I was really annoyed, thinking they wouldn’t bother me anymore, but they simply changed their tactics.

“Now, it’s the girls messing with me. Great,” I thought as I tore the papers into pieces and threw them in the trash. I hated hearing whispers and giggles as I walked through the class corridors.

“As if I couldn’t hear them,” I muttered ironically.

In my adolescence, I longed to have a girlfriend. The guys around me talked about their experiences, fueling my imagination even more. There was always one or two guys that the rest of the girls followed, and I found those scenes truly pathetic.

One of them was particularly unpleasant, Jonathan. This guy walked around with some friends who I could say were quite questionable, and the other guys were quite afraid to approach him.

No one could really play sports with him because if you touched him, you would be in trouble outside of school. I remember one of my classmates was beaten and ended up in the hospital for fouling Jonathan during a soccer game, during our sports class hours, and since Jonathan wasn’t directly involved, the school couldn’t expel him. Our public school was quite bad at handling such issues, but the rest of us knew it was him.

For some reason I didn’t understand, he had a personal grudge against me, especially since I turned sixteen. My father emphasized not getting involved in fights to avoid raising suspicions, but it was very difficult for me, especially because of the type of pranks he pulled.

He used to pull my pants down in the middle of recess or spit on my head from the second floor. The pranks seemed to intensify and become more and more daring, making sure to do them especially in front of the girls.

He also managed to take pictures of me, modify them, and upload them to the school’s video call group. I coped with my situation by playing online to forget the damn reality I was living in.

We were in the locker room changing after sports class, and Jonathan looked at me while I was almost naked, trying to take a picture of me with his smartphone, saying:

‘Hey, look at Miguelito, he’s ripped, do you work out?’

I took the camera after he took the photo, looked him in the eye, and said:

‘You’re going to have to delete that.’

The rest of the guys quickly left the room.

‘And what if I don’t, big guy, baby face? Are you going to call your mommy? Oh, that’s right, she left you, with that baby face of yours.’

I was really angry. Without realizing it, I squeezed the smartphone so hard that it broke. I’d had enough.

When he saw that his precious luxury iPhone was broken, he threw a punch at my face that I stopped with my hand. His movements were slow, or at least that’s how they felt to me.

‘Release me, baby face! We’re going to get you good when you leave school!’ he yelled as he began to tighten his grip on my hand.

Suddenly, I started hearing drums in my dreams, louder and louder, inside my head, as if they were calling to me. Jonathan was throwing kicks, and I squeezed his arm, realizing it broke easily.

“AaaaH!” he screamed.

I let go of his arm and struck his chest, knocking him down and sending him several yards, crashing to the ground. When I saw blood coming from his mouth, I realized the mistake I had made.

I ran to the school infirmary, shouting, and even an ambulance arrived, rushing him to the emergency room. I thought I was going to kill someone, and my dad would be really disappointed.

As this guy’s life hung by a thread, I realized, looking at his phone and my hands, that my metamorphosis hadn’t ended yet. My future depended on this guy’s survival...”