as long as there are stars in the sky, a playlist for Sarabi and Mufasa
Okay, well, I couldn't make a JEFF x Sarabi playlist without making one for the OGs!! I can't believe I've never made a Sarabi and Mufasa aesthetic??? What is wrong with me? Sarabi and Mufasa make me CRY. Literally, I have rarely felt so emotional as I have over Mufasa in general, and Simba's relationship with him, but ALSO -- Sarabi's. Her heartbreak is my heartbreak. I love Mufasa so much.
So, I present a snippet of songs Simba grew up listening to, songs that Sarabi and Mufasa slow danced to in the living room, and songs they sang in the kitchen making dinner. <3
All these songs are on the older side because Mufasa, especially, loves the classics. They are also all by black artists because that felt important. (Elton John is the exception to both of those statements, lol, but I had to put Elton on there because that has been a continuous theme over the course of Simba's story. Also, it's meta.)
Also, yes, I put I'll Be Seeing You at the end to make everyone (or maybe just me) cry.
In which Simba discusses something with Sarabi that has been on his mind...[takes place: idk probably a little earlier in April]
[tw -- none]
[outfit] [sarabi's fit]
/./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./
“Sarabi,” Simba said, raising his voice slightly among the shuffle of board members packing up their things to get his mother’s attention. “Can I speak with you in my office?”
Sarabi, who had been chatting with another board member, turned and regarded her son for a moment before nodding her head once and going back to her conversation.
In his office, Simba set his bag down in an empty chair, then started pacing. He paced and paced. His mother didn’t show up. She was making him wait. It was just another move in this ongoing war between the two of them that had been waging since Christmas. It was also bloody annoying.
In which Simba’s therapist diagnoses him...[takes place: March 18, 2022 and March, 1996]
[tw -- shitty teachers being shitty]
/./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./
“Mr. Simba!”
Simba sighed from where he was crouching next to Lark, helping her choose a colour for her flower. He knew what he was most likely going to see when he turned around.
Sure enough, Dante was sitting in his chair, a concentrated look on his face as he took his paintbrush, covered in blue paint, to his arms. It was already all over his shirt.
Standing up, Simba winced as his knee popped and throbbed, though this was a good thing as it kept him from getting irritated and snapping. Dante had already stopped when he’d felt his teacher’s eyes on him and was now watching Simba approach with a wary expression.
“Dante, you know that’s not what you’re supposed to be doing,” Simba said.
“We are supposed to be painting flowers!” chimed Ellen, with a toss of her blonde pigtails.
“Painting flowers is boring,” Dante shot back, lip pushed out petulantly. He threw the paintbrush down so that it hit the palette, splashing a few specks of paint in Ellen’s direction across the table, which made her squeal. Simba sighed again.
“Dante, why don’t you go over to the quiet corner? I’ll be there in a second. Don’t touch anything, please.”
For a moment, Dante looked like he was going to argue, but Simba did his best to summon the spirit of his father in the look he gave the boy and it seemed to work. Dante’s face twisted and he stomped off.
“My shirt!” Ellen pouted.
“Don’t worry, your moms can wash it when you get home and it will be good as new. I promise.” He grabbed one of the wet cloths and gestured for her arm. She held it up with tears in her blue eyes and let him wipe her skin clean. “Your flower looks lovely, Ells. I am sure your Mummy and Mama are gonna love it.”
Ellen beamed, the potential temper tantrum forgotten. Rosario, Simba’s assistant swooped in then, sharing a look with him before he turned to Dante, who was sitting on the floor with a book from the bookshelf nearby, tearing the corners off the pages. When he noticed Simba approaching, he snapped it shut and put it quickly back on the shelf.
Simba didn’t mention it. There was no point to it really. Dante knew that he wasn’t supposed to be doing that and…it was just a book.
“C’mon, Dante,” he said, gesturing for Dante to get up. The boy sprang up quickly and started running towards the classroom door. “Walk!” Simba called to him, making Dante come up short just before he reached up to grab the handle of the door. He bounced on the balls of his feet while waiting for Simba to catch up. Simba first went over to Dante’s cubby and pulled out an extra shirt from his mum. (He was glad he asked most of the parents to leave a spare set of clothes for accidents…not that this was an accident, but the point still stood.)
Shirt acquired, Dante’s hand in Simba’s free one, they started down the hall towards the bathroom. “Dante,” Simba started as they walked, “why’d you paint yourself instead of your picture?”
“I’m an avatar!” Dante curled his hands into what looked like claws and growled at Simba.
He was pretty sure avatars didn’t growl in that movie but to be honest, he had stopped paying attention about halfway through when he’d first seen it. The visuals were nice, but he’d found it kind of boring.
“You can be the avatar not at school, but we were painting flowers. Now your shirt is going to have to be washed and that paint is going to be itchy when it dries.”
Dante looked down at his dark arms, smeared with blue, frowning slightly. “Oh.”
Simba pushed the door open to the bathroom. “Here, let me wash your arms off and then you can change, okay?”
“Am I in trouble?” Dante asked as Simba wet a few paper towels and then crouched in front of him.
“No,” Simba told him with a little smile. “But I think Ellen deserves an apology and I would appreciate it if you painted the flower not yourself.”
“Apwesiate?”
“Appreciate. It will make me happy.”
“Okay!” Dante beamed at that and wiggling, tugging his arm out of Simba’s grip so he could throw both of them into the air. “I can do that!”
Simba felt another flash of annoyance but he just breathed out through his nose and grabbed Dante’s arm again when he dropped it down, gently wiping the paint off. Thank god they made environmentally friendly washable paint these days.
/./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./
“Simba!”
Simba winced.
“Uh oh,” murmured Nala at his side.
“You’re gonna be in troooouble,” sing-songed Attina.
Mrs. Henderson had a mean face. It got red really easily and when she was mad at Simba (which was all the time), he thought she might burst like a tomato. It was funny. He laughed, even though his stomach felt like he was doing somersaults as he watched her storm towards him.
“What are you doing?!” she snapped at him, grabbing his arm hard enough that his hand released the paintbrush he was holding automatically. It fell to the ground, the blue paint splattering against the ground.
He was trying to be David Bowie, but he didn’t want to say that. Mrs. Henderson’s face was so red he was sure it was going to explode if he said something.
“I turn my back for one second. Go sit in time out,” Mrs. Henderson instructed, half pulling Simba up from his seat.
Simba scrambled onto his feet. “I’m sorry! I clean it!”
Mrs. Henderson followed behind him as he moved to the worst place in the classroom. There was nothing to do here and Simba usually had to sit facing the wall, staring at the blank whiteness and feel his brain spinning around like a top. He plopped petulantly onto the stool and crossed his arms, staring up defiantly at Mrs. Henderson.
“You know you’re supposed to turn around, Simba.”
Simba stuck his lip out in protest.
“Simba. If you don’t turn around on three, You will have five minutes instead of three.”
Five minutes felt like the end of the world, but Simba didn’t move.
“One…two…three…” Mrs. Henderson sighed and Simba knew what that sigh meant. His daddy sighed at him like that. His mama sighed at him like that. “I will call your mother and tell her you aren’t cooperating, again.”
Simba spun around, staring at the wall. Hot tears gathered in his eyes and he reached up to scratch at the drying paint that was starting to itch at his skin.
/./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./
“Ay, Dante! That is not the shirt I put you in this morning,” Dante’s father, Ambrose, said when he saw his son after school that day.
Simba handed over the plastic bag with the soiled shirt. “We had a little mishap at painting time today.”
“Again?” Ambrose said, raising an eyebrow down at his son. “I’m sorry. I know he can be a lot to handle. We are working on it at home.”
“Yeah, uh--it’s no problem, I mean…but do you have a second to talk?” Simba rubbed at the back of his head and squinted up one of his eyes.
“Sure. Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all just--wanted to talk to you about something I noticed…”
“Yeah, let me get Dante in his car seat. I’ll give him the iPad. That usually keeps him entertained for a few minutes at least and we can talk.”
“Good deal.”
As Simba waited for Ambrose to buckle Dante in, he tapped his fingers on his thigh and then turned around to watch all the other kids leaving school. He waved at a few of them and caught himself up in a conversation with another parent, until Ambrose tapped his shoulder.
“Er, Mr. Simba? I gotta pick up Dante’s older sister from school to so--”
“Oh! Right, sorry, Ambrose. I was just--right.”
Really, what Simba was was nervous. He had learned about all of this in his classes, but he’d never--had to do it before. “I just wanted to discuss Dante’s behavior in class…”
“Yeah,” Ambrose sighed. “I know he can be a little recalcitrant. I’m sorry.”
Simba shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize. He’s a bright kid. Really funny. I love having him in class.” All of those things were true. He could also just…be a little bit of a pain. Ever since the beginning of the school year, Dante needed extra attention. He interrupted during lessons, he had a hard time going down for a nap, he wasn’t as strong of a reader as he should be at his age…
“I am new at all of this, so--please, take what I say with a grain of salt but…I think that Dante might have ADHD. He’s presenting a lot of the signs for it and I just--y’know wanted to mention it. I’m not a doctor by any means, but I thought I should say something. Put it on your radar, so you and your wife can…discuss it.”
Ambrose glanced over his shoulder to where he could see Dante through the rolled down window in the car. There was a frown on his face, his brows gathered. “Yeah, me and Violet have discussed it before, wondering the same thing. Can he really be diagnosed this young?”
Simba nodded. “Some kids present as early as four years old. It is better to catch it as early as you can and start working on helping him along, so he doesn’t fall behind. Like I said, he’s a bright kid. And super creative, but he has been struggling a bit.”
Ambrose nodded and looked back at Simba. “Thanks, Mr. Simba. We’ll talk about it. I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble.”
“Nah. Not at all. He keeps me on my toes. Have a good night, tell Violet I said hey.”
Ambrose nodded and turned towards the car. “Dante, tell Mr. Simba goodbye.”
“Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Dante called through the car window.
Simba raised a hand to wave goodbye to him.
/./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./
“Lord! Simba, what is all over your face?” His dad exclaimed as Simba came out of school, his hand firmly grasped in Mrs. Henderson’s.
“Oh, Mr. Lyons. I didn’t realize you’d be coming for Simba today,” Mrs. Henderson said, stopping a few feet from Simba’s dad.
Simba pulled out of her grip and ran to his dad, bumping his face against his dad’s leg. He felt his big, warm hand on Simba’s head. “Yes, I got off work early today. I repeat, what is on his face?” His father’s hand tapped on the top of Simba’s head and Simba stepped back, knowing the silent signal. He reached up and his father lifted him into his arms, settling him on his hip. Reaching into his coat pocket, he got out his handkerchief and wet it on his tongue before starting to scrub at Simba’s face. He let it happen, because the paint was itchy and the skin was burning a little.
“He painted his face while my back was turned,” Mrs. Henderson said with her arms crossed and lips pursed. She looked like a tomato again.
“Simba,” his dad said in that voice that always made Simba feel very small. His shoulders came up around his ears.
“Yes, and then, he wasn’t listening during our lesson this afternoon. Kept squirming around and getting up from his seat. I worry about him. He is very bad at paying attention.”
He is very bad.
Simba laid his head on his father’s shoulder, pushing his nose against the fabric of his suit. He rubbed at his eye, or he tried to. His dad grabbed his hand gently.
“Don’t do that. You’re going to get paint in your eye.”
“It hurts,” Simba whined.
“I know. We’ll fix it. Just let me talk to Mrs. Henderson for a moment first, deal?”
Simba nodded against his dad’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around his dad’s neck.
“Is he like this at home?” Mrs. Henderson pressed.
“Like what?”
“Recalcitrant? Does he not listen?”
“He--has a strong spirit. Gets it from his mother.” His dad chuckled and Simba felt it rumble through his small body.
Mrs. Henderson did not laugh. She never laughed when Simba said something funny either. “Well, it is leading to problems in the classroom. He is a distraction to the other children. Goofs off. Seeks attention. Doesn’t take his lessons seriously.”
His dad was quiet for a long moment. Simba felt his heart clench and he could tell he was about to get in trouble. “I understand. I will talk to him.”
“Yes, maybe you can get through to him. Someone needs to, soon. Or it will just cause more issues for him down the road. Boys like him tend to fall behind.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.”
Simba had closed his eyes by this point, the stinging on his face even worse, but he felt as they started to move towards the car. His father lifted him into his car seat and began to buckle him in.
“Why did you paint your face, Simba?” his dad asked as he fiddled with his car seat.
Simba shrugged and felt hot tears in his eyes again. “I dunno,” he mumbled.
“Did you keep getting up this afternoon?”
“My eye hurt,” Simba said to that one. “And my feet told me to.”
“Your feet told you to?”
“Yeah. They kept saying: move, move, move.”
His dad sighed and Simba slid down in his car seat a bit, feeling very small. His feet were talking again, whispering in his head: move, move, move.
“You can’t do that, Simba. You got to respect Mrs. Henderson when she’s speaking.”
“I know.”
“She is trying to teach you things.”
“But it’s boring.”
“That doesn’t matter. You have to learn it anyway, if you want to grow up to be smart.”
Simba’s eyes went down to his sneakers. He hit his feet together, making the lights in his shoes start to twinkle. Of course he wanted to be smart. Nala was super smart. All their teachers loved her. She always sat quietly in her lessons and colored inside of the lines. Everyone always smiled at her and told her how smart she was.
He nodded quietly.
“That’s my boy,” his dad said and kissed his head, ruffling his hair. “Now, say goodbye to Mrs. Henderson.”
Simba waved as his dad closed the door, but Mrs. Henderson was already heading back inside of the school doors.
/./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./ /./
“How was your day?” Dr. Powers asked as he watched Simba pacing around in front of the couch.
A few sessions into their relationship, Dr. Powers had told Simba that he could move around the office if he wanted to. That had been a revelation to Simba. He had always thought you were supposed to stay sitting on the couch in therapy, but sitting still for a full hour like that was akin to torture for Simba half the time. Especially if someone was forcing him to do it. Moving around was much more comfortable. So, he lazily paced, back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum swinging.
“Kinda weird,” Simba admitted.
“Kinda weird?”
“Yeah. This kid--I think I’ve mentioned him a few times. Dante? He got in trouble again for painting himself.” Simba snorted a little out of his nose. “And, I mean, I had been thinking about it for a while, but I finally had to tell his parents. It was just--weird, y’know? I didn’t want to make them feel like I was judging their kid. He really is great. Reminds me of myself a bit, actually, so I always try to be patient with him. Even though he can be a little shit sometimes. His parents took it well, though. I’m glad. I really think it could help him.”
“Er, what did you tell his parents?”
“Oh. Uh, that I think he might have ADHD.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I mean--he was showing a lot of the signs. Interrupting during class, fidgeting, having trouble during quiet time, not doing tasks as assigned, disrupting the other students, goofing off--that kind of thing. Which, y’know, some of that is normal. I mean, I did it all the time as a kid, but you can really notice in a group that are all the same age when someone is really bouncing off the walls. Poor kid.”
“I see. You said he reminded you of yourself?”
“Oh yeah, totally. I mean--I was just a little shit. Always hated school. Was constantly goofing off and distracting everyone because I just thought it was dumb to be in class all day. I just wanted to play with my friends.” Simba snorted and shook his head. He had rounded the coffee table now and was poking at some of the toys that Dr. Powers had on a little table against the wall. He took out a ball and started bouncing it between his hands as he walked.
“Dante likes school, though, I can tell. He always comes up with the best stories and the most creative answers to things even if it is wrong.”
“And you don’t think you like school at any point?”
Simba shook his head. “Nope. Never. And my teachers always hated me because I just wrote it off.”
“I see. Simba, do you ever think that maybe you wrote it off because your teachers wrote you off first?”
Simba stopped pacing and turned on his heel to raise his eyebrows at Dr. Powers. “What? No. I mean--even my parents got on me all the time about school. ‘You’re smarter than this. I don’t understand why you won’t just try.’”
“Do you mind if I ask you a different question? I promise it will make sense in a moment.”
“Uh, yeah--sure.”
“Were you hyperactive as a child?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. My poor mum used to get exhausted chasing me around.” Simba chuckled.
“And do you have trouble remembering dates or things you have to do?”
“Er, yeah. I mean--we’ve talked about how I almost ruined my marriage before it even started because of that.” Simba chuckled again with a shrug. Typical Simba, in his opinion. He and Ber were past that.
“Do you have trouble reading?”
“No,” Simba bristled. Dr. Powers simply raised his eyebrows. Simba let out a breath through his nose. “I mean--I can read just fine. I know words. I am just…a slow reader. I don’t like books. That doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
“I didn’t say that,” Dr. Powers replied placidly. “Have others said that?”
“All my teachers always thought I was stupid. I was kinda a dumb jock, but I’m not stupid.” He tossed the ball from one palm to the other hard enough that the sound echoed when it hit his skin. “I just didn’t like school much.”
“Simba,” Dr. Powers sat up, tilting his head at him, “have you ever considered that you might have ADHD?”
Simba stopped pacing again and he was suddenly assaulted with a memory from last September: Marzel, saying the very same thing to him. Then, he had laughed, mostly brushed it off. And then, his life had blown up in his face. Marisa and Arthur had died. He had fallen off the wagon. He had run for board. Ber’s half-sister and birth father appeared on their doorstep. And he had forgotten.
Now, the memory opened back up, blowing through him like a torrent and forcing him down onto the couch. He sunk down onto it before he shrugged.
“I dunno,” he said, feeling very small, looking down at his shoes. His ears burned and he reached up to rub at one, twisting the skin between his fingers. “I had a friend who thought I did one time, but, er, I forgot about it.”
“You forgot that someone told you that they thought you had ADHD?” Dr. Powers said and Simba could tell he was amused by the prospect.
Simba lifted his head to give him a withering look. “Yeah. There was a lot going on at the time.”
“Well, how do you feel about it now?”
“I dunno,” he said again. “What--does that mean? If I do.”
“Well, it means that you have been undiagnosed for thirty years. And that, if you got treatment, then maybe some pieces of your life would be easier for you. Organization, maintaining plans and projects, not misplacing things as often…”
Simba clenched his jaw and looked out the office window for a moment. The silence stretched and in that silence, Simba thought of all the silences in his childhood. The long, disappointed silences that he thought would never end.
“What, er, would I do?”
“Well, we would send you out for official testing and if it turns out you do have ADHD, then we will talk about the next steps. Medication, therapy, some combination of these things. There are many ways to cope with ADHD and just having the knowledge of your condition can be helpful in making you understand yourself a bit better. I suggest going home today and mulling it over, maybe do a little research. I can give you some websites and books about it.”
“Yeah, uh--that…that sounds good. Thanks.”
He still felt small…and stupid, he didn’t know how something like ADHD could be responsible for the things in his life. Of course, he had learned about it, but in the context of children and how it affected them. He had never thought of himself as one of those children. Why wouldn’t he have been diagnosed? Part of him wanted to fight against it.
No, he was just stupid. No, he was just forgetful and impulsive and hyperactive. He had been like that his whole life, it was who he was. He found someone who loved him despite it, had friends that loved him despite it. Shouldn’t that be enough?
Move, move, move, that voice whispered in his head again and Simba rose from the couch going back to his pacing as he and Dr. Powers dove into the next topic for their session.
thegoldendaddy: I can’t believe it’s been eight years, Baba. There are so many moments I wish you could had been there for, but it only makes me more grateful for the ones we did have. There are so many things that I wish I could have gotten your advice on, but I carry the advice you gave with me. Sometimes, it feels like just yesterday. Sometimes, it feels like it has been so much longer. Sometimes, I wonder if you would be proud of me, but I know I will always be proud to be your son. ❤️🦁
Endless Night [May 20th, 2013] /./ [flashback/nightmare]
Even though it always started the same, Simba never recognized it as a dream.
Because it wasn’t one.
It was a memory.
Everything is dressed in warm colors, like living inside of a lantern—flickering oranges, reds, and golds. The edges are fuzzy, like old film, underdeveloped and blurred. His stomach always flutters and he can hear the murmuring and clink of champagne glasses. It starts faint, like everything is far away, muffled, as if he is underwater, swimming towards the surface.
And then, everything breaks wide open. He’s dancing, spinning fast around the room to the sound of a band. All the women’s dresses bleed into their partner’s black coats until they are just a messy swirl of black, the edges now gold and red and pulsing with light.
Simba looks down and Nala is smiling up at him. Her teeth are white and the corner of her eyes. Her skin is golden, her cheeks glimmer—reflecting the red of the decorations, making her skin look like its holding fire in it. And isn’t that always so true of Nala anyway? They cling to each other as they twirl, fighting over who gets to lead, Simba can feel his feet moving close to hers, almost stepping on the inside of her heels, but never actually doing so. The two of them are good at this—this back and forth that they do.
He blinks and his arms are dropped lower, his mother’s warm skin—more gold than brown, has taken Nala’s place and one of Sarabi’s hands is tucked around him as the other squeezes his hand tightly. She doesn’t speak, just smiles—but Simba can see the warm lights dancing in her eyes and feels his chest expand so big he’s sure it will explode.
The dancing seems to last forever, the songs melting into each other, his partners morphing from one person to another in seconds that last hours—blink, Aunt Zipporah, blink, Nuru, blink little Ama who stands on his feet as he twirls her around and around while she laughs.
Suddenly, everything stops.
Like the end of a roller coaster, Simba is lurched to a standstill. It is quiet now and he has a glass of champagne in his hand, standing shoulder to shoulder with Uncle Taka.
His father is a few feet in front of him, talking, but he can’t hear the words. It feels like he’s back under water, like someone is holding head beneath the waves. He knows what he’s saying though, as if his father has cracked open his chest and is speaking right into it.
I’d like to announce that after much consideration, Taka will be stepping down as COO and my son, recent Oxford graduate and my pride of prides, Simba, will be taking his place.
He feels his Uncle Taka’s hand squeeze the junction of his neck and shoulder and the feeling pulls him up again, into the static of applause so loud he feels the urge to run.
Run, run far away.
Instead, he smiles as his father raises his champagne glass to him. As Mufasa stretches his arm and Simba stretches his out in return, it as if the hall expands and suddenly, he can’t see Mufasa’s proud smile or the twinkling in his dark eyes, the lights like stars in them.
Desperately, he throws back his entire glass in one swallow.
As soon as his hand comes back down his father is right in front of him. Snapped to him like a thunderclap. His champagne glass is refilled and he drinks more of it to calm the rumbling in his stomach like a volcano about to erupt.
Mufasa puts both hands on Simba’s shoulders, they feel like stones. Instead of his hands, Simba imagines Mufasa is Atlas, tricking him into taking the world. At this distance, they look as if they are the same height. Mufasa is smiling. His teeth are bright and white too, blinding in their brilliance and expectation. Simba shuts his eyes against them.
When he opens them, Mufasa is melting.
His face, that dark brown, which sucks up all the warm gold, white shining on top of his cheeks, has started to drip like candle wax. Simba looks down and his hands are melting into Simba’s black tux, disappearing. It isn’t wet, but the warmth has turned cold. The weight is gone.
Mufasa steps forward to embrace Simba.
Simba’s heart is pounding in his ears as he feels those melting hands like water slip around his waist. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his jaw against the urge for all the champagne to come bubbling back out of him. He’s dizzy, dizzy, and his father is light as a feather in his arms.
When he opens his eyes again it is dark, his father and the party has melted away—gone like an ink stain spreading over cloth. He still feels dizzy, like a top that won’t stop spinning, inertia propelling it towards the edge of a table top and all the children too distracted to keep it from falling right off the edge. There is the sound of rushing water.
No. He blinks. It’s a car window rolled down. He can feel the cool air on his face, his head still feels foggy, the clear night can’t break into it. The road stretched in front of him is making him sick and he keeps his gaze focused on the spinning asphalt in the pale yellow headlights.
He’s going to be sick.
His hands are clenched ten-and-two around the steering wheel.
His arm muscles feel like jelly.
Is he going to melt away next?
And then he realizes: he’s driving.
And then the wheel jerks.
And then he hears: “Simba!” in his father’s voice like gravel.
Everything slows down.
He turns his head, so slowly that the road comes with it. When he looks his father in the face, eyes wide, hands reaching towards him, the road is there too—it’s swirling in his father’s chest, grey asphalt and yellow headlights playing there like a projector.
“Simba!” His father’s hands finally reach him over that distance between them, the one that had always been there.
But, the contact is harder than Simba’s ever been touched before, his father’s hands are metal and plastic and his voice is screeching tires.
His body slams against the steering wheel, snaps his head away from his father, who vanishes completely into the darkness of the night now seeping into the shattered windows of the car. Simba can feel his lungs contract, like all his ribs are bending so fiercely they might just snap. The impact is all in slow motion as he’s thrown forward in his seat. He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
He feels his head crack against the windshield, the sound louder than anything else.
Sometimes, he hears the echo of his father’s final word: Simba! ringing in his ears as he jerks awake, gasping for air.
