Cold, damp, and dark, only but the thin light from the shed
by the peer.
Peer's half broke, barely stabbing the lake that's
surrounded with woods all the way around.
An atmosphere just for bringing up memories, of dad for that
matter.
It was a sorrowful incident, that's what I told myself,
sitting on the broken peer with one leg hanging down, half
of it in the cold thick black water, the other one folded
underneath my bottom. That's the way I always sit there,
when the night's so cold I can't sleep.
Sad thoughts should be put away. she took care of saying
that every time I had that look.
I bet I have that same expression right now, and to confirm,
I bend over and look at my reflection in the water.
No reflection.
Just a thin layer of mist that twirls about the waters and
splash - It jumps right out, a corpse-gray black-eye
killer-teeth piranha fish, and lands at my side with a heavy
thud.
There you are, happy to see you.
It's still alive, maybe, cause its mouth opens and closes
slowly.
There you are, happy to see you, and I grab it mindlessly,
put its tail between my mouth, feeling the ridges with my
mouth.
Eely thing almost got out of my grip, but didn't.
I notice a shape at the far end of the lake, amongst the
woods.
My older brother, I guess. Probably hunting for those things
he likes to hunt.
There are so many I don't really care. He'll never wipe the
whole race out.
Damn things don't exist outside his head anyway.
He notices me, gives a peek, about to go on about his
madness, and snaps a horrified blank stare at my direction
when the log supporting the peer (supporting me) creaks,
creaks again, and gives up under the weight.
Thump, but no splash. Half of the peer (one that hasn't
drowned just yet)  is sinking with me on it. Big brother
starts running, like he's finally got one and he can't wait
showing it to dad.
Dad's around somewhere, soon to be joined by Mr. Peer here -
The half that didn't give up when the rest went down, taking
my drunk dad silently into the freezing water - in a while,
maybe me as well.
But I'm not that drunk to go inside so silently (I'm only
14-years-old-never-took-a single-drop) so I stand up and
turn around, trying not to fall while at it, and before I
jump, I give a glance behind my back, towards the lake that
took my pa.
A huge eye, more than a lake at this moment, an eye that
stares at the prey, knowing it's gonna eat up the rest of
the peer in a little while. An eye covered with cataract
mist that lets it see but not be seen, or looked inside.
I land one step from my panting brother, fish still in my
hand.
There you are, happy to see you, and he slaps me hard on the
face. Our way in the family, of saying you gave me quite a
reason to worry about. And I know it, so I'm not mad, but
puzzled, cause a slap don't leave blood on your palm.
Not in our family.
But there it is, sticky on his hand and dripping from his
fingers, as I touch my face and look at the blood on my own
hand.
My other hand holds a fish - no tail, still biting the air,
still ugly.
I throw it into the lake.
There you go, and don't come back.
Next to the shed there's a tub full of filthy rainwater that
take the blood off my hands, leaving them with rust and
feather lint instead.