Welcome back, Jack.

    The stifled sound of broken glass woke him up. It was past midnight by now; the heavy wind was bending the old tree in the backyard, pushing its branches against his second floor window. He got up from bed, and made his way towards the door. Right when he was about to touch the doorknob, he stopped and looked back, outside the window. The moon's gleam was brighter than usual, it's beams making their way from behind the tree branches. A howling sound from far away got his attention. "There's no wolfs in these woods, I must be still half asleep", he thought.

    He shook his head and left the room. By now, he was wondering if the noise that woke him up wasn't just in his head. Before he could place his right foot on the staircase, he heard the noise again. It sounded exactly like a half empty bottle of whisky rolling on the wooden floor, Macallan 1984 to be more precise. His uncle always had an affinity for old whiskey. When you're being raised by your barely functional, alcoholic uncle, you get to learn how different bottles produce different sounds. If only there was a competition for this type of ability. Already sure of what.. or who, he's gonna find downstairs, he carefully continued to descend the stair case.
    "Welcome back, Jack." he says, looking down at his old man; better said, what was left of him. He was almost passed out, his face stuck to the hard wood floor. His left hand reaching out the direction of the bottle. It'd be almost funny if it wasn't so darn sad. He was fifty-five but looked like seventy; forty years of alcohol abuse will do that to you.
    "You never ap-appreciated.. what I've sacrificed.. for you. You bloody bastard, I should've.. should've left you in that damn shit house they call an orphanage" Jack says, raising his eyes at Peter. He somehow managed to get himself up, clinging to the wall. "I know that look, you think you're better than me. Don't you, you little tosser?", and as he says that he falls back to the floor.
    "I'm not the one laying on the floor in my own piss, now am I Jack?" says Peter with a grin on his face. Peter always wondered if it was a coincidence, that his uncle's parents named him Jack. He always found it ironic, considering his relationship with the whisky bottles.
    "Ya bloody tosser, get over here! I'll show ya who's pissing his pants!", says Jack as he quickly gets himself up. It would seem his balance is fine out of a sudden, as he rushes towards Peter. But even without balance problems, at his age, all Pete has to do is take a step back.
Jack falls to the ground smashing his nose against the floor. But as we know, rage and alcohol are quite the pair. Jack quickly gets up and manages to land the back of his hand against Peter's face.
   

    It took Peter five years to find his way back. It's been five years since his uncle left the house in an ambulance. It was on a hot afternoon of August that they last saw each other. They had a fight, and after years and years of abuse, he couldn't take it anymore. His uncle Jack never really hit him, and sometimes he wishes he did. It would make Peter feel less guilty for beating the crap out of him that night. He just couldn't take it anymore. Not after his aunt Beatrix killed herself.

Jack was never really aggressive, not in a physical way at least. But he made it his target to ruin everything in the house, to shame his family, or to harass his wife Beatrix. No one could understand it unless they've been through that. Sometimes psychological damage is far more destroying than physical beatings. At least that's what Peter always thought.

The night right after aunt Bettie's funeral, Jack showed up drunk and started cussing at Pete. He told Peter it was his fault, Peter should have been there to stop her. That's what Jack kept telling him, until Peter snapped. When the ambulance got to their house, Jack was passed out in his own blood. Peter swore to never do such a thing again. He would not let Jack turn him into a monster, he would not embrace Jack's darkness.

   
    Peter felt the blood rushing through his nostrils. A rage took over him in the blink of an eye. He hit Jack back. Once, twice.. Jack hits the floor. Three, four and the fifth sends away a shower of blood onto the wooden floor. It's almost as if the blood..  drops on the same exact place it did, five years ago.
Jack grabs the bottle from his side and smashes it over Peter's skull. He grins as a few drops of whiskey touch his lips in the fall. Jack gets himself up and heads for the door. Peter is slowly fading away, as the pool of blood forms around his head. "I should have kept my promise, I should have walked away", those were his last thoughts.
Jack opens the door, but the rush of the fight blinds his vision. By the time he noticed the wolves on the front deck, it was far too late to close the door. Five wolves, five pairs of eyes that shine yellow in the midst of the night. They attack in the split of a second, dragging him into the house. Behind cold walls, now lay the remains of two bodies.
Only a beast can kill another, you need a monster to send another one to Hell.



"Can you hear me?"
Love,Just.




 

Goodbye silent echoes

Steps on the cold concrete, echoing between the tall buildings of the city. Steps that twirl the dust on the long pavements. He used to walk like that all the time, alone through empty places. His days where full of gloomy rain, and when the rain would stop, there'd be no sunshine. Black clouds covered the sky and a thick white fog would not let him see further. "Smile" was but a word, and he had no idea what it means.

Now, now there's rays of sunshine touching his skin. A warm feeling he is not used to; it confuses him. He wants to run, he wants the light to go away. We often find it uncomfortable, the happiness; when we've been deprived of it for a long time, it bothers us. He starts to run, trying to get back into the fog. But as he runs, he bumps into someone. Out of a sudden the silhouettes are being brought to life; like the waves of the ocean, getting out through the mist. Each wave is bigger, more clear. Eventually the water becomes a clear turquoise, and he can hear the waves. 

Enough empty streets, goodbye silent echoes. He can hear the noise now, he can feel the warmth. There's a whole new scene, and more than one actor. It's Spring, with it's bright colors and beautiful sounds. It seems he'll be alright with this. Time to explore the new.

Love,

Just.

We come and go. We leave only so we can return.

It wasn't long ago that I left all behind, being so sure I am leaving for good. Looking for a new place, a new life, a new you, another me. I did find all of those, but one. Beneath the oak tree standing tall, as if to take the shape of a guardian, under the hypnotizing moonlight.. I found the shadows and walked amongst them. It took a while, but I eventually realized those shadows were only reflections on a frozen lake. Once you break the ice, it cracks beneath the shadows while the black water swallows them.

Shadows were not the only thing I found on those misty,frozen, lands. There is no shadow without light, embrace one and you control the other. Hope, such a small word, yet such great power. The streets all lightened up, one, by one. With every street lamp lighting up, another alley showing up from the dark; another choice, another road.. all mine and waiting to be walked upon.  With steady feet I traveled here and there, until.. until it was enough. 

Have you ever felt you accomplished your target, without knowing exactly what the target was? Because I did, and so I went back. Back to the first line of a drawing, but having drawn half of it in my own mind. Back to the first stroke of a pen, but having written a whole book before your eyes. Back to the first unpinned button of her shirt, yet already seeing her naked body reflecting the dim light of a red candle.

There are unfinished stories in this old place I once called home. I still call it that, but I do not feel it any longer. It is more of a half finished book, there's chapters to be filled and I would rather fill them now. Before the dust, that sets over with time, will cover all these pages taking away the words.

"Can you hear me?"

Love,
Just.