How did I get on Wattpad? The beginning
chapter 2 — The beginning
My house nestled in an intriguing spot within our neighborhood — sandwiched between the lower slum, under the rule of some forgettable criminal faction, and the upper slum, governed by another group. Periodic clashes between these two factions meant constant vigilance for us, the residents of the main street. Our neighborhood, dubbed Jardim Arpoador, sat adjacent to Jardim João 23, with the city of Osasco just a stone’s throw away.
“Come to lunch, Beto,” my mom’s voice echoed, interrupting my play on the second floor, engrossed in my Phantom System (a parallel version of the Nintendo 8-bit). The aroma of freshly cooked beans wafted through the air, tempting me downstairs.
One sultry summer afternoon, the phone rang, shattering the monotony of my disinterested, game-addicted teenage world. I was around 12 to 14 years old, lost in the world of Megaman, munching on Elma cheese chips.
Back in 1995 Brazil, the internet was a foreign concept to me. Our recent acquisition of a phone was a stroke of luck, thanks to my mom’s lottery win, making me feel privileged among the lower strata. Public telephones were the norm, but our phone at home was a novelty.
Now, back to that life-altering call. My aunt Vera’s voice on the other end sounded laden with sadness. She shared the grim news that my uncle Carlos was critically ill, hospitalized, and her worry echoed through the line.
“Oh, Tereza, not sure if he can take it, but we’re fighting,” my aunt expressed, her words heavy with concern.
“By God’s will,” my mother replied solemnly.
My uncle’s struggles with alcohol were no secret, but the news hit us sooner than expected. A lengthy conversation with my mother followed, and the decision was made — we would rush to the seaside town where my aunt lived.
“I’ll call your dad,” my mom decided after hanging up. “He and Uncle Carlos were inseparable.”
Turning to my father, who worked a few blocks away, I asked, “Should I head there?”
Perhaps it was a Wednesday or Thursday, planning to leave on Friday night, braving the notorious São Paulo to Praia Grande traffic.
I’ll spare you the details of my parents’ lectures on drugs, alcohol, and the gamut of warnings that accompany the specter of impending mortality. Suffice it to say, those conversations were frequent in our household.
Now, let me be upfront — I could kick off this tale by weaving an elaborate lie, claiming my family descended from a lineage of ancient wizards and sorcerers. Picture my father’s shelves adorned with arcane books, my mother a secret priestess of a clandestine coven specializing in herbs and botany. It would make for a captivating start, but alas, it would be fiction.
In reality, my father, an economist, scoffed at religions, declaring himself agnostic. Despite dabbling in Catholicism and Spiritism in his earlier years, he dismissed the occult as nonsense. My mother, on the other hand, was a spiritual wanderer, attending the Assembly of God, Catholicism, Protestantism, Kardecism, Umbanda Spiritism, then circling back to Kardecism, even donning the Protestant label to please my stepbrother.
Magic? My exposure was limited to role-playing games and video games, a whimsical and somewhat biased lens through which I viewed reality.
Now, the story takes a twist.
We reached the beach, and my uncle lay in a hospital bed, comatose. While my parents conversed with my aunt and the doctors, I roamed the hospital grounds, forbidden from the ICU due to my age.
“Take this money and find something to do,” my father instructed, handing me cash. I stumbled upon a newsstand, where I bought an RPG magazine titled “Mythological Beings of All Kinds.” This game purported to be based on real events, introducing me to societies like Wicca, Thelema, and Freemasonry.
It blew my mind.
I devoured the magazine in a day, absorbing terms, hunting for names, and crafting stories and characters. But a nagging feeling lingered — there was more, something beyond those pages that warranted investigation (courtesy of the insatiable curiosity of a 13-year-old).
A day or two later, my uncle succumbed to complications, and at his funeral, the narrative catapulted into realms of the surreal, reshaping my life in ways beyond imagination.
My motto echoes, “I tell fictional stories because if I share my life’s tale, you won’t believe it.”
Amid the funeral’s somber organization, I sat with the magazine, my family grieving, and I, ensconced in my corner. My father approached, and we discussed life’s brevity, time, and trivialities. Then he suggested we grab a bite at a bakery across the street.
As we ordered, my unease grew, sensing eyes on me. Across the room, a man in a dark blue suit, a gray tie, and flashy green eyes conversed with a woman in black, her wavy black hair contrasting with her ordinary attire. There was an air about her — a mysterious grace, as if time were her obedient servant.
When my father returned, blocking my view, the mysterious couple remained, no longer fixated on me. The magical aura dissolved, blending them into the crowd, but the exchange of glances had left an indelible mark on my consciousness.
After lunch, nature called, and I retreated to the bathroom. In the stall, the sounds of another visitor reached my ears. When I emerged, the restroom was empty, except for a lone ring on the counter, near the tap. In a fantasy tale, the ring might bear a mysterious symbol — perhaps a serpent or dragon — but this one was remarkably ordinary. Three scratches adorned it, a subtle gold applied to silver.
I showed the find to my father, then handed it to the manager with the promise it would join the “lost and found” until claimed. The manager’s gesture, tucking it into his shirt pocket, etched itself in my memory. I sensed the mysterious couple passing by; the man flashed a quick, enigmatic smile.
Returning to the funeral venue, situated within the cemetery, my father engaged in adult conversations. I retreated to my solitude, seated in a corner with my magazine. A peculiar sensation interrupted my contemplation — something in my jeans pocket.
The ring.
Common sense suggested returning it, but my imagination rebelled. In my mind, this was straight out of movies or books — discard it, and it magically reappeared. So, I kept it, slipping it onto my finger.
Coldness enveloped my hand, but no otherworldly dimension unfolded. My imagination had, once again, run away with me.
As I delved back into my magazine, a voice cut through my detachment.
“Enjoying it?”
“Yeah,” I replied absentmindedly, expecting a relative’s visit. The voice persisted.
“Beautiful ring.”
I looked up, and there he was — the bakery man. His gaze wasn’t just deep; it dissected me like an X-ray, counting every life choice. The man touched the magazine and spoke.
“Do you like these matters?”
“I do, but they’re hard to find,” I said, closing the magazine as he and the woman approached. They greeted my mother, who waved in my direction.
“What’s your name?” I asked, suspecting some distant relation.
“Sandro.” He extended his right hand, revealing an identical ring. I fumbled, accidentally offering my right hand with the newfound ring.
“The ring is yours; take it,” I blurted, anticipating a scolding.
“Finding isn’t stealing. Whoever lost it was foolish,” Sandro replied playfully. “But, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I replied, momentarily forgetting my magazine. Sandro rose and beckoned to the wake area. I followed, stumbling on a sidewalk brick.
“Would you like to learn magick?”
Sandro grinned, his eyes sparkling with secrets. “Imagine that magic is a forest. First, you take a look at the trees, then you decide if you want to enter.”
“What if there are animals in the forest?” I quipped, my teenage cheekiness on full display.
“What if it has a treasure?” Luckily, Amabile was much more.
As the car engine roared to life, I returned to my parents with the book in hand. My mother beamed at the sight of me reading, even throwing in a jest.
“Wow, Amabile doesn’t waste any time.”
“Not even,” I replied with enthusiasm. “Neither.”
Little did I realize that my “cousins” would be the good masters, and that my future would be a blend of Supernatural, Sabrina, and sarcastic hints of Constantine.
The craziest part of this story?
I would love it…
Liked it? Leave a comment and check the first chapter here: https://oghan-nthanda.medium.com/how-did-i-get-on-wattpad-30b43e566c05
