Father

The night was really chilly as always here in Plymouth. I remember being quite resistant to coming to this place and leaving my old buddies. Dad, however, had that sort of contagious optimism, a new beginning he would repeat and repeat. As foolish as it may seem, my father always made it work, my slothful and free dad. He made me love the cornish yarg, and hell even the ordered Chinese food he used to bring when mother would work her ass off at the hospital.

Ahh, the breeze that created Plymouth before any Anglo-Saxon ever stepped foot on the British islands, Roman or Celtic for that matter. The salt in the air felt so incredibly fresh tonight, so incredibly invigorating that made me forget how polluted this country had become. Laying on the edge of the pier, I started counting stars, patiently waiting for the moment I'd finally get bored with the freedom from the confinements of the room. That house brought lately to me only anxiety and lost memories, despite my mother's earnest efforts to make it habitable after his passing.

Suddenly the air seemed to freeze as a man stooped in front of me and waked me from my reverie. The air got foul as the usual breeze seemed to disappear. The night sky of Plymouth was filled with a putrid smell. My senses screamed at me in despair to run for my life. I could feel his cold breath on my skin, so unnatural it felt that it made him seem a being of not our world. So abrupt was the change in the air that it felt like a nightmare come true. His gaze alone brought a dread so potent as to make me feel the terror of thousands of rapes and killings, of wars and plague, of pure destruction. The waves seemed to flee from his calm pace as he approached me with dreadful serenity, sizing me as a toy on the shelf.

"You know, I expected something worse from the abomination. Although you are definitely nothing more than a weakling, I can feel your potential for hatred." A cold voice noted meekly.

I stared at him trembling, my back sweating as he was walking daintily on the edge of the pier. A profusing scar could be seen on his chest spanning what seemed like his entire body. Finally, I could distinguish his facial features in the moonlight, a face so irrevocably brutal and savage that the world was nothing more than prey to him. The man was definitely a brute, a monster so mythical that he seemed entirely fantastical.

"Hatred, though, is all I will ever need."

He smiled at me impishly and approached me with unnerving joyfulness. His friendliness brought nothing short of lack of breath. He started patting me while laughing maniacally. The situation turned abruptly from something creepy into something awkward. My hopes, however, to end this encounter to something merely embarrassing became a nothing more than a dream. Suddenly, he became really solemn.

"What do you desire the most in life?" He put his arm casually around my shoulders, leading me closer to the edge of the pier. "You've been cowering like a regular at my food palace. Don't play around. Either answer me or I will, to put it simply, cut your throat." He said those words with a sort of normalcy natural only to serial killers. I coughed a little and cautiously answered, somehow keeping my cool while talking. " I don't desire anything particular." It made him laugh, so jerked up by my answer he was that his monstrous grimace made him look like an imp relished in his own mockery of its victim.

" You seem to be ordinarily stupid." His eyes glistened with the sort of insatiability only specific to biblical devils. "I've seen far too many of your kind. I have this sort of game, a personal creation. You see, people live for three reasons, for either someone, something or for suffering. When you take everything away, though, you could see what he lacks the most. The problem though is that the first two are easy enough. You torture their loved ones in front of them, destroy their dreams and so on. But when it comes to suffering though there is something inherently insanely monstrous to it. Most of them will try to make up some reasons for living in suffering, repentance or guilt you name it. They will make themselves saints, sinners or martyrs, just to make suffering more bearable, to make it within reason. Humans have always been this way, desiring to make everything have a cause, everything to have consequences. The truth, however, is that most of the things you do in your life don't really matter, neither pain does." The moon shined with dread and death. His hand laid so casually on my shoulders seemed to hold me in a tight grip.

"Eh, nevermind that I've got off track. When your type is left with nothing but their mind, they will reveal what they care most about in their lives. That is easily accomplished simply by sewing their mouth, nostrils and ears shut. Don't forget about the eyes and skin though, those also need to be properly burnt. Thus, in the end, they remain devoid of senses, disconnected from the outside world." I audibly gulped at his words. His look turned really frightening for a moment. "You see, I can feel other people's thoughts. For instance, I can feel your fear of me right now." My knees started to buckle as my shoulders weight became insufferable. " Disconnected from their world, people once left with nothing perish. The ones that survive, though, are the ones that live to suffer. Oh, how I love torturing them, hours after hours. Those weaklings deserve nothing. These people are guilty of the most sacrilegious of weaknesses. They can't seem to find the bravery to recognize that their suffering is meaningless, nothing short of a surviving instinct of a coward." His face contorted into a devilish grin. " There are neither saints nor devils, just us monsters."

Reaching the edge, he patted me on the shoulder and said:

" I hope you will not be that kind, my lovely boy."

For some reason, death seemed so within grasp. I could hear my mother's and friends' laughter, so real it felt that they might as well have been right behind my back. My hands started hurting with the same distinct pain, the ache that troubled me after hours of drawing and sculpting. I felt my eyes moistening from the realization. Everything went before my eyes in a sheer wink before the man finally said:

"Oh, don't cry my dear boy. Let daddy hug you." He clung to me with freezing coldness. A brief moment of relief came, an instant when I thought I might live to see another day.

The blood, though, trickled slowly like midnight dew. To my horror, I've discovered his hand piercing my chest. I tasted the foul taste slowly as I choked on blood. In a fit of fury, I started strangling him with every bit of power while sobbing painfully.

"Your hatred shall blossom in vivid colours." He declared with fervent vehemence. His loud cry brought me into a stupor. The fool smell of blood and his wicked laughter started to drown the peace of the Plymouth's night.

My power left me as he pushed me into the sea while hugging me tightly. The stars shined with the same gleam that they have ever had, the very same radiance they glowed when my father taught me to sculpt and the same darkness when he died. I started drowning in the blood and salty water, the light slowly dimming from my eyes. In the end, mom, you will have to go on without me. I am really sorry. My darkened eyelids slowly closed, as my heavy body became as light as the moonshine itself.

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