I decided to drop that story because it wasn’t going anywhere. I started to write my take on his origin story, and I have plenty of ideas for that. I thought about having his stepdad being a narcissist himself (although in an entirely different sense) and transferring that to Vega when he grows up. Some of my friends pitched some ideas as well, including having his mother die at the age of thirteen and being sent to Japan.
Also, here’s the first chapter. I hope it isn’t too bad.
I remember the day my father died. He was a very famous matador, known for his skills and impeccably good looks. Of course, I inherited all of these traits. I idolized him since I was very young, admiring his agility as he dodged the bull’s horns, such perfect timing and execution. One day, however, his perfect streak would come to an end. This happened at the Plaza de Toros in Madrid, on a particularly sweltering afternoon. It was a highly anticipated event, as large crowds filled the seats of the bullring. My mother and I sat close to the center, enabling us to have a clear view of the duel between man and beast. The bullfight began with the usual affairs, as the picadors successfully pierced the bull’s hide. When my father stepped into the arena, many women in the audience screamed and cheered for him. He was wearing his trademark suit of lights, which was a brilliant shade of blue with gold embellishments. While he engaged the bull, he teased the bull like he always did, goading it into a rage. It became a deadly dance, as the animal charged around the ring while my father gracefully avoided its attacks.
Unlike the previous fights, something went horribly wrong. My father, while dodging the bull’s horns, suddenly started to stumble about. He seemed drowsy, as if he was about to collapse at any given moment. Unable to continue his game, he fell onto his knees, sweat forming on his brow. Before he could utter a cry for help, the bull gored his abdomen, carrying him like a rag doll. Many audience members gasped in horror as they witnessed this tragic sight in front of them. Seeing this at a young age made me feel terrified, and then I started crying. I have lost the man who was my personal hero, the man I aspired to be when I came of age.
Nearly everyone in all of Spain was shocked to see his career end abruptly before he was able to reach the age of thirty. His funeral was a quiet affair, however - only family members and close friends were allowed to attend, as we did not need the constantly prying eyes of the public and the media. I could not forget the face of my grieving mother behind her veil - but even with tears running down her face and her makeup smeared, she is still quite beautiful. As the priest continued to give his eulogy, I noticed a particularly ugly man eyeing my mother. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair and watery green eyes. Acne scars lined his face. Something inside of me warned me about him, but I dismissed it. I would later regret not listening to that inner voice.
After the eulogy was finished, many of our relatives - mostly distant ones - introduced themselves to each other and expressed their grief. The ugly man I saw earlier came into the room, walking past my father’s coffin. My mother was sitting in the corner, her hand in her hands. He was able to get her attention by placing his pudgy hand on her delicate shoulder. She looked up at him with tear-stained eyes.
“I am very sorry to hear about your husband, Señora,” he spoke in a low voice as he consoled her. "I was a close friend of his from a while back."
She seemed to stop crying for a bit.
“My name is Alejandro Torres. I am a businessman from Madrid, and I have attended many of your husband’s bullfights.”
“Oh?” she replied. "I didn’t notice you in the audience, but I’m glad to have met someone else who enjoyed them.”
“Your husband was a truly magnificent man. He danced with the bulls with grace.”
“Thank you for your kind words. My name is Cecilia.”
“You are very welcome.”
After saying goodbye to the man, my mother approached me.
“Mother?” I asked her.
She held me tightly against her chest.
“Mi niño, you’re the only one I have left,” she whispered into my ear. “I know you loved and idolized your father, but I don’t want you to die like he did.”
She started sobbing again.
“Please don’t end up with the same fate as him.”
I also did as much research on Spanish culture as I possibly can. If I made any mistakes, let me know. I want to have enough critique so I can have a good idea of what to do.