Authors Note: This isn't a new story.  I actually posted it back in January.  I had to remove the old story and put a new one up because for some reason it wouldn't update correctly.  I'd like to thank everyone for their wonderful reviews.  I really appreciate them.  Special thanks to Wickedtigerlily for all of her wonderful help.  ^_^ 

Disclaimer: I don't own Vicious or any other characters from CB.

// indicates flashback

Chapter 1: Wisdom

//"You used to enjoy this job." My words echoed in the room. He said nothing. I kept my eyes on him, waiting for his reply, or some sign that he had heard me. He pulled hard on the cigarette he was smoking and blew rings in the air. It was his third cigarette, and the thick smoke was already permeating the room. I reached over and yanked the cigarette from his mouth, crushing it out on the table.

He finally looked at me. "What the hell was that for?"

"I'm sick of that fucking smell. You were puffing on that damn thing like it was giving you life. You may not mind having lung cancer, but I don't want it."

He shrugged. "We're all going to die someday."

"Is that the way you want to go?"

He pushed back his chair and stood up, crossing the room to the window. He ran a hand through his thick green hair. I didn't expect him to answer my question, but I was startled by what he said next.

"Do you ever wonder that about the people you've killed?"

I snorted. "No. Why would I?" He kept his eyes averted. The sun was peeping out from behind the clouds; a few rays shined into the room, illuminating his thin form. Minutes passed before he spoke again.

"I wonder if I'll go the same way someday."

"Does it matter? Whether you die an old man in your bed or a young man with a bullet in your chest, you're going to go. You said so yourself."

Do you think you'll die regretting everything that happens in your life?"

"I've never had regrets before, why start now?"

"I wonder what your thoughts are right before you die." He was talking more to himself than to me. I strummed my fingers on the table. His words were becoming more and more wandering and meaningless. Over the past few months, it seemed like he had been drifting into his own world, only letting fragments of his thoughts out. I stared into the dying fire in the hearth. I had sensed his growing discomfort with the syndicate. His edge was growing dull. It wasn't unheard of in the Red Dragon, or any syndicate for that matter.

I stood and headed for the door. Let him keep his thoughts to himself. There was nothing worse than watching the mighty fall before your eyes. The hearth fire had burned out; all that was left was the coals, slowly growing cold. "You should rekindle that fire. It's pretty cold out there." I opened the door, letting in the crisp winter air.

"Maybe it's a montage of all of your life events," he said, ignoring my last comment. "Maybe you wonder what you could have done differently."

I smirked. He never had been a good listener. "Keep wondering and you'll find out sooner rather than later." I stepped outside and shut the door behind me…//

…When someone starts asking questions about death, their life is as good as over. That's what my old man used to say. Funny how a simple phrase is remembered long after the person is forgotten. He drank himself to death before I turned ten, but I still remember his 'words of wisdom.' Wisdom, he called it. It was what he drank from the bottle. I listened, perhaps even more than I realized then. I drank in every word and stored them in my memory, even after his picture had faded. Only the sound of his voice remains. Perhaps even that will disappear one day. I can no longer envision his form or face; so I sit on the ragged sofa and listen to a shadow…

//…"Boy, get in here and let your old man talk to you!"

I closed the refrigerator. It had been empty for two days; but every day I opened it, nonetheless, hoping that, by some chance, God had taken pity on us. No such luck. We had already had our pity for that week. Old man was drinking it right now. I walked into the living room. He was a mere shadow on the sofa, no feature outlined clearly, except the bottle in his hand. He had taken the ten dollars that the neighbors had given me for food.

"I'm hungry," I said, sitting down on the couch.

He shoved the bottle in my direction. I turned away. "You know what I drink from this bottle? Wisdom, that's what; wisdom to help me see what's true and what's false."

I tugged at the stuffing from a couch pillow, letting him talk. It was this way every time he drank. I sat there, lounging on the couch, while he talked himself to sleep. I could easily slip away once he got going. He paid little attention to me after awhile; perhaps the person he was really trying to convince was himself. But it was the only time he ever spoke to me. So I would stay.

"Your old man isn't going to be here forever," he said. His gruff voice echoed in the nearly empty room. The only other objects, besides the sofa, were an old broken television and a table lamp. "You listen to what I tell you and you'll survive."

That was how he always started. I curled up on the sofa and laid my head on one of the pillows, ignoring the spring that was sticking into my back. At least it was only one this time. Old man always said that if you laid a certain way, you could avoid the springs, but I figured he was so drunk that he just didn't notice them.

"Don't trust anyone in your life, except yourself. People may smile in your face, but all the time they're twisting a knife in your back. They'll leave you out in the cold. It's the nature of people."

"What about God?" I asked.

He took another swig from the bottle. "What do you mean?"

"The neighbors, they say to trust in God no matter what. If I pray and have faith, then he'll listen."

He laughed. It was the first time I'd ever heard him laugh. It was both cynical and sorrowful, as if I had jarred some forgotten memory deep in his past. He rose from the couch and walked to the window, raising his eyes to the sky. His form was a silhouette against the sun. "I would have said the same once. I had that kind of faith when I was young and naïve. They say to talk to the heavens, tell God all of you're problems. But even God doesn't listen anymore…."//