Port Of Penance

“It’s beautiful out here.” The younger man said, stating the obvious. They were perched at the furthest end of the dock, leaning against the black iron rails, looking out at the vast sea as the last glimmer of twilight clung to edges of the sky, allowing a final clear view. The calm water seemed to hold everything in sight in a warm embrace. Various towns sprinkled the mountains on the far side of the sea with tiny clusters of lights. A small stone island with a tiny church as its only structure, sat alone in the water at the halfway point. “A man can be alone with his thoughts here.” He continued trying to gain some purchase in a conversation.

The older man took a drag of his cigarette. The fading glow caught the thin smoke as it drifted into the picturesque background. The smell of tobacco mixed with the light salt in the air from the sea. The only sound, other than the incessant, naivete from his young travel companion, was the gentle lapping of the waters edge against the port beneath their feet.

“I’ve been running from my thoughts for as long as I can remember,” the older man said, “last place I want to be is alone with them.”

The younger man, Finley, nodded as if he understood. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Well, at least there’s peace, huh?” Finley finally stated.

“You think there’s peace waiting for a man like me?” The old man asked. He half turned, unable to resist eye contact at this point, and stared at Finley. As if he was at a circus attraction. The old man needed to watch someone this ignorant speak.

Finley hesitated but wisely did not answer directly. “You find peace in different ways, I’m told.”

The old man looked at him for a brief moment. It was not a look of anger or annoyance, although he would be more than justified given the last 12 hours they’d spent together. It was more a look of calculation. You could almost see the old man weighing Finley’s life in the balance. Wondering the mess it would make? Who would it upset? Who else would he have to deal with to make it end? Most people in the older man’s world had teethers, as he’d learned. Branches that connected them to other people. You couldn’t just trim the top. You had to be willing to go all the way down the line. Pull it up by its roots, until there’s nothing left. Until everyone who could remotely care was in the ground next to him. The older man had thought this more than once in the last day. He was uncomfortable with Finley’s presence. It made the whole situation unsecure.

The younger man couldn’t decipher the look, but still suddenly felt alone on the port.

“Don’t.” A voice came from behind them. The boss smiled. He stood a massive 190cm tall weighing at least 10 stones. He and the old man had been together basically from the start. The boss studied the older man with his rapidly thinning hair. He was still in good shape but the full salt and pepper beard that adorned his face, used to cover a much more chiseled jaw line. Now it, along with a drooping and creases around his dark eyes, betrayed his aging years. The boss thought he smelt a faint aroma of gin on the old man as he approached to greet him.

They shook hands quickly and exchanged a knowing nod between them. Neither of them was skilled in small talk. A huge contributing factor to their success as a team.

“Where are they?” The older man asked.

“I settled them in a few towns over. Across the border.” He handed him a folded slip of paper. The old man read it briefly and then slipped it in his pocket. “I used to make the trip and drop in on them every month, but Vivian asked me to stop.” The boss added.

The older man just grunted.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen them?” The massive man asked.

“Nearly ten years.” Said the old man.

“Long time.”

The older man nodded.

“Want me to drive you?”

“I’ll make my way,”

The boss just shrugged and turned to the water, as did the old man. He’d never quite seen anything like it. The older man finally took his eyes off the scenery to take in his surroundings. This time of night, during the off-season, especially when there was a nip in the air, no one was out.

“There’s another thing…Quin’s dead.” The older man said flatly.

“What?”

“Quin.” The older man repeated. “He’s dead. About a week now.”

“How?”

“I killed him.” The old man stated almost as if it was obvious.

The confusion gripped the boss’s expression tightly.

“You know what he told me right before he died?” The old man asked meeting the boss’ gaze.

The confusion was gone. The boss knew very well what Quin would have said alone in a room with the older man. The large man started to make a move for the gun in his waistband.

The old man scoffed. “Don’t insult me.”

“I- I needed you. You understand that don’t you? I-“

The suppressor only did so much to cut noise of gunshots in a place as quiet as where he was. He quickly interlocked the two men’s belts and shoved them into the waters. The old man walked away unhurried.

Vivian opened the door to a phantom. A distant memory clouded in such fog that on occasion she wasn’t sure she hadn’t just made it up. But there he stood. Older. Tired. But certainly not fiction. The shock of the old man’s presence at her door was immediately overtaken by anger. She parted her lips to begin to express as much but closed them again. There was something in his eyes, something foreign to the almost black pupils she’d known by heart. It looked of Sadness. Of Remorse.

Vivian opened the door fully without a word. He hesitated only for a moment and came in. His daughter was the first to see him. Through the hallway that led to what appeared to be the kitchen.

“Dad?” She questioned softly not convinced it was actually him. “Dad!” She shrieked and bolted in a full-blown sprint down the hallway jumping into his arms and knocking him down to one knee on the thin runner carpet that stretched the hall. Her weight and strength surprised him. In a man’s mind time only runs in the world that he sees, he trends to forget that it runs twice as fast in the world he doesn’t. She held him in a bear hug that left only the tiniest spaces for him to get oxygen. Her full curly, dark brown hair consumed his eyes, nose and mouth. Beneath the lavender shampoo she still smelled like she always did. With his daughter in his arms a man who felt nothing for nearly a decade, sensed a warmth inside of him.

As quickly as it came though, the side of himself that he was more familiar with shot to the surface as he spotted a man in the far distance at the rear yard. His mind raced, how had anyone found him here? It was impossible. He’d flew in two countries away. Drove the last one and disposed of the last two men who knew where he was going.

He escaped his daughter’s embrace and rose to his feet. He reached for the gun in the back of his waistline until he felt Vivan’s firm grip on his forearm.

“That Mal. My husband.” She informed him. She watched as the part of him that drove them to this place initially, drained from his face and it returned to normal. She looked disappointed. Vivian had long ago accepted that part of him, but when she saw his face at her door, something inside her dared to hope that after all this time it would be gone. She’d hoped not for herself, but for the children that he’d finally rid himself of that. Now she looked at him with pity. She feared that the demons that he’d managed to control a decade ago now controlled him.

“Guess my invitation guess lost in the mail.” He quipped.

“And where would I have mailed it to?” She said pointedly.

His daughter who was the same charismatic ball of energy from ten years ago was on her feet. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him down the hall to the back yard. His eyes were still locked with Vivian’s when his daughter’s momentum spun him around down the hall, past the kitchen, through the dining and out the back sliding glass door.

Marilyn burst into the backyard, as proud as anyone who’d ever lived.

“Dad is here!” so announced to yard.

The old man didn’t see his son until after he’d made it fully outside. His son sat in the lounger to his right, a bottle of beer in his hand. The thud of a decade of missed opportunities slammed hard into his chest. All the missed birthdays, struggles, growth, dates and memories that he would never have, seemed to funnel into his bones. He felt heavy.

“This is Mal,” His daughter was saying. He barely managed to mumble a greeting. He couldn’t take his eyes off the fully grown man that sat before him. His son’s bread was thicker than his own. Shoulders broad and pumped. He might not have recognized him if not for the eyes. His eyes were the same as he remembered. Medium brown with just a hint green at the edges. He saw something new in his son’s eyes, however, when he looked at him. Something familiar. The old man recognized it from his reflection. A look of calculation. Cold disregard. A problem to be solved.

The old man managed to force his lead cladded legs to move forward to where his son had now risen from his seat.

“Liam.” He said.

“Dad.”

The old man leaned forward for a hug but was cut off by the extended hand of Liam. The old man obliged and shook it firmly. The yard was as silent as the second before the opening bell of a match. Even the steady breeze had died and the birds vacated the area. No one moved. Only the sound of sizzling meat from the grill mal was manning was offered to break the weighted hush. The old man prepared for an onslaught, but it never came.

“Beer?” Liam offered him nodding to the cooler that sat beside him.

“Sure, son,” The old man said. Liam seemed to bristle slightly at ‘son’ but he hid it well.

He handed him a bottle of Fabrika, the local beer around those parts. The same beer that he noticed on at the grill next to mal as he entered. He had his first beer with Mal, the old man thought. One of the many milestones he had missed. It was an obvious one, but one that he did not think of prior to this moment.

“So, Vivian tells me that you work for the Government,” Mal said mercifully breaking the awkward quiet. The old man was grateful for his interruption. It was the first time since seeing him he wasn’t annoyed by his presence.

“Occasionally.” The old man responded opening the bottle. “but I’m retired, now.”

“Well cheers to that.” Mal said with a smile. “So, what now?”

The old man raised his eyebrows with a tilt of head, looking downward. The old man didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he did in a way, but it was too foolish to speak out loud.

“Well, luckily you have time to figure it out, but first you should eat. I’ll put on another steak.”

“Thank you,” the old said. He tried his best to sound sincere. He wanted to be thankful for the man’s hospitality. Even though he knew this house was paid for by his years of sacrifice. But that was just the wood and concrete. The structure. Perhaps Mal’s existence here had made it a home. For that he should be grateful. Nevertheless, the world the old man occupied for a little less than a dozen years was one void of gratitude. One where nothing was done for nothing. He tried to stop his instincts from setting off alarms that applied to a place that he no longer belonged to.

“Marilyn, would mind asking your mother for another steak?” Mal asked

“I’ll get it, please,” The old man interjected making his way to the door. Marilyn started to protest. A sadness flooded her eyes uncontrollably. At first this confused the old man and then regrettably, he pieced it together. He wished he hadn’t. She was afraid. Terrified that her father would walk out of the backyard and disappear for another ten years or worse that this was all a dream she was having, and he was never really there.

He pulled her close for a hug and kissed her on the forehead.

“Be right back,” the old man said. This seemed to calm her.

He found Vivian with her back to him milling around in the refrigerator.

“I’ve been invited for a steak.” He spoke. Vivian seemed to jump slightly at the sound of his voice. She looked back at him. Her face unreadable. Finally, she turned from him and put a raw steak on a plate and handed it over.

The old man started to turn away and stopped short.

“He seems like a good man. I’m happy for you.” His said. This much was true. He was happy for Vivian, he was just less happy at the time Mal had with his children that he never would.

“You were a good man once.” Vivian lied. Or at the very least embellished.

“No, I never was.” The old man admitted. “You saw what you wanted to see in me. Took a moment here, a statement there… cobbled together the pieces that you liked and pretended that was me.”

Vivian started to speak but stopped. The old man could tell she wanted to say something. He gave her a knowing look.

“A- Are we safe? Is-“

“Its over, Vivian.” He reassured her. “They’re all gone.”

Vivian’s hesitation was noticeable.

“There’s always something you miss. You told me that.”

“Not this time. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t the case.”

This seemed to satisfy her. The old man took the steak back out the grill.

They ate in the backyard. The old man really did not say much. Didn’t have to. Marilyn happily acquired any break in conversation to recap to him her life story for the last ten years. She seemed the least curious of all at the table, as to where he’d been. She was just happy he was there. Liam was far more reserved. Only talking when asked a direct question. Not rude. Never. Just cold, stoic. He’d gotten that honest, as the saying went.

The old man tried to be fully invested in every moment of this. This flow of interaction. This harmonious energy. He tried to recall if he’d ever had this. He hadn’t, even before he left. Few people get to experience what they sacrificed in order to weigh it against what they have, the old man thought. He now considered them the lucky.

No matter how hard he tired he was oddly distracted, by a weed, of all things. It was in the corner just beyond the grill where the fence that boarders their yard from the next, made the corner and returned back to the brick face of the house. The grass around the yard was perfectly manicured and decorated with bushes and flower gardens. This was not done by accident. So, the weed was obviously cut like the rest of the grass, but it was never uprooted. As A Result, it was cut and grew and cut and grew countless times. It always persisted. The unwanted, ugly blight of an otherwise beautiful backyard drew his attention from those surrounding him, more and more. He became obsessed with its mere existence until his blood was boiling and his fist were clinched.

“You ok?” Vivian asked. Recognizing something in his eyes that would have eluded most.

“Yes,” The old man said feigning contentment. “Just jetlagged. It’s getting late. I should probably head out.”

“We’ll make up the guestroom,” Mal said.

“Thank you,” the old man said. Sincerely this time. “But I’ve intruded enough for one night.”

“Da-“ Marilyn started to protest.

“However, if its ok with your mother, I’d like to come back tomorrow. Maybe walk you from school or something.”

“Yes!” Marilyn blurted out without waiting for her mother. Vivian narrowed her gaze at her and Marilyn smiled sheepishly.

“You don’t need to ask that. Of course.”

“I have plans.” Liam said sternly interrupting the lovefest that was becoming a bit too much for him.

“Liam-“ Vivian started with a scolding tone.

“No, I understand. You weren’t expecting me.”

“Goes without saying,” Liam retorted.

The old man forced a smile, even though he felt the sting of his words. Even more so the words that he wasn’t saying. Although, there was a part of the old man that was appreciative of that sting. He had concerns, prior to arriving, that part of him was gone forever. He now knew it there was still a soul there, buried deep within that could still feel hurt and that was fighting to get out of the darkness it’s been shrouded in for as long as he could remember.

“Perhaps the day after then. We could fish on the dock.”

“Perhaps.” Liam answered more to end the discussion than to make a plan.

The old man rose and offered a hand to Liam which he begrudgingly shook. No such effort was needed for his daughter who nearly knocked him down again when she jumped into his arms as soon as he’d turned in her direction. He hugged Vivian and shook Mal’s hands warmly. He started to leave but couldn’t resist further. He went to the far corner of the yard. Bending down he dug his fingers deep into the area surrounding soil of the troublesome weed. Pushing deeper and deeper until he was up to his wrist. Then lifted with, some effort, and pulled up his nemesis of the evening roots and all. He looked at it momentarily. Its roots extended a full foot beneath the surface. He almost admired what it must have had to do to survive. Had it simply taken root just two feet further north and it would have been the neighbors problem. But, as had been the old man’s cross to bear, it was always on his side of the fence. ‘Time and luck,’ he thought as he smoothed over the disturbed dirt.

When he looked up the entire table was watching him dumbfounded. Even Liam had managed to put aside the coldness of his face in favor of utter confusion.

The old man just smiled. “It’s a beautiful yard,” he said offering little in the way of an explanation. He headed out with his fallen foe still in hand. He paused at the entrance to the dining room.

“This.” He said to Vivian with a wave of a hand over the entire scene. “What you’ve done here… This is best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Vivian smiled slightly and put her hand on Mal’s knee. She nodded in acknowledgement.

Outside in the night air on the Porto. The old man breathed in deeply the taste of the years he’d lost here. It would have been a good home. The house sat right on the 6 meter wide boardwalk facing the water, all the way at the Southern most tip of the Port where the bay curled around a residential peninsula to the Marina Kalimanj, located somewhere behind the house. There the normal citizens with moderate means docked their boats. At his current position he could clear across to the mouth of the bay, flanked on either side by mountains, the last gateway until you were out in the great sea and beyond. North, to his right he saw every manner of expensive boat ever made, docked on the sprawling port, the second largest in the continent. The smaller ones, built for speed, swaying ever so slightly to the barely noticeable motion of the sea. The larger ones, built to be prestigious, stood still and indifferent to the water. The old man took note of the weed still in his hand. He located the nearest public trash can. There was one every three meters there. The Porto was the pride and joy of the nation. You could eat off the ground. The old man spotted one and headed towards it. To his left however was a planted tree. One of several that littered the Port adding to the aesthetics. It was in a dirt box he knew, as under the boardwalk beneath his feet was nothing but rock and water. He headed to the tree. After making a hole in the dirt he replanted the weed next to it.

“My first pardon,” The old mad said quietly. “Just stay away from me and you’ll enjoy it.” He said. He was not sure if that was true or not. The place looked like it was expertly Landscaped regularly. The weed wouldn’t last more than a week. But that wasn’t the point. He was no longer apart of the ending, he was now apart of the growth. He needed to get used to it.

Marilyn’s music school was on Staničića street, up slight hill in a residential neighborhood. The old man was there ten minutes early. He leaned against a post watching the graying skies as they threaten to burst open and dramatize the scene. The door opened instead, filling the parking lot of grass and gravel with chatter and laughter. He could see Marilyn walk out with her friends. Her head was down slightly, and she was not engaging much with her peers. She was preparing herself. Preparing for the reality that she had grown accustomed to, that her father wouldn’t be there. When she finally looked up and saw him, the sky was no match for her brightness as she lit up the cloudy day like it was August.

The old man smiled at her energy as she skipped to him and hugged him. He was prepared for her this time. They began the quick walk home and she started again on her highlights of her life that he’d missed. The old man smiled the whole way in relative quiet.

“Want to take the long way,” The old man suggested when the house came into view far too soon for his liking.

She just smiled and rolled her eyes pulling him further into the Porto where the shops, restaurants and bars spread like an epidemic though every cobbled stone street and alley.

“Marilyn!” Someone shouted from behind them. A young man on a black scooter called out to them. He rode up quickly, breaking haphazardly at the last second. Marilyn giggled.

“Hey,” Marilyn said. Her entire demeanor changing. She transformed from a girl with her father to an attractive young woman in front of an attractive young man in matter of seconds. Her positioning, her tone; it all shifted. Even her energy went from bubbling over, to high but contained. Teasingly so. As if it were right at the edge, just waiting for the proper push and it would spill over if he was to be lucky enough to apply the right leverage or heat. In the old man’s fascination with the metamorphosis, he nearly missed the proud introduction to the boy, Srecko.

He shook his hand firmly. Something the boy might not have been used to judging from his reaction. The old man smiled briefly at her. Her eyes glinting with overwhelming happiness and surprising discomfort at the same time. The old man knew he needed to make his exit. He kissed his daughter on the forehead and gave Srecko a stern look.

The boy looked at him dismissively at first but then gave pause. Something he could not quite figure.

The old man walked away without a further word. He was sure a kid like that was used to getting looks from worried fathers all over this town. The old man wondered, however, if he knew when he looked in his eyes, that all the things those dads would dream of doing, he would do. Twice.

It had become his daily routine in his couple of weeks there at this point. He would set out before dawn with his fishing rod and cooler. Backpack with essentials ever on his back. The walk at that time of morning was therapeutic. The cool morning breeze slowly blowing away the years of filth and carnage he’d covered himself with. Step by the step, a spot of dirt at a time fell off and was taken by the clear brisk air to the top of the mountain behind him to fade into oblivion. Only the regret stayed clinging to him like extra skin that he couldn’t claw away. But even that, was still dormant at this hour.

It was by far the most peaceful place he’d been. Someone had told him once that it was, he couldn’t remember who. The birds and sea were generally all that moved pre-dawn. That and Damir. Another lone soul, fishing nearby. Damir would consistently beat him up in the morning. Face and head always freshly shaven with newly pressed clothes. The old man would pass Damir’s usual perch, about 30 meters from where the old man would set up. Close enough where he could see the kid’s house down the port but far enough where his presence didn’t feel like an intrusion. He wanted them to know he was there but needed to be far enough where they could easily avoid him.

“Beautiful morning,” Damir said as the old man passed. He stopped for moment.

“It is,” He admitted, more to himself than Damir.

“They don’t seem to be biting over here the last couple of days,” Damir lamented.

“How is over your way?”

The old man looked down at his usual spot and shrugged.

“Same I guess,” He said. “But that might be more to do with the fisherman than the sea.”

“Hm,” Damir said. “Mind if I join you?”

The old man looked at the retiree for a brief moment. He had already written him off as a non-threat, but his instinct always reacted first. Not to trust a friendly face. But that was the old him.

“Sure.” He said to his fellow early riser.

Damir set up at the old man’s usual spot. His large frame moving rhythmically. Folding chair first. Then the tackle box. Lastly, the Ice chest. The old man studied him carefully. Watching the meticulousness of Damir’s moments. None wasted. Afterwards the old man did his best impression of an expert fisherman and set up where he usually does. Backpack on the bench facing the water 6 meters from the edge. The old man would throw his legs over the edge of the dock dangling them a few feet from the water’s surface leaning on the cooler that was positioned to his left side. Damir glanced at his peculiar arrangement.

“So, where you from?” He asked.

“All over really,” The old man said casually. This wasn’t avoidance as much as his inability to answer the question. What place could or would want to take credit for spawning the monster that inexperiencedly held the fishing pole. He’d never been in one location too long until he met Vivian. He barely remembers the town he grew up in.

“Well, that’s fortunate. I’ve been here my whole life. Except for university. I was in England for that.”

“Some would envy your roots,” The old man countered.

“Ehh,” Damir shrugged. “Roots are one thing, regret is another.”

The old man turned to him slightly.

“What it is you regret, Damir?”

Damir adjusted in his seat side, with his head bouncing freely from side to side.

“I regret… wasting it, you understand?” Damir said, pursing his lips between thoughts.

“I listen to my children’s stories, … but I have none of my own to tell them. They’ve seen more of the world in their years than I have in all of mine.”

“Hm,” He considered. “I’ve seen a lot of the world. Most of it.” The old man started, looking back out to the sea and casting his line again just as he’d seen Damir do it. “The majority of it is shit. People too busy being…. People.”

Damir seemed to get this.

“You start to see the same pattern.” The old man continued. “Rich fuck the poor. Strong fuck the weak. The masses overrun the few. There’s nothing special out there. I’d trade you all my travels to have been sitting here, at this spot for the last 10 years.”

“Maybe.”

They sat in silence for the better part of the next hour. Damir managed to catch two fish in that time.

“Marilyn… that’s your daughter?” Damir finally said. “It’s small city.” He added sheepishly after seeing the body of the old man coil up tensely at the mention of her name. Like a cobra priming to strike.

“Yes,” came the answer. Along with a slow but visible release of tension.

“She’s been here a while?”

“Yea,… and I’ve missed it all. That’s my regret.”

“Is she sick?” Damir asked troubled.

“No,” The old man responded with a frown.

“Then you haven’t missed it all.” He said plainly, turning his attention to his fishing pole as he had just hooked his third one.

Damir’s presence was soon a keepsake in the morning ritual. He told the old man ‘that there was more fish in his area because they felt safe, given that he was such a shit fisherman.’ They would talk and laugh like two old men who’d known each other for some time. He was closet thing to a friend the old man had known.

Around 7am Marilyn and Liam would leave the house on the way to school. Marilyn would scurry over at fast as she could and sit with him for a few minutes before her brother, who stood begrudgingly by, forced her away announcing she would be late.

Each day the old man tried to make conversation with Liam. Most days he would just get a grunt or a nod. The old man didn’t complain. He got to see his son everyday, even if that came with the pain of being reminded of his failed relationship with him.

Around 8am, Mal would leave. He had to walk the opposite direction to work, or at least he made it seem so, but he would give a friendly shout and wave before heading off.

Vivian was always the last to leave about 30 minutes later, three days out of the week. She would occasionally bring coffee in little paper cups for Damir, her ex and herself. She would sit and brainstorm about how to get Liam to come around. Talk about how he was all that Marilyn spoke about now and other general topics. They never talked about the past, ever. It was like the serene surrounding wouldn’t allow such disturbing talk. There were times when she would open her mouth and the peace and quiet of this place would snatch the words right from the tip of her tongue and toss them in the sea. Drowning the thought without a sound. The old man was grateful.

Less than an hour later the old man would himself leave and start the short walk back to his rented 2-bedroom apartment away from the Sea on the other side of Jadranska, the main road. The seemingly innocuous road separated the upper class from the middle class, and the seasonal residents from the year-round locals. It was a little less than a kilometer from the kid’s house, but the change was noticeable.

It was at his place the old man had the most difficulty. He would cook, do his daily workouts, try to read, even nap but there was only so much he could before the reality of being trapped in room with himself came to bare. He couldn’t imagine a worse place to be. His last decade was littered with tears, blood and bodies from people who’d been trapped in a room with him. Now it was his turn and the pain was the same. On the sea, around his kids he felt like a different person. A failed Dad, of course. A subpar fisherman, sure. But a person, nonetheless. It’s when he returned to his apartment alone, where his true self was waiting for him. The monster that constantly confronted the peaceful nature of who was attempting to be. They fought and wrestled with each other until around his fifth glass of whiskey when sleep, the referee, came in to halt the bout. His alarm evening alarm sounded the beginning of the next round. However, with only 45 minutes until meeting his daughter after school, the idea of another day getting to walk her home was thought too bright even for the depth of the darkness of his monster. So, it would slink off and wait from the old man’s return after his afternoon walk with Marilyn.

Over time the habit of checking the cars outside and all the exits diminished from every ten minutes to every twenty to eventually every couple of hours. For this much at least he had his monster to thank: there was no one left to be concerned about. His monster had eaten them all, regurgitating their remains into shallow unmarked graves or bottoms of oceans littered over three continents. The only fear left, was the one that he’d created to along the way to conquer fear in the first place. Ironic to say the least.

“He’s not coming out,” The old man looked up to see Vivian standing next to him. He’d finally talked Liam into making a plan for to go watch the basketball game with him at the only local bar that played sports games from America for the tourist. It was an afternoon game in the States, so it started a little after 7pm where he was on the Adriatic Sea.

He was half expecting Liam not to show. More than half, once the sun went down. He gave a half shrug and wound up his fish reel. The old man rose slowly from his seat on the edge of the dock and walked back to the bench where his tackle box and cooler sat.

Vivian watched him with great interest. She knew his mind was always spinning, and every now and then, if you were patient, one of those random thoughts would accidentally make it out of his mouth.

He opened the cooler. No fish, it was nothing but beer.

“Looks like your fishing technique could use some work.”

“I don’t know a fucking thing about fishing.” He admitted.

Vivian’s eyes grew almost as big as her smile.

“So what the hell-“

“It seemed like something regular fathers do with their sons. And I figured he had a lot of first already with Mal, … it popped in my head, … I mentioned it and then when he said he’d never done it…”

Vivian was already doubled over in laughter. “

“So, wait the fish Marilyn bought home last week for dinner…?”

“I bought it from Damir. 40 Euros and 2 beers.”

Vivian thought she was going to piss herself from laughing. The old man did not see the humor but couldn’t help but smile.

He handed her a beer and she sat next to him. Looked pensively at the can fiddling with the tab after she’d opened it. He could tell there was something on her mind.

"What are you hoping to get out of this?" She finally asked.

It was a fair question.

"I don't know,” The old man responded honestly.

"Not like you not to have a plan,"

"This was the plan.... get here." He confessed.

She just nodded.

They sat in silence drinking their beers. The night sky blanketed the words that didn’t need to be said. Vivian, despite herself, knew who he was. Knew the incredible darkness he was capable of, but she also knew something that not many did. She knew the light he was capable of too. The look he had when he held his kids, the ferocity in which he would protect them. To her, he wasn’t good or bad. He wasn’t a hero or a villain. He was more amoral. If there was such a thing. Good and Bad never came in his calculations. It was what he felt needed to be done. And if that was considered ‘good’ by the moral standard, great. If that thing was considered ‘bad,’ it wouldn’t change anything.

A very faint whiff of something harder than beer passed her nose as she took another sip.

"You think they'll ever forgive me?" The man asked not taking his eyes of the sea. The view seemed to ground him. As if the bench was a safe zone that his demons allowed him. As long as he sat there and keep eyes locked on the beautiful horizon, he could be normal again.

"Marilyn is like me, she simple.” Vivian started. “You’re here now, that’s what matters..... Now your son. He is more like you. You might need some divine intervention if you want to derail him from a set plan.”

“If I’m relying on God I’m in trouble,” He came to the obvious conclusion. Vivian raised her eyebrows with a sharp exhale. He would never tell her what he’d, done but she knew. No divine presence would be coming his aide.

“But if you leave again don't ever come back. Is that clear?” Vivian sat directly and forcefully.

The old man nodded in agreement.

“Next time I leave you'll be old and shriveled and I'll be remarkably good-looking corpse.” He stated with a sip from his beer, “People will come just to see how I haven't aged.” He added.

“How many of these had you had?” She said surprised at his rare attempt at humor.

He looked down in his cooler and attempted to count and then gave up.

"You trend to drink more when you're not catching anything." He offered in response.

Vivian laughed again.

The following Monday Liam and Marilyn left the house at their usual time. Marilyn always first to arrive sat comfortably, she looked especially put together for a Monday. Liam stood stand slightly further than usual, probably not wanting to be questioned about his ‘no-show’ for the game. The old man would never even think to bring it up given his track record.

“Dad, I’m going to a dinner with friends after school today so you don’t need to be there, ok?” Marilyn said. You could tell she was excited about her dinner but lamented the feeling of having to tell them they wouldn’t be doing their afternoon walk today. “I will see you after if you’re around here when I get back,” She offered as consolation.

“Sure,” The old man accepted. “I actually think I’d catch more in the evening anyway,” He said. Damir tried his best to stiffen a laugh but it came out. The old man could almost feel Liam rolling his eyes.

Marilyn just smiled. She had an idea that her Dad was horrible at his chosen retirement hobby but couldn’t care less. She liked knowing where he’d be everyday. When she woke up, she would peek out the window to make sure before she got dressed.

The old man noticed Liam had taken a couple of steps closer. He felt that maybe he would speak to him today. Ask him a question about something. Engage in anyway. After a moment though he said nothing. The old looked up to see Liam’s eyes locked, not on him, but on his backpack next to him. This seemed odd to the man, as it was an ordinary knapsack until he looked down. The open zippered flap had fell to the side revealing the loaded pistol inside. The old man zipped it quickly which drew an even more disapproving than normal look from his son.

There was rarely any crime there. No one had guns. It was likely that Liam had never even seen a gun in person before, the old man thought. Not the kind ‘first’ the old man had in mind.

“Time to go,” Liam uttered his first words of the morning, agitated. Marilyn shot him an frustrated look at his abrasiveness but quietly got up.

The old man sat quietly on his bench that night. The sharp laughter of the young couple further down cut through the quiet. It was the loudest thing in the clean, night air and yet, somehow it fit perfectly. The old man glanced at them. Young and in love. He wondered if there was a better drug in the world. He was happy for them, even if it all came crashing down tomorrow, like most drugs tend to. A fleeting, carefree moment was something to enjoy fully. At times when the walls started closing in and he was loosing the battle with himself, he would hang on to those moments. Holding his son for the first time; his daughters voice. He often thought of those instances at the most inauspicious times. The times were his life expectancy was plummeting by the second. He felt it gave him armor.

The old man caught sight of a group making their way down the port towards him. They had all the tale-tell signs of being teenagers. In middle, the boy from the scooter had his arm around Marilyn. She seemed to be absolutely enthralled by this gesture. The old man once again stared in captivation at this conversion. Nothing about her demeanor resembled the girl that he walked home everyday. Her entire persona was now that of a young woman, even down to her catwalk like strut.

Eventually the group caught sight of the old man and boy removed his arm from around Marilyn. The estranged father watched as step by step she strode out of her women shell and stepped back into ‘Daddy’s girl’ uniform. You would have thought she had a twin.

“Dad, you remember Srecko?”

“Ah yes, how are you?” The old man said extending his hand, trying his best sound like what he imagined a down to earth father would. The boy shook his hand somewhat dismissively the old man thought. He studied the boy as they said they talked amongst themselves for a moment, making plans and saying goodbyes.

He then studied the group as a whole. The only other female was a scantly clad girl, a couple of years older than Marilyn he assumed. Or hoped. The way she swayed from side to side, smiling at nothing in particular led the old man to believe at the very least she’d been drinking. Srecko, dressed in his expensive designer tee-shirt with his silver chain draped over it, was without question the dominant Alpha, the group sort of formed around him as the others orbited at random like prepubescent neutrons. When he moved, they moved. Save but one boy in the back; an outlier and the only one not dressed as if he was auditioning for ‘Rebel without a cause’. That boy, he moved when Marilyn moved. It was a slight difference. No one would have saw it unless they looked for it. A father would, he guessed. The old man smirked to himself, the answer is usually right in front you, he thought.

Srecko leaned in for a kiss as he looked to say his final farewell to Marilyn. All ideas the old man had about imitating the ‘easy-going Dad’ were drowned out in the roaring wave of rage that washed over him. He didn’t know how other fathers felt, or if this was considered standard. He reached for his gun but fell short he suddenly realized there was so much more than memories that he missed with daughter it was experience; it was rules.

Marilyn, for her part seemed uncomfortable at the gesture. She turned her head to the side and gave him her cheek as they awkwardly hugged goodbye. The group seemed to be slightly dismayed at this change of pace. All expect the one guy in the back who seemed almost as uncomfortable as the old man at the scene. Srecko walked away and his minions followed. The outlier boy stole once last glance over his shoulder.

"Your boyfriend, seems to be a bit rough around the edges." The old man said when they were out of earshot, hoping that Marilyn would combat the label.

She didn’t. Instead, Marilyn blushed at the reference. The old man sighed inside. She liked bad boys. Shouldn't be a surprise, the old man thought. Her and her brother had probably spent the last ten years listening to inflated stories that Vivian told them about their absent father. His great conquests and victories during the wars. Stories of seeming success and valor to cover up his greatest failure.

“Just make sure you’re safe around him.” The old man stated giving only a portion of what he thought.

“Safe?” Marilyn question with a snicker. “He would kill someone for me.”

The old man grimaced at the word. He knew that she meant it as a euphemism. She was just going to an extreme to prove a point, but it still bothered him. She nor that boy knew anything of killing.

“Killing is easier than you think,” He simply said. “But that boy in the back…. The one with the… blue shirt,” the old man said craning his neck to verify his recollection. “Now that boy would die for you… much harder.”

Marilyn whipped her head around to see who he was talking about.

“Alban!” She shrieked then shot her hand to her mouth as it came out louder than even she expected. “Alban?” She repeated quietly.

The old man laughed.

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” the old man said with a smile. “Beautiful woman never see the nice guy in front of their face.”

She smiled sheepishly. The old man didn’t know if this was because he called her beautiful or because he referred to her as a woman.

“Your mother liked Bad boys too,” The old man left out the implied ‘look where that got her’. Although he could see in his face that she understood it.

“But there’s really only two kinds of bad boys.” The old man continued. “The first, is pretending. Trying to copy something he saw because he’s insecurities seem so insurmountable he hides in a different façade. He’s the least authentic person you’ll ever met. A moissanite. The second, actually is who he claims to be. The problem is you don’t just become a bad boy. You have to hurt someone. That’s how the reputation starts. Maybe at first it was justified, but you’re not a bad boy by doing it once. Eventually you grow to like it or at the very least, are comfortable with hurting. Soon enough it becomes apart of who you are. Then you’re a bad boy.”

The old man turned to her. He tried to read her eyes to see if she was actually absorbing what he saying or just being polite.

“You see, trouble finds bad boys. They don’t have to look very hard. The problem with that is, there is always someone badder, bigger, more violent. And when that trouble finds him… and it will. Guess who it’s going to find standing right next him?”

Marilyn dropped her eyes slightly. The old man took this as her internalizing it. He would say no more on the subject as they walked to get some pastries at Ma Cherie restaurant. He looked out at the hundreds of yachts and their multi-millionaire owners and scoffed. He was the richest man on pier by far.

Another week had passed before the old man saw Liam alone again. He looked slightly distressed. Head down, shoulders slightly slumped with his hands in his pockets. The old man had an insatiable urge to do something. Be something he’s never been before; there.

He’d been there for nearly two months and the old man, despite his decrepit people skills had managed to make progress with everyone; even Mal. Yet, Liam still remained his most formidable challenge. As he walked his deflated state, he decided now is the time to make his move. It had to be, he was working against the clock. The old man knew school would let out for the summer in another month or so and if he had nothing established with Liam, he would be scare during those months. The old man dreamed of showing Liam the many places he heard about on his travels, the places he’d seen without him and always planned on returning with him in tow. A coffee and a cigarette in a café on the coast of Spain. Hiking through Patagonia. Dreams he had long ago put out of his mind fearing he’d lost his son forever after the first few years. Dreams that as of late, had coming racing to the surface again.

He stepped abruptly in front of him. “What’s wrong?” The old man asked.

Liam flinched, startled at this. He was angry at himself for showing fear in front of the man, that from all accounts didn’t know the definition of the word. Was angrier still that he had not been around to give him that fearless trait or any other traits from the stories his mom had told him. Liam felt he was given half a chance at life, which explains why Arza, his obsession, didn’t seem to be giving him the time of day.

“What are you doing!” He yelled. His overcompensation mixing viciously with his embarrassment. “Seriously, what are you doing!”

“Just wanted to check,” The old man said slightly taken aback, ”You seemed upset.”

“You wa-“, Liam was exasperated at this. He couldn’t figure which point he should attack first in the old man’s audacity. “Check? Ch-“ Liam broke.

You could always see it… if you knew what to look for. The old man had seen it more times that he’d care to remember. The effect on your body when it decides there is an unavoidable conflict, and it dumps massive amounts of adrenaline into your bloodstream. It affects each person differently. Could be a sharpening of the eyes, slight tremor in the hand. In Liam’s case, his back straighten and veins enlarged. Even the smaller one in his eyes.

"Where the fuck were you!? Huh? Where?" Liam exploded.

"Son-" The old man tried to the reverse the wave. He wanted to have this conversation, but in the eye of the storm. You don’t get to choose your contrition, he guessed.

"Fuck that son shit, you want to show up? Who are you?" Liam eyes raged.

"Liam-" The old man pleaded. He realized in that moment that he had no conflict left in him. He craved only peace and reunion.

"You know I looked for you?” Liam took a step closer to the old man. “I never told anyone. Never asked Mom or said anything to Marilyn, but I looked for you. Every morning I would get up before anyone else and peak into all the rooms of the house thinking one day you'd be there.” He emphasized with jab of his finger in the old man’s chest. “When I got home from school, I would get in the house eyes wide, hoping today is the day.” The harden shell of Liam was now cracked open for the old man to look upon his own work. “I was broken day after day after day. Until finally there was no disappointment left, just th- the constant hum of pain beneath the surface. Just pain. Marilyn worshiped the stories she was told of you, but I had no one to show me how to talk to girls or fight or play a sport. ANY fucking sport! No, all I learned how to mask it …. Then how to embrace it and use it. That’s my only talent. My only skill that you passed to me. And now you show up. The reason for the pain and anger and what? You want to fish? Where were you?"

His son had point. The truth permeated into his body and cut him from the inside as if he’d swallowed razor blades. Ok, he thought. It was heated, it was angry, but it was a shot.

"I'm an assassin, Liam. " the statement stopped his son’s aggression slightly. As that statement would anyone, "I’m the bad guy.” The old man looked up at nothing in particular hoping the right words would drift from the sky onto his tongue. “You ever hear a noise you can’t identify in the night and for a split second you think the worse before logic takes over? That is where I've been for the last ten years. In that split second. In the worse thought.”

“What are you talking about?” Liam pushed puzzled. “Mom sa-“

“I met your mother between deployments. She was sweet and innocent. We were good to each other for the most part; you weren't in our plans. I found out she was pregnant laying in the dirt on a Kurdish mountainside, waiting for some bastard who was unlucky enough to have his name and picture on a file that was sent to my phone.”

Liam had grown to trust no one, mainly because of the old man facing him. But in this moment, he knew what he was saying was true, he didn’t know why but he knew.

“When I saw you for the first time, all I wanted to do was to give you everything I never had. It didn’t matter to me if you threw it all in the trash. I just wanted to make sure you had it. But I only had the skill to do one thing.” The old man realized, much later than he should have, that his adornment of regret not only hung from his neck it looped around his son’s too. “I won't lie to you. It was my…. aptitude, for this particular line of work, that set me apart. You see it changes people, doing what I do. It haunts them. Drives them mad. Breaks them. It didn’t affect me at all. I was already broken. That's what made me valuable. I never had anything to live for before you and your sister. Suddenly I did, and all I needed to do achieve it was something I had no problem doing. “

The old man shrugged at his son. It wasn’t much, but it was sincere; it was all he had left.

“Still doesn't explain why you left?” Liam pointed out. The old man raised his arm, gesturing to a nearby retainage wall a meter tall that separated one of the various mini gardens from the foot traffic at the water. Liam willing took a seat. The old man sighed and sat next to him. Looking at the water. His calming anchor.

“I went private. It started out clean enough,” The old man began turning back to his son’s eyes. “Terrorist, protection, the usual… but it spiraled quickly, in that business always does. But I was able to send you guys to the best schools, with the nicest clothes. So soon enough, I stopped asking the questions that the other operatives asked. In turn, I got the jobs that the others didn't. Jobs with extra ‘Hazard pay’ if you will.” The old man studied Liam’s eyes to see if he’d understood the implication. “To distance themselves, the company cut me loose on paper. Then fed me the jobs that were so far down the rabbit hole one would question which way was up. But not me. Everyday when I came home to you and your sister… I couldn’t bring myself to care what I did outside. Then Marcus happened and…” The old man trailed off.

“What happened?” Liam honestly inquired.

“There was guy I used to know; work with at times. Marcus. Like me he’d gotten himself caught up in things that were above his head, but unlike me he’d found a conscious. He was trying to sort it all out, but he wasn’t fast enough. These things tend to be at your doorstep while you’re still trying to figure out which way to hold the map. Never seen anything travel as fast as trouble. In any event, one night Marcus is at home with his wife and his kids. The next night, there is no Marcus. No Marcus’ kids. No Marcus’ wife. Just a closed loop. A wave crashing onto itself and engulfing whatever is under it and carrying it out to sea. I’m probably the only one that remembers his name.”

The old man shrugged slightly at the memory. He had long made his peace with Marcus.

“Then one day I get a call from a target, Kamal. He sends me pictures of you and your sister at the park, with your mother pushing you on a swing… That picture is seared into my memory, you were wearing a green tee shirt with the hulk on it, Marilyn was in a blue dress. You were laughing.” The old man smiled at the memory. “The biggest laugh I'd ever seen. He told me, he'd kill you all unless I turned on my employers and took them out. A suicide mission.”

“What did you do?” Liam asked interested, for the first time at something coming out of the old man’s mouth.

“I killed him.” The old man stated as if the answer was obvious. “The next day I arranged your transportation. To here. And then…. Then I killed everyone Kamal ever worked with to make sure the loop was closed. The guy who took the picture of you, the Tech guy who encrypted the message, the woman that answers the phone… everyone. Eventually I hit someone that my bosses didn’t want me to,… they’re all connected somehow in that world. So, to save themselves and the company they offered me up. Which meant they had to go to and everyone connected to them that would have a problem with it.” It was simplicity in the old man’s thoughts. A decade long campaign to rid the existence of his family from even the slightest whisper of a recollection in that dark world. “My plan was for it always be temporary but there were… teethers, like roots that keep reaching far beneath the surface and it took a long time to dig them out. I couldn’t see you until it was done, or I run a risk. I would risk you guys.”

Liam sat with the knowledge. Let it sink into him like water on the desert floor. Pouring into him until it was him.

“But they know what we look like?” Liam asked.

The old man shook his head.

“There's isn't a single person left alive that knows what you look like. I pulled it out at the source. Every branch, every leaf. Of course, along the way you make new enemies, and you have to trace them to their roots too. One body turns into three. Three into ten.”

“How people many have you killed?” The natural question from Liam came.

The old man had long ago lost count.

“As many as it took to see you again.” He answered plainly. “If I'm honest, I was underpaid.” The old man tried an ill-timed attempt at humor and immediately regretted. It was a joke that would over big with his usual audience but completely inappropriate at present.

Liam just nodded. He was appreciative of the information, but he was sick to his stomach at his namesake.

“Some of those people have kids just like me waiting for their fathers to come home, yes?” Liam acknowledged. “You haven't just destroyed our family, you've destroyed countless.”

It was a truth the old man wasn’t prepared to face, because he was never prepared to commiserate. Until now.

“Someone always has to lose.” The old man deflected slightly with a truism.

“Just not you, right?” Liam responded in kind. The old man bit his lip slightly. He wished he felt sorry about it. He wished he could bring himself to care. To empathize, like his son had. But He was who he was.

“In essence, the best thing for the world as a whole, would have been for you to kill yourself.” Liam stated plainly. He got up and continued his walk to the house.

The old man was left in his natural state, alone. Liam had a point. It had never even occurred to the old man to sacrifice himself. He would have saved so many lives. Liam and Marilyn would not have had to live with a feeling of willing abandonment. Just the perfect memory of a great father who tragically died in a car accident or something. His son would not be broken now, his daughter not obsessed with bad boys. It was such a simple solution that it surprised the old that he hadn’t considered it.

The next week found the old man at his usual perc. The door to kid’s house opened 30 minutes earlier than usual. An unsure Liam exited and walked nervously towards him. Damir caught sight this as well and said he had forgotten to restock the cooled and would go get some Ice. An obvious lie. Damir, was as thorough as they come.

Liam approached without a word and sat down next to him on the dock, his legs over the side dangling next to the old man’s. Neither of them spoke. The old man was understandably captivated by this turn of events but dared not speak for fear of ruining the whatever this was. Eventually Liam pulled out his cell phone and after a few clicks showed the old man a picture.

The woman in the image was gorgeous. Brunette with dark features and full lips. Her long hair parted down the middle fell just below her sizeable chest, shaping her olive complexioned oval face. She wore a deep crimson off the shoulder blouse that had black dots in a pattern.

“Stunning.” The old man said. “Who is it?”

“Azra,” Liam answered with no further explanation.

“She’s the reason you were hanging your head the other day?”

Liam just nodded slowly still looking at the picture.

“Beautiful,” The old man said approvingly.

“Yes… I mean, of course she’s beautiful but its…” Liam eyes glassed over as young men in love tend to do when thinking about their first. “She’s got dreams, you know? She wants to start her own business.”

“Ah ambitious. Nice.” The old man said feeling pride in his son for seeing more than just what meets the eye.

“But it’s not just about money,” He said getting excited. “She wants to ride motorcycles across South America. Swim with the sharks in Africa. Run the marathon on the Great wall of China. Just… Live. Experience the world.”

“And you want those things, too?” The old man inquired. Sharing his son’s excitement but happier that this girl was indirectly getting him insight into Liam

“Maybe not the marathon…. But… with her, yes.”

The old man smiled.

“That's good. Experiencing life with someone. It- It’s a gift.”

Liam nodded again finally putting the phone back in his pocket but never lifting his eyes from his lap.

“Unfortunately, Azra doesn’t pay me much attention. So maybe less of a gift and more of torture.”

The old man smirked. This was his way of asking for advice. His son had asked him for advice! The thought raced through his head like a bullet train in a tunnel. He fought to keep his calm.

“She notices you.” The old man reassured.

“Why do you say that?”

The man thought how to explain it.

“You know what your most attractive quality is, Liam? Not just with this but in general?”

Liam gave a half shrug.

“It’s not your height or your looks. It’s your presence. Its who you are. Now, you were dealt a shit hand with me as a father but you… you adapted, you protected, you insulated. You have layers. You think that you can’t talk to girls because you don’t know the right words to say? It’s not what you say as much as how you say it. YOU just have to be there. Not the you that you think other people want to see. Or the you that’s mimicking the cool kid. But the YOU that knows what you’ve been through. And survived.”

Liam absorbed the words. They didn’t make much sense to him on paper. But it was a feeling that they evoked. A feeling of empowerment.

“You’ll get her.” The old man said without a hint of doubt in his voice. “..And if you don’t, they’ll be a better woman waiting in South America for you, with a faster bike and a brighter smile. I can promise you that.”

Liam seemed to accept this for no other reason than his father accepted it. They both turned out to the water and sat in the quiet confidence.

The old man caught sight of Damir returning out of the corner of his eye with the bag of Ice. Damir just nodded and smiled. He didn't stop. Didn’t interrupt. The old man wished this morning would never end, he prayed the Sun would never fully rise, that it would stay stuck in its position in the sky beyond his own, just this once. The old man smiled back at Damir. But his smile, like his hopes was drowned by his past, when he saw the figure standing slightly behind Damir, just out of the light of the lamp post.

The old man recognized the figure and felt an immediate sense of dreed.

“Liam, can you grab me a bottle of water from the house, please? I seem to have forgotten mine.” The old man said instinctively trying to get Liam as far from his past as possible and shield him from what comes next. Liam looked confused by this, but the old man kept a sincere look on his face.

“Sure,” Liam said rising.

“Thank you, Son. “ The old man replied and for the first time Liam looked as if he did not bristle at the title. “I love you.” The old man added trying to sound casual.

Liam raised an eyebrow and then walked off towards the house.

The old man turned back to the sea and pretended to be occupied with his rod. His mind spun wildly and threaten to tip right out of his head. He shouldn’t recognize anyone. He went through his immense rolodex of faces searching for one that was still alive and match the unnamed figure. Who? Who? Who? Maybe he was just being paranoid he offered as a consultation to himself after his mental search yielded no results. Maybe the guy wasn’t involved in the business at all. Maybe it was a coincidence.

The pain shooting through his back and out his stomach told him otherwise. A small splash disturbed the still water in front of him as the bullet exited the old man and continued into the sea. By the time he heard the shot he could already see the blood on his hands. He just stared at it. His gun was in the knapsack on the bench 3 meters behind him. He didn’t bother to make a move for it. This was how it was always supposed to end, he guessed. He saw his daughter’s face in front his eyes. The pain and the hurt. And then his son’s. He hoped only that his children wouldn’t have any regrets. He wanted them to live a full life. A good life.

The old man waited for the figure with no name to walk up and finish him off. Ironic he guessed. The old man had killed heads of state in 3 different countries, paramilitary, private security and it would be this unnamed figure that would finish him. He smiled. As it should be. He was happy he got to see the kids one last time. He was happy that they were doing well, had a nice home in this great place.

He knew the routine from here. He wouldn’t hear the final shot. He would be dead before it registered. He waited for his focus to become unclear and his thoughts to lose logic. He waited for the culmination of his life to be reduced to exactly what it was: Nothing. The money Vivian would receive after his death would ensure that the kids would never have to work again. Never be put in a position where they had to bend the rules to provide for their own kids, that was his only gift, maybe it would help them remember him. He doubted it, but acknowledged, perhaps it was better that way.

The old man heard the next shot. There was a thump and the unnamed figure’s head bounced off the deck next to him, or what was left of it. He appeared to pause midair for a moment before the weight of his momentum pushed him forward and he slid into the bay scaring the fish away.

The old man turned and saw his son standing next to his knapsack with the old man’s pistol in his hand.

Liam rushed to his father’s side.

“You ok, Dad?” Hearing him say the word ‘Dad’ was better than any morphine he could have had. Liam cared, despite how well hidden.

“Give me the gun,” the old man said. He took it and gave it a quick wipe. Ejecting the magazine he threw the clip in the water to his right and the gun in the water to his left.

“I’ll admit, Fishing is more exciting than I thought.” Liam said.

The old man laughed and winced in pain, coughing. He can’t remember the last time he laughed.

“We have to get you some help. There a hospi-

The old man grabbed his son firmly. He couldn’t think of a single thing less important than his health.

“Sit.” The old man said. Liam looked perplexed by this. “Please.” The old man pleaded.

The son sat. The old man struggled to reach back and grab his fishing pole. He placed it in his son’s hands and lifted the leaver to drop the line in the water. With great effort his put his arm around him. Leaning against Liam, the old man looked out to the sea.

He breathed. A simple task, although undertaken with great pain. It was odd at first. He couldn’t seem to remember the last time he just… breathed. The last time he was just …there; whole. The chaos and the pain was filtered out. All the memories and regrets, dissipating. All that remained, was all that was: A man on a pier, fishing with his son.