The Mistletoe

In the following days, we found out that Jonathan was out of danger, but it was a close call. I learned that a couple of his ribs were broken, and one of them almost touched his heart.

As a consequence, I was suspended for a week, and my dad was not at all happy. He restricted my internet access and set time limits on my computer usage. I had to hide my tablet to play games during the remaining nights after waking up.

My dad and I had a talk about violence and its consequences.

“I understand you wanted to delete that photo, and I’m not punishing you for breaking his phone. But hitting him in the ribs like that was unnecessary,” he said.

“I had to defend myself! He was hitting me! What did you want me to do? That guy had been bothering me for months!” I responded, clearly frustrated.

“And if you had killed him? Would that have made you happy? You know you’re not like the other boys; we’re just starting to understand the limits of your... abilities. If you get sent to a juvenile detention center, I won’t be able to do anything for you, and they might discover your secret,” he said seriously, visibly frustrated.

My dad had given me some books, but I still had the tablet hidden, so I used it when my computer time ran out, carefully hiding it among the sheets.

One night, I was chatting with one of my online friends, with whom I played MOBAs, and as I was sending a message, I looked out the window, and suddenly, there it was again, that strange bird. But this time, I could see it more clearly; it seemed like my eyes had improved too.

The creature had bird wings, but its body was snake-like, just like its face. The creature turned around and stared at me, making some strange whistling sounds. Its sudden appearance scared me so much that I ended up breaking the tablet in two.

After it quickly disappeared, I said to myself, “I’m going crazy. God! The tablet!”

There were three things that worried me during the night. First, the creature I now knew about. What was that? I had never seen anything like it. Second, my tablet was broken, and I had nothing left to do but sleep or check my dad’s books. And lastly, I hadn’t noticed that my body was more defined, considering the little exercise I did. I mean, I didn’t have Superman’s body, but I looked like a runner or gymnast, and I wanted to know how much strength I had.

I slowly went downstairs, and in the basement, I saw the weights we had to test it. Previously, my record for deadlifting was around 70-something kilos, not bad for a teenager. Until a few months ago, I had reached around 90-something, with a lot of effort, but I wanted to try again.

I loaded up to 100 kilos and started:

“one... two... three!” Not bad.

I tried adding about twenty more kilos:

“one... two... three!”

I began to laugh convulsively, not knowing if out of happiness or nervousness, and I could hear my father coming down the stairs as I thought, “Oh no.”

“What are you doing, Miguel... It’s three in the morning!”

“Dad!” I said, laughing. “I can lift 120 kilos! And I think I can do more!”

“Stop, stop, stop... Use the belt I bought, please, don’t rush, remember, if you dislocate or break a...”

“I know!” I interrupted. “I’m not straining, I’m serious!” I laughed enthusiastically.

“Wait, let me get a coffee.”

While my father brought a cup of coffee, I loaded the weight; now, I put about 185 kilos.

“Son, don’t put so much... please.” He looked disapprovingly.

I lifted the 185 kilos without problems. I felt really jubilant; I truly felt like a superhero.

My father raised his eyebrows, and I saw there were only a couple of weights left, so I ended up loading the 225 kilos we had. Before my dad could stop me, I lifted them, laughing out loud.

“My God, son... Are you sure you don’t feel any pain?” He looked astonished.

“It’s that I don’t feel the weight, dad! I don’t feel the weight!” I laughed like crazy.

I gathered the remaining cement bags and tied them to the bar. My dad took a pencil and paper, where he was recording my progress, and when he saw what I was doing, he said, “That’s enough, son, it’s not necessary, really.”

I counted, and it was about 550 kilos more or less; I was looking forward to it.

“Son, you’re going to tear yourself, that thing is going to break, and it can fall on...”

I deadlifted it and was full of jubilation. My dad looked at me with wide-open eyes and couldn’t believe it.

“Look, dad, look at this!”

I fully lifted the weight onto my shoulders; I had more than 500 kilos lifted over me, and if it weren’t for the lack of space and things to put, I could continue.

“Woooohoooo!” I shouted in ecstasy.

Finally, the bar gave way and split in two, while my father’s heart almost jumped out. I managed to hold each piece for a few seconds until they slipped from my sweaty and nervous hands. A hole was made on each side, and it raised smoke, breaking the basement floor.

After the smoke dispersed, my dad came over and checked my arms.

“Did it hurt, son!? Did you hurt yourself!? Is everything okay!?”

I smiled and told him, “Wonderful, dad! Do you know what this means? I practically beat the weightlifting records. If I were a modern athlete, it would be like an adult competing with babies, and perhaps not even that, hahaha!”

While holding my dad and lifting him in my arms, he struggled to say, “Alright, son, put me down, I’m having trouble breathing.”

I put my dad down, and he continued, “We’ve talked about this, you can’t participate in sports. How do you think they could do a doping test on you if they can’t stick a needle into you? They wouldn’t even let you compete. We don’t even know if you are...” He stopped for a moment, realizing what he was about to say.

“Human...” I replied. “I’m human, dad! I am! You’re my father!”

Whatever he meant to say, it hurt me. Dealing with my appearance at my school was already hard enough, and now my own father thought I wasn’t human.

“Forgive me, son, I didn’t mean that you weren’t human. Let me explain.”

My father had taught me when I was young to finish hearing out sentences before assuming things; a human being has two ears and one mouth to speak once and listen twice, or something like that. So, I took a breath and let him finish.

“What I’ve read on the internet is limited but plausible; perhaps you have some kind of genetic mutation, maybe a code in your DNA chain activated a sequence of changes, most likely inherited from your mother. So, I don’t think you’re an extraterrestrial or anything like that. Moreover, I have something much more important to tell you.”

“I do too, dad...” I replied.

“Your turn, if you want.”

I confessed about the broken tablet and the winged snake I saw. My father smiled at me, thought about it for a moment, and said, “How many hours do you sleep per day, Miguel?”

“About four or three, to be honest.” My dad was about to give me a lecture when I added, “Since I turned fourteen, I can’t sleep more than that. Believe me, I toss and turn in bed and can’t sleep, no matter how hard I try.”

“Son, I think it’s very likely that it’s because of the hours you spend on the screen, and well, I’m going to accept and understand that it might also be because of the changes you’ve been experiencing. But let me tell you what I had to say.”

“Okay, okay, go on,” I replied.

“I had to talk to the police today because it seems that Jonathan’s buddies are hanging around the house. Today, I saw one of them watching the house from the street in front. The officer told me to be careful not to go out at night, and especially for you to be careful.”

Have you ever had the feeling of “I messed up big time”? Well, that’s how I felt when I knew that my great boldness against Jonathan had now endangered my father.