CHAPTER 2: The Heroic Fall of Nana and the King's Newest Disaster
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I don't remember much from when I was a toddler. If you've ever tried to look back at your childhood, it's like trying to recall a dream that slips through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hold onto it. You know the feeling—blurry lights, soft colors, smells that don't quite make sense, and voices booming like thunder in the distance. But there's one thing I do remember: a feeling. A vague sensation of the world beginning anew. It was like life had hit a reset button and whispered to the universe, "Here, start fresh."
A new day for hope.
A new day for joy.
A new day for laughter, and sunshine, and—
Hold on.
I know what you're expecting. This is where the soft music swells, and the camera pans to the sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. You know, the typical, heartwarming scene from those "family slice of life" movies that always make you want to hug your loved ones. I can already picture it: the piano music, the wide smiles, the gentle breeze. You'd expect all that, right?
Well, here's where things take a turn.
If I'm being honest with you, we didn't get that perfect, peaceful beginning. Nope. In our house, things went missing. Furniture broke for reasons no one could explain. Appliances malfunctioned like they'd developed a vendetta against us. Our dog? Let's just say he started barking in Morse code. It was like some twisted version of Murphy's Law decided to set up camp in our lives, and it didn't just let things go wrong—it made sure they exploded, fell off a cliff, and then got hit by a parade float. Seriously, if there was a competition for most absurdly unlucky household, we'd win gold. And I'd be the proud King of Misfortune.
Back then, we had dozens of maids. Being rich meant we could afford to hire help—and by "rich," I mean my parents were rich. Past tense. But even with all that wealth, none of the maids lasted long. No exaggeration here—on average, none of them survived more than a day. Some didn't even make it through their first hour. One woman quit because the chair she sat in spontaneously burst into flames. Spontaneously. How does that even happen?
But out of all the maids who came and went, there was one who stood out. Nana.
Ah, Nana. She wasn't just a nanny. She was a legend. A hero. A force of nature.
If you took every maid we ever hired, combined their energy, and multiplied it by ten, you'd still fall short of Nana's resilience. She was small in stature, round in shape, but in terms of willpower? Unmatched. She wasn't just surviving under this roof; she was fighting it. And, somehow, she was winning.
Fourth wall moment: Of course, even Nana wasn't immune to the curse. Oh no. This was my family. If you think the universe was going to let her escape unscathed, think again.
I remember it like it was yesterday. We were on vacation abroad, trying to escape the unrelenting chaos that seemed to follow us everywhere. Spoiler: Misfortune doesn't pack light. It travels with its own carry-on.
That day, Nana was doing what she did best—cleaning, humming her old folk songs, and babysitting me as she pushed a mop across the floor like it owed her money. Her energy was inexhaustible. She was like a human hurricane, full of unrelenting determination.
And then... she saw the stairs.
Cue ominous music.
Oh, the stairs. A symbol of every bad omen in my life. If there was a place that could encapsulate the essence of my family's misfortune, it was the stairs. Not the big, grand staircase, mind you. No, this was a smaller set of steps. A simple incline that should've been no problem for anyone. But not for Nana.
She took the first step—confident. The second—steady. And then, the third step betrayed her. It was as though the stairs had a mind of their own, slick and treacherous underfoot. And just like that—whoosh.
It was like watching a disaster unfold in slow motion. Her body twisted in ways that were never meant to be twisted. Each step was a collision, a seismic event that rattled the whole house. It was like watching a human tumbleweed, complete with the sound of shattering porcelain as she crashed into the marble floor.
But wait, there's more.
Because Nana wasn't just cleaning—no, she had her arsenal of cleaning supplies with her. The mop? It swung around her like a whip, hitting her in the face. The bucket? It made a beeline for her backside, landing squarely with a smack. The feather duster got tangled in her ear. A rag went flying across the room, hitting a vase, which then exploded in a cascade of glass.
And I, of course, watched it all unfold with the wide, innocent eyes of a child who thought he was witnessing a masterpiece. A miracle. Or, you know, a tragedy. It could go either way.
She spent the rest of the day nursing her wounds—bandaged up like a warrior—but did she stay down? Of course not. The very next day, Nana was back, limping but as fiery as ever, determined to make her way through the chaos. She looked at me and said, "A little fall won't stop Nana."
A little fall? Nana, that wasn't a fall. That was an earthquake in human form.
And that was just the beginning.
There was the time she tried ironing clothes. Simple enough, right? Plug in the iron, heat it up, and press the wrinkles out. Except, the iron sparked. Then it exploded. Yes, you read that right—exploded. And in the chaos, Nana, ever the problem-solver, grabbed a nearby bottle of what she thought was water to douse the flames. Only it wasn't water. It was cooking oil. The fire flared up, the smoke alarm wailed, and the curtains caught fire. By the time Nana got the fire extinguisher, it was jammed. Of course it was. Because why wouldn't it be?
Another time, she was sweeping the backyard when—oh, wouldn't you know it—a bird pooped on her head. Nana looked up in disbelief, and then, as if the universe had decided to up the ante, a whole flock of birds took aim at her. It was as though they were participating in some sort of avian military exercise, and she was their target.
And then there was the day the washing machine ate her dress. It sucked it right in. I kid you not. She screamed as the machine's spin cycle slowly wound tighter and tighter around her skirt until—snap—she was standing there in her polka-dotted bloomers. It wasn't funny. Well, it was funny in hindsight. But at the time? A catastrophe.
Through all of it—the accidents, the spills, the chaos, the burns—Nana stayed. For one whole month.
That might not sound like much, but in my house, that was a feat worthy of admiration. One month was an eternity. And Nana, despite every challenge, had conquered it. She was, without a doubt, the strongest maid my Kingdom of Misfortune had ever known.
But, as with all good things, it came to an end.
The day Nana left wasn't dramatic—there were no heavy thunderstorms or symbolic rain falling from the heavens. It wasn't a tragic departure where she dramatically walked away, leaving behind a trail of dust and a single tear on her cheek. No. It was more subtle. More real.
Nana's husband—who had been a character in his own right—suffered a terrible accident. It wasn't a cartoonish slapstick scenario, either. It was a real, visceral kind of misfortune. He was chased by a rabid dog, hit by a truck, had his wallet stolen while unconscious, and then, just to top it all off, was struck by lightning. Lightning. It was as if the universe wanted to make sure his suffering was complete.
But no, the real reason Nana left wasn't the lightning strike (as much as I'd like to think that was the universe's cruelest punchline). It was the injury her husband sustained that ultimately ended her tenure with us. But, still... my family's curse had extended beyond just me.
The day she left, I felt something I had never felt before. For once, I wasn't the unlucky one. I was just a child, standing in the wake of a loss I hadn't been prepared for. Nana had been a constant, a rock in a world that had been anything but steady.
When she walked out that door, I felt as if someone had torn a hole in the fabric of my existence. I wanted to stop her, but all I could do was stand there, a helpless child, watching her go. Her absence was the first true loss I had ever experienced.
Years passed. I grew older, but I never forgot her. I tried to fill the hole she left with other things, with other people—but none of it worked. My sister... well, she was my next target. In my mind, she could heal the wound Nana's departure had left. But we were two very different souls, and it wasn't meant to be.
I tried to chase after her, desperate for her attention, and in doing so, I tripped. Classic me. But in that moment of chaotic misfortune, I did something that made my sister hate me for life. I grabbed her in the worst way possible.
She was humiliated. And I became the villain in her story.
And that's how the King of Misfortune came to be—the unlucky son of a rich family, cursed by the universe, but somehow still standing. And, sometimes, you just have to laugh at the absurdity of it all.