Chapter Text
Buggy never liked talking about his childhood or even thinking about it, for all that mattered. There was nothing special about his childhood, especially if compared with Shanks, a literal baby found in a treasure chest.
Yet, there were things he remembered that couldn't be erased from the back of his mind; he remembered he lived with his mother in the small cottage house in the forest, the smell of damp earth after the rain, and the soft humming from his mother when she prepared their meal.
He also remembered being four and having to bury his mother in their garden, scraping the ground with a spoon because the shovel was for adults, and his mother put it beyond his reach.
Buggy also remembered sitting beside his mother's grave for days before his little feet took him to the slum to pick up some leftovers in the garbage bin.
Buggy had tried to forget all the memories of his mother, and yet, the moment he stepped onto the sandy shore of the island where he used to live, memories came flooding his mind.
Buggy loathed this feeling.
It's been years since he had been here, yet the lingering gaze from the townspeople stayed the same; he was a freak, after all. Who had a big red nose and blue hair like him on this tiny island other than him? He wondered if it was the reason his mother had to live in the forest.
His house stayed the same, too; dark brown wooden walls with a single door, few small round windows and a thatched straw roof, the same shape he had left it all those years ago. Overgrown weeds and wildflowers surrounded the house, and it took Buggy five hours to clean up before sitting beside her mother's grave again.
Buggy tried to trim the weeds on her grave the best he could. It was a simple one, just a tiny bump on the dirt with a wooden plank. "How are you, Mom?"
Buggy felt like five again; of a distant memory of a child with too skinny of a body who hugged his knees beside his mother's grave and talked about everything that had happened. Bruises were spotted on his skin, and dried blood was smeared on his lips, but the child kept talking, even when he knew his mother was long dead.
"I was a pirate for some time when I was away." He said after a long pause, laying on his side to face his mother's grave. "Not really a pirate, though; I'm just a cabin boy. I was suck at it, couldn't do anything properly. The crew even said I was not made for the sea."
He had never lied to his mother before, and lying to her now, even when she had been dead for years, felt like a rock sitting on his throat.
He couldn't do it.
The wind howled through the trees, and Buggy closed his eyes. "That was suck because I love the sea, always had been. It was the only time I ever felt alive."
Buggy wondered how his mother would've reacted; would she be happy he found something he loved, or would she be worried. He felt his mother would be proud of him.
Mother was always proud of him, no matter how small his accomplishments were, no matter how silly they were, no matter what; Mother was always proud of him.
"I miss you, Mom." He whispered. "I never stopped missing you."
Buggy slept soundlessly for the first time in years. He woke up when the light seeped from the gap between the walls. Last night, Buggy was so tired and slept the moment his body touched the sleeping mat.
The house was a mess from neglect, but Buggy had no one to blame for that. His mother died, and he was away for years, wild animals bound to come and rummage through their belongings, but Buggy was grateful it was animals and not humans.
Humans tend to take things, but animals do not.
It took Buggy half a day to clean the house; sweep the dirt and dust, dry the sleeping mat under the fierce sun, and chop the firewood. It was hard work, Buggy wondered how his mother could do all this work alone for years.
"I had a new respect for you," Buggy told her as he hit the sleeping mat with a wooden stick beside her grave. "You always kept the house clean, prepared three meals a day, and never once I heard you complaining."
He turned the sleeping mat and started hitting it again. "You could just abandon me in the woods and live your life outside, yet you stayed. I never knew why."
Buggy gripped tighter on the stick. "If you do, you might still be alive now."
He carried the sleeping mat back inside, put on the clean sheet, and stood there. Buggy realised it was the same sheet he used to drag his mother's body to the garden.
He was too weak back then, and the only thing he could think of to do was peel off the sheet, tie it on and drag his mother on it. Buggy was sure mother's head hit the ground pretty hard when he forcefully pulled her body and he had hoped mother would wake and scold him then.
"You should have left me to die."
Buggy brought enough food for him to survive for a few days, and he used it all. He had tasted the food on the island, and it tasted like shit. So Buggy did what he had done years ago; he foraged the forest for something to eat.
Mother always brought Buggy to the forest when she hunted. She once told him she used to strap Buggy on her chest while fighting a bear, and when Buggy was old enough, mother would let him forage for berries and mushrooms while she hunted rabbits.
Buggy didn't know about the bear, but he knew his mother was a skilled huntress, so he wasn't that surprised when he found her bow and arrows on the top shelf of their home.
The bow was old, and the arrows were dull. Buggy had never touched the bow before, but he managed to catch a squirrel who was too surprised because the arrow almost grazed it.
Buggy had never skinned an animal before; the most he had done was help Petermoo and Sunbell to scale fish, so he buried the squirrel and cooked mushroom soup.
In retrospect, Buggy knew it was a dream.
It had to be.
Because he knew his mother had died for years and the woman who was preparing the food was not his mother. He had forgotten what his mother looked like, yet Buggy remembered how her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders in gentle waves as if dancing in the breeze, of her soft humming each time she cut down the vegetables.
"What troubled you so, my little seastar, my itty bitty Buggy?" The woman asked, and her voice warped; it was a mix of people Buggy had encountered, yet it carried the same softness Buggy knew so well.
"You're already dead," Buggy said, swallowing hard. "You shouldn't be here."
"Where would I be then, if not here with my son?" The woman said, and now he sounded like the woman on that island where Buggy had left. "It had been years since we ate together. Let me finish this first, okay?"
The sound of boiling water and the smell of venison stew wafted through the air, together with freshly baked bread. It didn't take long before the woman poured the stew into a bowl and turned to face Buggy.
The woman's face was hidden under bright light, yet she carried herself like his mother used to. She put the bowl of venison stew before him and sat across him.
She put her hand under the chin, and slowly, Buggy picked up the spoon and ate the stew. It felt like sadness, sorrow, and love. He cried.
"Why do you have to die, Mom?" His tears fell into the bowl, and the stew turned to seawater.
She didn't say anything, and Buggy kept talking. "You'd always go past where our feet could touch, always had been. I used to hate you because you left without me to someplace new and left me all alone, thinking you didn't love me enough to bring me with you."
She sat still, and Buggy wiped his nose. "But I love you too much to hate you for long, and in the end, I still love you."
She rose and hugged Buggy, caressing his hair. "I'm sorry, my little seastar, for making you think I didn't love you enough, for making you doubt my love."
Her voice changed from Roger to Rayleigh, and Buggy cried on her shoulders.
It felt like an eternity; if it was a dream, Buggy never wanted to wake up.
"Check up the squeaky floorboards under the bed, my little seastar." She said, tucking Buggy's hair. "Check the little chest and find Al. Live your life, Buggy."
"I don't want to leave you here again."
"Oh, you jester." She laughed. "What died didn't stay dead; I'm alive here."
She touched Buggy's torso, where his heart was. "I'm always here, and never once I left."
Buggy sniffed. "I love you, Mom."
His mother smiled and kissed Buggy's forehead.
"I love you too, Buggy."
Her voice changed to Shanks' childish voice, and Buggy smiled.
The chest his mother mentioned fit in the palm of his hands. Inside it was a fifty-six gold coin, a small paper and a necklace. Ignoring the gold, Buggy took the necklace and inspected it.
It didn't look expensive; the pendant was shaped like a dagger with thick red string, but if mother put it inside the chest together with the gold, it must be precious to her.
Buggy put on the necklace, feeling the cold dagger touched his skin.
Buggy cleaned the house for the last time. He made the bed, fixed the squeaky floorboards, polished the pots, and put flowers on the vases. For the last time, he looked at mother's grave.
"I'm going, Mom." He said. "Please keep looking after me."